violet bent backwards over the grass

Is there another life? Shall I awake and find this all a dream? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

—John Keats, in a letter to Charles Brown

"One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slept changing and slushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising sun — which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep good stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot white hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure;. and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in someone's eyes."

I love saying "of course" instead of "you're welcome," like of course I'm helping you that's what I do. you were foolish to even consider an alternate dimension in which I'm not helping you. you idiot. you absolute buffoon.

day by day I become more and more uncomfortable at the growing fact that indeed, nature persists to hide something from me. and I do not know what. and I may never do. and it knows my name but i do not even know the first letter to his. but it is a thing, and it is real, and it exists.

And no matter the number of pieces I ink, there will always be an infinite mass of mountains and meadows buried on ever part of me, both on and beneath my surface which I will be too mute or too frightened at the thought of another set of eyes traveling over them to let out.

My favorite poem

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden.
Shall we follow?
—Burnt Norton, TS Eliot

if anyone wants to read in English @the_translatorBot

"Sleep heavily and know that I am here with you now. The past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore. And while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first and settles in as the gentle present. This now, this us? We can cope with that. We can do this together. You and I, drowsily, but comfortably.
– Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor, Welcome to Night Vale

and this is what Tauriel whispered to the willow on the last night of november, adorned in the cold yet warming beams of the moon: "Et je ne peux m'empêcher de me demander, pense-t-il à moi autant que je pense à lui? Est-ce que la pensée de moi m'échappant continuellement alors que le soleil et la lune, les nuages ​​et les étoiles sortent et partent dans cet abîme sombre l'emprisonne-t-elle dans des vrilles infinies de la plus profonde des tristesses? Jamais dans le quart de vie qu'il a vécu, il le visage pâle du mien, et pourtant, il calme le battement de mon cœur. les terres de cette terre, le sang dont nous débordons, ils ont réussi à nous séparer et le feront pour toujours. J'ai peur de ne pas trembler un jour sous son toucher, et de penser, je me suis attaché à ce qui ne fait plus que faire tomber sur moi un enfer terrestre.
Je pense que je resterai complètement et douloureusement sans vie, parce que vous voyez, j'ai offert à un autre homme quelque chose qu'il n'a jamais demandé. Je suis la cause de ma propre perte. J'admets que j'ai vraiment mis la main sur de minuscules ruisseaux de lumière en son absence, mais finalement, ils se sont atténués. ils se sont atténués à une perte si tragique; le contentement était temporel. et est donc toute bonne chose.
- le saule pleura.

"Last night at dinner, when we were in the garden, I said, "I want to be alone for a whole summer, and get to the very dregs of life. I want to be as idle as I can, so that my soul may have time to grow. Nobody shall be invited to stay with me, and if anyone calls they will be told that I am out, or away or sick. I shall spend the months in the garden, and on the plain. And in the forests. I shall watch the things that happen in my garden, and see where I have made mistakes. On wet days I will go into the thickest parts of the forests, where the pine needles are everlastingly dry, and when the sun shines I'll lie on the heath and see how the broom flares against the clouds. I shall be perpetually happy because there will be no one to worry me. Out there on the plain there is silence, and where there is silence I have discovered there is peace."

on this very day, lifelessness engulfs me: humanity, now a figment of the past, the earth stained by their deep wells of hate and bloodshed sucked into what is now a void. my dull yet hopeful eyes, they neither land on top nor bottom sea, grassy fields nor bare grey land, sun nor moon, clouds nor stars, warmth nor cold. there is merely emptiness, a thick mass of black and white suspending side by side; I have been wrapped in a blanket of dark and bright wool. an unstable composition. I inhabit myself in misery but my words, they roar in laughter, gliding through whirlpools of honey and light. the world is a far too terrible place, and satisfaction is but a few sparks of light, temporary yet grand explosions of wildfire—my quill has concealed the melancholia for far too long.