May this new year brings a lot of good things and blessings in each and every one of your lives. Wish you all a good health and great success ahead. Happy new year. God bless. Thank you✨
To all the appreciative readers out there: here is my first ever prose and poetry book I am sharing with you all. I am nervous but excited as I have got the chance to share my heart with you guys. Show your love and support to my little piece of work, I hope you’ll enjoy reading it. Thank you ❤️
She became convinced that the measure of her existence hung in the balance. That the complexity of her calm fell in the number of idle breaths she took a day That her beauty was a scarcity of times that she glanced at the mirror without feeling repulsed. She is fragile. Picking up the broken pieces that were once amassed to create a woman. Beautiful and resolved. All it takes for such a woman to fall, is the absence of someone to pick up the pieces. And instead of being her own someone. Her own harrowing warrior. She fell. Cracked under pressure. She was broken. And needed everything she swore she’d never want. Searched for her own validation in the hands of another. And slowly wept; wilted away into her own self demolition. She lived shadowed under a blanket of grievances. They were no longer the materialistic obstacles that used to hoard her time. The were deep and dark and ugly. She’s slipping into a black hole of her own creation. In a list for validation to find value in herself hidden in the arms of another. When will she realize that she is the only person that will give her worth. She is the only one who can understand her value. And she must fight to be comfortable in her own skin and bones rather than listlessly searching for a piece of her, hidden in a puzzle of broken souls. She is fragile. But she will live. And she will learn to love the pieces that have gone astray, the rounded edges and the bitterness that keeps her up till early hours. She will learn to look into the mirror and be content. She will pick up her own pieces. Put them into place. She was fragile. But now she is found. Pieced together the broken. And the broken; Now forever bound.
it is not enough to love you. it is not enough to want you destroyed
wuthering heights- emily brontë// hanif abdurraqib// killing eve// blood-hozier// sophokles, from elektra, an oresteia: agamemnon// jennifer’s body// kiss with a fist- florence+the machine// joan tierney// when rome falls- yves olade// i set it in stone- venetta octavia
“We looked at each other, afraid to speak, afraid to load our feelings into words in case the words cracked and split. I pinned my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Hold in, hold in, one crack and the wall is breached.”
Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is the hole. When I desire you, a part of me is gone: my want of you partakes of me. So reasons the lover at the edge of eros. The presence of want awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions of personal identity: he must recover and reincorporate what is gone if he is to be a complete person. […] Most people find something disturbingly lucid and true in Aristophanes’ image of lovers as people cut in half. All desire is for a part of oneself gone missing, or so it feels to the person in love.
Things just happen in the right way, at the right time. At least when you let them, when you work with circumstances instead of saying, ‘This isn’t supposed to be happening this way,’ and trying harder to make it happen some other way.
Afterward I tried to find something to explain what had happened—was it cloudy, were the stars out? But the night was ordinary. It usually is, I think, when your life changes. Most people aren’t doing anything special when the carefully placed pieces of their life break apart.
