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i think there's something so beautiful about postcards and how they say that yes i was in this beautiful place but i still couldn't stop thinking about you

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— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

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“You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming—in fact not at all a warming—yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the colour blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes— the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.”

— Joan Didion, Blue Nights (via thebluesthour)

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By claudiadeyondesings

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dev patel i love your soulful eyes and beautiful nose and long legs. please visit me in a dream. i will be standing in a field of tulips

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𝔪𝔞𝔷𝔷𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯 – 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢

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life really is so simple when you sit back and realise you don’t actually have to do a lot of things. i don’t have to be on my phone constantly. i don’t have to sit inside all day. i don’t have to reply to peoples messages straight away. i don’t have to have what’s in my fridge. i can go out and get groceries and make things that I’m craving. i can go on a walk. i can turn my phone off for a day or two. i can sit and read for hours on end. i can journal for as long as i want. i can meditate. i can cook. i can clean. i can breathe deeply. i can get myself a tea or a coffee. i can have meaningful conversations with my family. i don’t have to be in a constant state of “online”. i can disconnect. I’m not obliged to be here. my name isn’t being called out on a list. i can leave. i can take time away. i am allowed to live.

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put down the chat gpt. consume too much caffeine and nicotine and write a paper that you barely understand while you approach hallucination territory from too little sleep and too much raging. engage with academia in the way god intended

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children existing in public spaces is genuinely like. necessary for the continuation of society. it doesnt have to be your kids you dont have to volunteer at a daycare or whatever but you need to be able to tolerate the presence of someone who is learning how to exist as a human and interact with people

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a normal and average sunday consists of lying on the ground thinking about how much I'd like to go back and do everything again because this time I'd do everything right

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“Lord Byron gets up at two. I get up, quite contrary to my usual custom … at 12. After breakfast we sit talking till six. From six to eight we gallop through the pine forest which divide Ravenna from the sea; we then come home and dine, and sit up gossiping till six in the morning. I don’t suppose this will kill me in a week or fortnight, but I shall not try it longer. Lord B.’s establishment consists, besides servants, of ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow, and a falcon; and all these, except the horses, walk about the house, which every now and then resounds with their unarbitrated quarrels, as if they were the masters of it… . [P.S.] I find that my enumeration of the animals in this Circean Palace was defective … . I have just met on the grand staircase five peacocks, two guinea hens, and an Egyptian crane. I wonder who all these animals were before they were changed into these shapes.”

— Percy Bysshe Shelley on the lifestyle of Lord Byron (via timemarauder)

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my number one skill is being sooo cute and my number two skill is the ancient curse

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Colonizers write about flowers. I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks seconds before becoming daisies. I want to be like those poets who care about the moon. Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons. It’s so beautiful, the moon. They’re so beautiful, the flowers.

— Noor Hindi, from “Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying,” DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.

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I think the smartest thing a woman can be is not easily impressed lol.

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Columbia University students at the Gaza solidarity encampment reading Wisam Rafeedie's The Trinity of Fundamentals and Ghassan Kanafani's The Revolution of 1936–1939 in Palestine (ph. Ian Bartlett).