❝ Being in trouble can have a funny effect on the mind. I don’t know if I can explain this. You go through some days and you seem to be hearing people and you seem to be talking to them and you seem to be doing your work, or, at least, your work gets done; but you haven’t seen or heard a soul and if someone asked you what you have done that day you’d have to think awhile before you could answer. But at the same time, and even on the self-same day— and this is what is hard to explain—you see people like you never saw them before. ❞
—— James Baldwin; If Beale Street Could Talk
❝ First Thought
best thought, you had taught
me — a river runs through it,
the foot of the soul standing
stubbornly in the freeze, all
the shards of ice crumpling up
the banks, what survives
in the ignorance. Play it away.
Be ceremony. Be a lit candle
to what blows you. Outside,
the sun gives a favorite present,
mountain nests in ironic meadows,
otter takes off her shoes, the small
hands of her feet reaching, reaching; still,
far away people are dying. Crisp
one dollar bills fold another life.
You taught me to care in the moment,
carve day into light, or something,
moving in the west that doesn’t destroy
us. Look again, in the coming summer,
the cruelest month alive still eats up
the hours. Regret is an uneven hand,
a rough palm at the cheek — tender
and calloused. I drink another glass
of water, turn on the tap
for what grows, for you,
for what lasts, for the last
and the first found thought of you. ❞
—— Lorna Dee Cervantes
❝ And I can’t concentrate on anything except
how green your face looks, illuminated
by the light from the dashboard numbers, and how
lonely the talk radio always sounds at such an hour.
And I know right now that we’re
not going to make it—how unpainful a process
it will be to retrieve my things from your house,
to give back the ring and some socks you’ve left. ❞
—— 1:26 by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins 

I Know Where the Summer Goes - Belle & Sebastian
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he says ‘i think you’re very lonely’

and the next morning i can hear my mother sobbing in the living room. i’ve inherited this emptiness. i don’t know him well enough to make the intention of memorising his face. i know that his lips are the colour of drowning. that his mouth looks like it belongs to someone pulled out of a lake. he was referring to this city of course. he meant that a city, like this one, could make even the loveliest, beg for a body to hold. after all, he doesn’t know me well enough. doesn’t know that i’m ship wrecked in my own home. that i’m an island. that sometimes even the water rushes away from my open arms.

—— Warsan Shire 
Friday, 22nd of August with 3,778 notes
alek wek  
❝ One of the most malevolent characteristics of racist thought is that it never produces new knowledge. It seems able to merely reformulate and refigure itself in multiple but static assertions. It has no referent in the material world; like the concept of black blood or white blood or blue blood, it is designed to construct artificial borders and maintain them against all reason and all evidence to the contrary. And while racist thought and language have an almost unmitigated force in political and social life, the realm of racial difference has been allowed an intellectual weight to which it has no claim. It is truly a realm that is no realm at all — an all-consuming vacancy that is both common and strange. ❞