“Why do you only ever give me sad poetry?”
- Because that’s the language my heart knows best.
- Because it takes dozens of poetry sent your way, for you to get through to me.
(and still you don’t)
- Because I don’t know how to tell you about the echoes in my chest.
“We’re each alone inside our heads,
some more so than others.”
— Jonathan Maberry, Dust and Decay
“It’s all echo—whatever world
keeps calling to you
in the woods, in a rock, a deep wave—
Just a lie that vanishes
as soon as it tricks you inside.
Shut up, go away, say to the world.
And it does—into the woods, a rock,
deep waves that keep calling you.”
— Antoine de Chandieu,
Octonaires On The World’s Vanity and Inconstancy
Certain days I wake up and feel so much like a stranger to myself that it scares me.
“Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound.
You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that… there are many kinds of magic, after all.”
— Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus
Certain days I go so deep into myself, I can’t make my way out.
“There is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.”— Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell