|—||(via faineemae, meredithbklyn) (via frankensstein) (via miecroft) (via strafleet) (via ginkgobilobas) (via graceebooks) (via softrocklevi) (via shionsnezumi) (via gates-of-oblivion) (via electrodaggers) (via thebicker) (via alatus-k) (via iam-veryfar)|
My creative writing professor told me to stop
writing about love. I asked him why and he said,
“Because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch,
every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science
and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole.
How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness
without being annihilated. What an exploding star
would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow
like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.
My creative writing professor told me that those poems
weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space.
Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again, he says,
“You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes inside
of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign
on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women
who give birth know a different,
more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented
and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty,
a walking circus with no animals inside
but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip
selling popcorn in the entrance-way.
He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why.
I pick up my books and my notepad
and I leave his office with my war stories
tucked under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever loved,
like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers,
the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in.
We are all carrying stones in our pockets
and tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love,
about black holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms,
inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem
I have ever written.
None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.
|—||Caitlyn Siehl, “My Creative Writing Professor Told Me to Stop Writing About Love” (via alonesomes)|
|—||Mark Boyle (via awelltraveledwoman)|
|—||Tibetan Book of the Dead (via awakenedvibrations)|
How do you have so much fortune and look upon it with anxious, weary eyes?
I can’t sleep.
I’m excited, nervous, and self-deprecating all rolled up in a few hundred 2 AM thoughts.
This is one of those times.
I am feeling the urge to let the creativity flow.
Life has been good and somewhat exciting lately. The social aspects are great. School, it’s quite alright. I think I’m doing fine. Work is the same as always.
I’ve been contemplating the lack of respect in the world as of late. It’s not completely sad, however I, also, possess a generational, inherited attitude of being somewhat desensitized to the injustices that occur in every day life through premature thought.
We live in strange times, my friends.
I often wonder if I will ever develop a strong grasp on consequential thinking, but I’m young—I’m having fun. I am doing things that appease me because I intend that life will be an amazing adventure that I can prepare myself for in cautious steps.
Anxiety has been around lately, but when has it not? I feel a sense of sheer and utter excitement and expectancy for the daily incredible events that unfold around me.
I’ll die at my own pace.
Right now, I’m alive.
That is very flattering and I’m not sure all of it is true. I’m just happy you appreciate the words I write. It means a lot, even if you’re a stranger.
Disappointment, we have encountered each other yet again. We’ve met on numerous occasions prior to this, and yet again, you seem so apparent. You’ve taken my mind and occupied the spaces in between where anything else could have been.
I accidentally cast my love out to sea and it floated away. He tried to catch it and gave up. It wasn’t worth drowning.
I am a difficult person to admire.
I thought I was in love, but I realized I’m a fool.
|—||Rumi (via awakenedvibrations)|
|—||Warsan Shire, For Women Who Are Difficult To Love (via yasodhara)|
|—||Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via quotestuff)|
|—||John Lennon (via aviolafyre)|