My photos and writings:
Photos of myself:

Sep 4
“People aren’t books, I’ve learned.
You can’t bookmark your favorite pieces
to return to whenever you’re feeling lonely;
when the nights get too cold and you
need something familiar to keep you warm,
you can’t reopen their spines and wear
out their pages and call that obsession love.”
Pavana पवन (via maza-dohta)

(via poetictothecore)

“take me to your trees. take me to your breakfasts, your sunsets, your bad dreams, your shoes, your nouns. take me to your fingers.” margaret atwood, good bones (via vrban)

(via movieonyoureyelids)

Aug 8
“There are poems
inside of you
that paper can’t
Y.Z  (via unlively)

(via movieonyoureyelids)

“What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak. It was born in the moment when we accumulated silent things within us.” Gaston Bachelard, Poetics of Space (via ajna-aakhu)

(via movieonyoureyelids)

Aug 4
“Faces appear, are washed away,
Dear today and tomorrow far off.
Why did I once turn down
the corner of this page?

Now the book always opens
To the same place. And then it’s strange:
It’s as if from the moment of farewell,
The years have not passed beyond recall.”
Anna Akhmatova, Imitation of I. F. Annensky (translated by Judith Hemschemeyer)

(via poemusicoffee)

Jul 21
“I’m going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.” Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit (via acontentmentwithobscurity)

(via razna)

“… desire is full
of endless distances.”
Robert Hass, from “Meditation at Lagunitas” (via sketchofthepast)

(via word-digest)

Jun 22


Dear M., 

I am writing to you on this useless Sunday afternoon, because I saw a photograph of ‘La Barceloneta’ and I can’t get over it. Evening. The city lamps along the beach glowing in half-darkness. Less light and more (and more) warmth. I think I’d rather have more light and less warmth and a colder, cleaner shore or an ice-cold lake, more to the north. If I lived on those southern shores for a while, I would end up craving back the cool air of luminous summer nights one gets to love so much, those restless escapades in the bright night, as if on the line between the deafening motionlessness of night and the light of day. The two of them in unison, as if robbing the night of its customary darkness.

I have been thinking endlessly about this. And still, I would so like to grasp each and every small particle of life there, on the southern side, of daily practices, of the people. The hot asphalt at the end of the day, a refreshing bath in the sea, fragments of animated and high-pitched sounds. To sleep with mosquito nets on and windows wide open - to annihilate nightmares on such torrid nights.

And I hope that the canvas is brighter and eyes are less sad. I hope there is genuine warmth everywhere, not only in the air. I hope arms caress and ears are open to hear and hearts tuned to take in. I hope the parching sun also gives solace, not only nightmares in the aftermath of a hot day. I hope all the bad memories are cleansed by the heat and muddy one-way lanes on the inside open again to give way to new directions and possibilities.

But these are only hopes, as heart-felt as they might be.

So I am writing to you also because I cannot write to someone else. I can write to no one else. Because there are walls and hinders and vast lands of silence, entire continents of oblivion and concealment. Any attempt, any move is entirely blocked. Inner lanes are still tightly closed and I’m afraid…never mind. Thank you for receiving my hopes without judgment – it is all I am asking for. All else would be pointless.

Yours truly,

A. A.




Jun 20
“My whole life disappearing
From around me like a sound
That rises into the air and is gone
Without even an echo. After song

There is a pang. The heart in clench.
Then memory. Then retreat
Into the present. That silence.
Not emptiness, but weight.”
Tracy K. Smith, After Persephone
(via poemusicoffee)

(via razna)

“When I wake I drag with me shreds of dreams that beg to be written … from very early on I passed from writing to living, as from dreaming to waking.” Julio Cortazar, Save Twilight. (via literarymiscellany)

(via movieonyoureyelids)

Jun 16


Uta Barth - In Passing (1995-7)

(via movieonyoureyelids)

May 18
“Inside of all of us there is the need and the desire to be heard, to have our innermost thoughts, feelings and desires expressed for others to hear, to see and to understand. We all want to matter to someone, to leave a mark. Writers just take those thoughts, feelings and desires and express them in such a way that the reader not only reads them but feels them as well.” Vicktor Alexander (via observando)

(via 1000moods)

Intermittent sadnesses. I thought they would fade, but it seems there is a more concrete action to be taken to make it happen. It feels like I have kept too much inside, and it is strange, because it’s not that I have not told people. It just feels like the most important things cannot be said, or they just come down as ridiculous when uttered within an everyday setting, conversation, change of ideas or friendly get-together…The little things, the tiny-tiny memories of certain gestures, of the feel of a day or a room or the specific smell of freshly washed clothes one experienced at that time or any other bits and pieces of the past, all the smallest bits. And the dearest. They come up in my mind and I can’t help but smile at the thought of them, somehow even the sad ones, even when they make me want to cry my heart out. I smile and there is no way to really share why and what goes on in my mind and what is dragged back from the past just then. The little fragment that mattered, that made all the difference in fact…And all the fragments that after a while become so faded and ridiculous to everyone else who know about it, to everyone but yourself. To you they never dim, they are as alive as ever, as real as they once were. What to do about it? There is no way of transmitting this on an everyday level. It is there and it deepens more and more and is absorbed into the very texture of your soul.

I stand helpless before it and just try to value the depth and intensity of it and realise that despite the sadness and all the strange amalgam of emotions connected to it, I would never change the past. And if there was a rewind, I would do it again, feel it again, be confused again, suffer again. Be forgotten again.

It has always been horribly difficult for me to bring any order into my life, to plan anything, to have strategies and follow them, to surmount the chaos. Even writing that has always been there in the background and imposed itself upon me at times and in those moments I could never resist it…like now. But even writing and starting to write has always been complicated. I never know how to start, how to make it beautiful and valuable, how to say something that matters and which could at least help others reflect or try and immerse into my world - that part of it I cannot express in everyday conversations. The part that haunts and taunts and torments, but the part I love nonetheless and will never stop loving. The one I want to express against all odds and go against the first impression I have about it and get it out of my head and make it meaningful.

It doesn’t even matter what it really was like. Silence hurts too much, it’s the one thing I know. And letting go and forgetting and losing everything, unrecorded. It is the biggest hurt I know and I cannot handle it, I don’t know how to and I don’t think I will ever know. In a world full of all these possibilities of communication, it’s even harder. When you see that all of those are in vain and there is nothing, nothing that connects - then you become scared and sick sad. I always do and it can lead to a sort of madness.   



Everything you love is here


Everything you love is here

(via witheveryheartbeat)

May 15



All of my eyes

Similar posts here

(via lavakid)

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