Every night I fall asleep for a brief moment, and am jolted back into the reality of insomnia by a soft breeze, or a the turning body of my lover— nothing substantial, just life things, you know? And then I’m awake for the rest of forever. I can’t take it anymore. It’s literally driving me mad. I’ve stopped listening to music, as it can be hell for people with obsessive thoughts—and honestly, I’ve had some breathy, screechy Mariah Carey song stuck in my head for the past three nights on some fucking hellish loop—so no more music. Cool? No. I want to listen to music. I want to sleep. I want to feel rested so that I can create, or have some fucking ambition to do so. I’m sick of running on fumes, and falling into bed as soon as I make it through another mind-numbing day of work only to wrestle with this cycle all over again. I can’t even write anymore without littering every page with lengthy consideration of the previous nights seven hour fight against time and sleep.
What’s on the up? I don’t know. I’m on the eighth season of Monk, which I have devoured in a little under three weeks. I got a 4.0 this semester. And the weather has taken a turn for the best: it’s finally warm again. We’re finally crawling out of Winter. I just hope it helps.
|Person:||Aw, I'm interested in literature as well.
|Me:||Oh, lovely. Who are your favourite authors?
|Person:||John Green and...
|Me:||It's alright, I get it.
The Chained Library of Zutphen
I took these pictures during a visit to the 16th-century chained library of Zutphen, in the east of the Netherlands. It is one of three such libraries still in existence in Europe. Nothing much has changed here for 550 years.
Here is more information (in English) on the chained library in Zutphen. Also check out this recent blog on medieval chained libraries (and Zutphen’s), written by one of the researchers in my project.
"We have to consciously study how to be tender with each other until it becomes a habit."
"Don’t google your name. Ever.
Don’t “search” for yourself
on anything that glows in the dark.
Don’t let your beauty
be something anyone can turn off.
Don’t edit your ugly out of your bio.
Let your light come from the fire.
Let your pain be the spark,
but not the timber.
Remember, you didn’t come here
to write your heart out.
You came to write it in."
“Ignorant people think it is the noise which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain’t so; it is the sickening grammar that they use.”
- Mark Twain
#david foster wallace
#this is water
What the hell is water?
A brilliant new take on David Foster Wallace’s 2008 commencement speech.
William McGuinness from The Huffington Post writes:
I’m glad the speech is now also a really amazing short film. I plan to watch it often. Kudos to TheGlossary.com, the company that possess the genius to produce the video, and in May to boot. It’s on its way to greater Internet virility, which is a good thing. Tuck it away and watch it again and again after graduation, will you?
the hot summer-sun bleaches out our memories so we retreat to softer, greener spaces where rays refracted through ripe, lazy leaves cast lacy shade over freckled constellations strung across two pale collar bones kissed in the seasons raspberry-red signature
"My insomnia is at its worst; I can’t sleep and the rain is determined not to quit soliloquizing about you all night. I can’t help but overhear, my dear."
The day in which we learned that the Earth reclaims everything— even debit cards.
"Oh, how we hate limits. Limits hold you back. They confine you. They prevent you from doing what you want to do.
Limits stop you from living a life without limits.
Of course, this is only an illusion. What limits really do is give you an acceptable excuse to avoid doing something."
A six-hour film that I will be watching again soon. Really adored this.
"Take me to your trees. Take me to your breakfasts, your sunsets, your bad dreams, your shoes, your nouns. Take me to your fingers."
I spent the day stretching my feet out under wool blankets; the sun’s beating the pavement into white-hot grey, but the apartment’s cold, my feet colder still. All around me I can hear birds singing Spring’s praise, signaling my decent into a slow, spiraling madness. I’m out of work for the week: my heart’s been on the runaway since 2 a.m. some Monday weeks and weeks ago:(it drums me into an uncharted frenzy; it costs me all of my sleep lately).
He calms me by placing warm hands across my forehead; he meets the swell of my chest with soft lips that whisper gentle affirmations: you are safe, and when you are not I am still here.