There is an ache in my heart for the imagined beauty of a life I haven’t had, from which I had been locked out, and it never goes away.
when vividly aware through some particular sense, keep in the awareness.
when on a bed or seat, let yourself become weightless, beyond mind.
see as if for the first time a beauteous person or an ordinary object.
at the edge of a deep well, look steadily into its depth until— the wondrousness.
simply by staring into blue sky without clouds, the eternity.
― excerpts from the Shiva Sutras, which contain 112 ways for a person to escape Maya by the only means possible: transcending it to experience the deeper reality of the silent witness. (via girl-fawn
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
― Rainer Maria Rilke, You Who Never Arrived, Translated by Stephen Mitchell, 1913-1914 (via wonderfulambiguity
I like the immaterial world. I like to live among thoughts and images of the past and the possible, and even of the impossible, now and then.
― Thomas Love Peacock, Nightmare Abbey
Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper.
― Richard Siken, Black Telephone
There are days when everything around one is softly illumined, not yet identifiable in the bright air but nonetheless distinct. Even what lies nearest is imbued with the tones of distance, is abstracted and only denoted, not revealed; and what relates to distance: the river, the bridges, the long streets and the squares squandering themselves among them are what this expanse has collected behind it to be painted as if on silk. All is simplified, carelessly conveyed by a few light-coloured planes in like the face in a Manet portrait. And nothing is negligible or superfluous. Somehow one gets emotional: All are attuned to one another, are valid, are part of the whole and form a completeness which lacks nothing.
It’s about misunderstandings between people and places, being disconnected and looking for moments of connection. There are so many moments in life when people don’t say what they mean, when they are just missing each other, waiting to run into each other in a hallway.
― Sofia Coppola on Lost in Translation (2003)