Joan Didion, “On Keeping A Notebook”

I saw an article called “Make Peace With Your Unlived Life” and it really made me stop and think. So much of our lives is mourning for what we didn’t become. It’s a waste. We didn’t waste any opportunities. What came and went was not meant for us.

1. bathe by hailaker

2. art by maggie stephenson

3. ocean vuong, night sky with exit wounds

4. art by charlotte ager

5. banana yoshimoto, goodbye tsugumi

Terry Pratchett, Thief of Time

on shame and yearning (pt.2)

I put my sadness in a box. The box went soft and wet and weak at the bottom. I called it Thursday. Today is Sunday.

Richard Siken, from “The Field of Rooms and Halls” (via voirlvmer)

Franz Wright, from “East Boston, 1996; Night Walk,” in God’s Silence

“You say you live in pain. Let it be the pain of the death of the old false self, and the life-movement of the new real truthful self. We are all wrapped in silky layers of illusion which we instinctively feel to be necessary to our existence. Often these illusions are harmless, in the sense that we can still go on being reasonably good and reasonably happy. Sometimes, because of a catastrophe, a bereavement or some total loss of self-esteem, our falsehoods become pernicious, and we are forced to choose between some painful recognition of truth and an ever more frenzied manufacturing of lies. Live at peace with despair. Live quietly with your sense of guilt. Sit beside it, as it were, and regard the frightful wound to your self-esteem as the removal of deep illusions which existed before and which this chance has torn. If you keep checking any lie and resisting the anger which deforms the world, you will gradually realise that the poor old wounded self, with its furious whining and its hatred of itself and everything else, is not you at all. That self is dying, but another self is watching it die.”

— Iris Murdoch

instagram: velvet_mysoul

O DEATHLESS SEA / irene by simon harsent / the invading surf by frederick judd waugh / the mediterranean in the ancient world by fernand braudel (trans. siân reynolds) / stormy sea by ivan konstantinovich aivazovsky / dancing in odessa by ilya kaminsky / i lived the beloved name by odysseus elytis (trans. olga broumas & t. begley) / strong winds and high tides battered a coastal road close to newtownards, northern ireland by peter morrison /  shipwreck off the cliffs of dover at night with dover castle in the distance by eugène lepoittevin / the odyssey, book 13 by homer (trans. emily wilson) / seebild by ingo kühl

To those who have swept or have blown the leaves from the walk, have rinsed the dishes or dusted their screens, Hestia looks on you from beneath her veil. She smiles, then wraps a shawl made of sunlit October air around you.

To those who remain in bed, who are on the edge of crying, who have turned on the tv to drown out the world, Hestia sits on the edge of your bed, patting circles on your back. I know, my love, she says, I know, I know. It can be so hard. My sweet, it’s time to get up. I need you, she says. Let’s make this home a sanctuary. Light a candle. Make your hands to care about this place. Let out the work of love.