My collection of things.
Quotes
A revolutionary age is an age of action; ours is the age of advertisement and publicity. Nothing ever happens but there is immediate publicity everywhere. [...] Our age is essentially one of understanding and reflection, without passion, momentarily bursting into enthusiasm, and shrewdly relapsing into repose. Søren Kierkegaard
Even so, as I maintain, neither we nor our guardians, whom we have to educate, can ever become musical until we and they know the essential forms of temperance, courage, liberality, magnificence, and their kindred, as well as the contrary forms, in all their combinations, and can recognise them and their images wherever they are found, not slighting them either in small things or great, but believing them all to be within the sphere of one art and study. The Republic
Many a times the journey has felt like digging out of a prison using the collarbone of a fallen mate as a makeshift shovel, fuelled by the vapours of some faint hope that there is a relatively more free world waiting within reach, and that the proverbial roses I can smell are not just a hallucinogenic side effect from some invisible gas deposit that this old canary has stumbled upon. Diverging Desktop
I saw it stranded in angular silhouette against the evening sky, a mute testimony to times and obsessions past and a relic no one wanted. Altered Carbon
Poems
From Oxford Languages,
A piece of writing that partakes of the nature of both speech and song that is nearly always rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often exhibits such formal elements as meter, rhyme, and stanzaic structure.
The Apartment We Won't Share
I wonder what sad wife lives there
Have the windows deciphered her stares?
Do the bricks in the walls know to hide the affairs?
The dog we won't have is now one I would not choose
The daughter we won't raise still waits for you
The girl I won't be is the one that's yours
I hope you shortly find what you long for
Two years and some change
Isn't it strange?
You're a full-fledged socialist
I go by a new name
The filthy joke that won't
burrow in the corner of your
smirking lips, I mourn it to this day
The story we won't tell
is my greatest fantasy
The passion I won't feel again
isn't lost on me
The son you never wanted
is the wound your father left
And the mother I won't be is
probably for the best
Your demons I won't meet
Now some someone else's word to keep
I'm sure she's beautiful and sweet
Not what I wanted, but what we need
Nicole Zefanya
Autumn
We talked of lands away from this stage
You said, "Don't fret, love,
someday I'll be my own man, I'll be free"
Oh but darling, did you mean
Darling, did you mean free from me?
You promised home
The kind I'd never known
But here we are,
skin and flesh and beating hearts,
I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing wrong
You said: "Let's make ourselves our very own brigade ---
This love, our shield, our blade"
Oh but darling, do you see
the cuts from which I bleed
It's me you've slain
I didn't obliterate these walls for you
to come and raid my home
And here you are, right next to me
Ironically, I've never felt more alone
I fell for you,
faster than I fell apart
And I guess I'm the one to blame
for letting myself fall too hard
I ripped my heart out and put in your hands
in hope that we'd put up a fight
How paradoxical, since now
all I can think about is when will we stop trying
Oh, oh, oh
How do we stay afloat?
When do I let go?
All you do is blinside me,
It's hard to be brave
But when the night cuts into the day,
It's your love I crave
I must've thanked my lucky stars too much
They left me sitting in too much dust ...
You know all my dreams
You were one, so it seems
And I love you, but with you
It's heartache I breath
You gave it your all
Just with everything you took from me
Nicole Zefanya
Prose
From Wikipedia,
Prose is the form of written language that follows the natural flow of speech [..] Thus, prose [..] differs most notably from poetry.
As long as there is love, there will be grief
The grief of time passing, of life moving on half-finished, of empty spaces that were once bursting with the laughter and energy of people we loved.
As long as there is love there will be grief because grief is love's natural continuation.
It shows up in the aisles of stores we once frequented, in the half-finished bottle of wine we pour out, in the whiff of cologne we get two years after they've been gone.
Grief is a giant neon sign, protruding through everything, pointing everywhere, broadcasting loudly, "Love was here."
In the finer print, quietly, "Love still is." Heidi Priebe