perfect
"Every time I listen to Bon Iver I'm reminded of you. I miss you and I've met you once it blows my mind."
Sunday, 24 November 2013
“Darling, I don’t want you; I’ve got no place for you; I only want what you give. I don’t want the whole of anyone…. What you want is the whole of me-isn’t it, isn’t it?-and the whole of me isn’t there for anybody. In that full sense you want me I don’t exist.”
| — | Elizabeth Bowen, The Death of the Heart |
Friday, 22 November 2013
childhood flashback
sometimes the close connection between the mind, and reality bewilders any and all words
Wednesday, 20 November 2013
please move // back here
The heavy breathing is gone
I'm content once again
And that's what matters most
Thank you for reminding me
Once again distance does not prevail
Our kindred spirits
Monday, 11 November 2013
(1) President Abraham Lincoln, who had depression
(2) Writer Virginia Woolf, who had bipolar disorder
(3) Artist Vincent Van Gogh, who had bipolar disorder
(4) Writer Sylvia Plath, who had depression
(5) Mathematician John Nash (from A Brilliant Mind) who had schizophrenia
(2) Writer Virginia Woolf, who had bipolar disorder
(3) Artist Vincent Van Gogh, who had bipolar disorder
(4) Writer Sylvia Plath, who had depression
(5) Mathematician John Nash (from A Brilliant Mind) who had schizophrenia
Saturday, 9 November 2013
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
"Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people."
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people."
- Katrina, M.K.