She had a passionate longing for the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars.
- Anton Chekhov, After the Theatre (via mirroir)
- Anton Chekhov, After the Theatre (via mirroir)
(via onehundredacrewood)
When the piece of a body is left (or a home is left) then the body begins being a constellation: one piece is there! one piece is there! If I leave my hair in the comb in my mother’s house & walk out the door to go to the airport, then all of a sudden the body is everything between me & that lost piece. The body is made up, then, of roads & crickets & azucena & mud. How large we are. How ramshackle, how brilliant, how haphazardly & strangely rendered we are. Gloriously, fantastically mixed & monstered. I have been asking myself to be more attentive & porous—to pay attention to the way every inch of me is animal, every inch of me is earth. I am trying to remember this. Where is my cloud? Where is my sea? What do the lungs hunt? What does the eye have in common with the teeth?
- Aracelis Girmay (via elucipher)
- Aracelis Girmay (via elucipher)
(via flowerina)
