There Is A Stag In The Snow. Blink And He Will Vanish. Was He A Stag At All Or Was He Something Else?
There is a stag in the snow. Blink and he will vanish. Was he a stag at all or was he something else? Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened? Or was he a deer, glimpsed amongst the trees and then gone, disturbing not a single branch in his departure? The stag is a shot left untaken. An opportunity lost. Stolen like a kiss. In these new forgetful times with their changed ways sometimes the stag will pause a moment longer. He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream. He waits now. For someone to take the shot. For someone to pierce his heart. To know he is remembered.
- The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern
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God, it's brutal out here
You belonged in the library, as much as any book.
- The Sorcery of Thorns
Listening to Ghodey Pe Sawaar before watching the movie v/s after watching the movie:
Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that 18 years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn’t give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. I was at that age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind.
- Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
With The Secret History, I think the first time you read it, you shouldn’t analysis it at all. You need to truly be blinded by the beauty and characters before you start to read into it and understand the criticism.
That being said, I think people who completely ignore the messages being sent by that book are missing out entirely as the blindness you first feel only becomes significant once you realise that Tartt completely manipulated you into becoming just like Richard.
taylor swift was literally so accurate when she wrote gold rush because i don’t like anticipating my face in a red flush and i don’t like that anyone would die to feel your flush cause everybody wants you and everybody wonders what it would be like to love you and walk past quick brush and i don’t like slow motion double vision in rose blush and i don’t like that falling feels like flying till bone crush and everybody wants you but i don’t like a gold rush
I can’t stop thinking about how perfectly Barbie portrays girlhood and growing up… How you’re born in a perfect pink world, where you make the rules and get to prioritise whimsies and friendship and beauty, and then you notice something has changed, you discover that something is wrong with you, and you’re offered an illusion of choice, but even if you’d rather keep wearing your heels and go home and be safe and comfortable, you have to choose the Birkenstock, you have to leave your home, you have to grow up. So you’re thrust into this gritty, unfeeling world, where you’re scrutinised and suppressed, where you want to disappear into yourself, because everything is harsh and big and you are tiny and fragile and inadequate. And as overwhelming and impossible as it seems, you survive it. You find truth in the things you believed in when you were young, the inherent good in humanity, connection and love; your friends who look at you while you are crying, and tell you that they cannot imagine what it is that you do not like about yourself.
been thinking a lot about anticipatory grief lately. i love you so much that i know losing you will devastate me. i haven't lost you yet but i already miss you. we still have time, but it won't be enough. i think about what i would say at your funeral, and say some of it to you now cause i need you to know how loved you are before you go. you will go where i cannot follow, but you will never really leave me. it won't make it hurt less but it is a part of healing somehow.
I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books I want to live in my books
"Well, of course I’ve tried lavender. And pulling my memory out, ribbonlike and dripping. And shrieking into my pillow. And writing the poems. And making more friends. And baking warm brown cookies. And therapy. And intimacy. And pictures of rainbows. And all of the movies about lovers and the terrible things they do to each other. And watching the ones in other languages. And leaving the subtitles off. And listening to the language. And forgetting my name. And feeling the dirt on my skin. And screaming in the shower. And changing my shampoo. And living alone. And cutting my hair. And buying a turtle. And petting the cat. And traveling. And writing more poems. And touching a different body. And digging a grave. And digging a grave. Of course, I’ve tried it. Of course I have."
– Yasmin Belkhyr
