Pinned
things iβm into right now
- BRAT
- tattoos of household items and trinkets
- typography
- making an album
- 752blog on substack
- ur mom
- my girlfriend also
James Baldwin, If Beale Street Could Talk
I look at you and my heart strains like the strings of a violin under the skillful fingers of its owner. the melody warms the very depths of my soul, leaving me breathless in your beautyβ oh, how you make me want to sing. I look at you, you with that warm smile, and I want to crumble in your arms and my soul burns to melt into your warmth, until every single atom of me unwinds to bondΒ withΒ yours.
β always yearning for you
Franz Kafka, Letters to Feliceβ
Danez Smith, from "summer, somewhere"
to evaporate
to be held within tufts of air and dust
nurtured by the ripe candescence of sun
lulled to soft slumber by way of its repose
nothing and nobody else
for there is not one body in sight or sense
to enter unscathed and oblivious
to linger atop deserts, plains, fields, monuments, and mountains
to be without the eyes to see them or the ears to hear their plight
to be a mere particle
to be a fragment of a much larger form
and to have no idea
to have nothing and be nothing
to travel across the atmosphere with no legs to grow weary
to be the barest form of liquid
until the next time it rains
and to precipitate from whence i came
plummet gracefully, forcefully, and purposefully back down to the earth
nourishing its particles, its plants, its people
painting a terracotta pot crimson, maybe
dripping down its side and onto the grass
spreading thinner as i reemerge into this thing
this thing i wished so desperately to flee
this thing i hoped would entangle me into its roots and swallow me whole
only to sprout anew, remember my first name,
and take to my usual walking route
but with the light of the stars in the back of my mind
the warmth of the sun on the tip of my nose
and the memory of non-existence
as if it could ever be obtained
this is what i wish
i do not wish to be gone
i wish to volatilize
and reconvene with the notion that i did not bud out from this planet without purpose to serve
and that i was hand plucked from the clouds
to return home
and to stay
Gustaf Fjaestad (Swedish, 1868-1948), Winter Landscape, 1925. Oil on canvas, 94 x 103 cm.