“In My Restless Dreams, I See That Town. Silent Hill. You Promised Me You'd Take Me There Again Someday.

"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones"

― Alfred Stieglitz, My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz

"Her heart was made of liquid sunsets". ⭒⛅₊ ⭒ -Virginia Woolf

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Beauty is terror, whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. -The Secret History

To the little girl who faded with the dying light of October, 1922— My dearest Cecilia, It is with unbearable grief that I write to you. Each passing day, I am forced to reconcile with the weight of your absence, haunted by the silence you left behind. Although it wasn’t my hands that took your life, my heart aches with regret— because in the silence of my heart, I have convinced myself that it was my fault.

—A lady and her quill, Letters to dead children.

—Emily Dickinson

—If you speak French, you don't know how lucky you are.

Today, I encountered a little black girl who looked frail and seemed timid, and it nearly brought me to tears. There was something in her eyes, a glint of quiet pain, of low self-esteem. She seemed afraid to speak, to take up space, to simply exist in the fullness of who she is. And in that moment, my mind instantly went to my younger sister. And of course, to my younger self. I see so much of myself in my little sister. I love her with everything in me, and I would do whatever it takes to shield her from the cruelty of the world—from my father's rage, from society’s judgment, from the harshness I was never protected from. I couldn’t save my younger self from all the things that broke me. The things that silenced me, made me shrink, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. So when I see little girls like that—like her—I feel this deep, aching need to protect them. I glanced at her multiple times today, and she might’ve thought I was judging her. I wish I could’ve told her I wasn’t. That I cared. That in a world where others might overlook her or treat her like she’s invisible, I see her. I would be there for her. But I couldn’t say it. Because that would've scared her off. I hope I see her again. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t this sensitive. I wish I could just numb myself just a little, so I wouldn’t have to feel so deeply all the time. But here I am, writing this with tears in my eyes. Empathy is starting to feel like a curse to me.

—A lady and Her Quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.