“I sit before flowers
hoping they will train me in the art of opening up.
I stand on mountain tops believing that avalanches will teach me to let go.
I know nothing,
but I am here to learn.”
- Shane Koyczan
“I sit before flowers
When you can’t escape, and you constantly rely on everyone else, you learn to cry by smiling, you know?
Ramón Sampedro—-The Sea Inside
And if I loved you Wednesday,
Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday—
So much is true.
And why you come complaining
Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what
Is that to me?
Edna St. Vincent Millay
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
At a certain point in our lives we crumble our regrets like biscuits in our morning coffee.
If you don’t like my principles, I’ve got others.
we are the people.
we are nothing
Somebody picks up a phone. He dials a number. His voice travels a thousand miles into another country. On the other end somebody picks up and hears the voice. Who is this?– This is me. The phone is hung up. The voice travels back a thousand miles.
Elsewhere somebody picks up a phone and before he could dial forgets the number.
From Spaces by Arkaye Kierulf
"If your world doesn’t allow you to dream, move to one where you can."
There are no stars tonight But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain. There is even room enough For the letters of my mother’s mother, Elizabeth, That have been pressed so long Into a corner of the roof That they are brown and soft, And liable to melt as snow. Over the greatness of such space Steps must be gentle. It is all hung by an invisible white hair. It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air. And I ask myself: "Are your fingers long enough to play Old keys that are but echoes: Is the silence strong enough To carry back the music to its source And back to you again As though to her?" Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand Through much of what she would not understand; And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
by Hart Crane