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#Anaïs Nin
petaltexturedskies · 2 days
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My dissatisfaction, my doubts, my desires, my restlessness, are a kind of madness.
Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry dated 31 May 1926 featured in The Early Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. III 1923-1927
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sinligh · 2 days
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It’s early summer,
the hopeless romantic in me found her way to the surface when the heat melted couple of my overprotective layers.
so here i am, allowing her a moment of spotlight and myself some vulnerability.
it’s past midnight, I’m sitting in floor of my kitchen eating fruits with a knife
wondering, if it’s really safe to romanticize life?
I indulge myself anyway, and think about how fruits can be considered a love language if you’re starved enough to taste love that’s throughly stained with muted apologies. 
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I trust, that when the sun rises tomorrow all my attempts to romanticize life will sublimate and create a thick fog of melancholy that I’ll have no other option but to get lost into.
even so, tonight I’m tired enough to let it be and so i write this, my own report of pathology
officially it’s untitled, but I’m thinking: the pathology of love.
i start by resecting pieces of all the habits that i define my existence based on along with some of the heartache that i held onto for too long
deep down, i know some of it belongs to my mother
At least its mature flavor says so, that, balanced with the sweet essence of an overly ripe fruit that never belonged
Young and brash and an acquired taste.
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it’s a poorly fixed microscopic tissue, preserved in a high percentage of feminine rage
Low expectations stained with love and paranoia alike and the question that asks itself:
is it benign or malignant?
is it infiltrating my soul, taking away from my potential to grow ?
It stays unanswered, an unforced error
because i always carry those little versions of me that vary in the percentage of their belief in my own bone marrow
a core biopsy will always show that i still believe.
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•••
•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Sylvia Plath/ Virgina Woolf/ Franz Kafka/Marcel Proust/ Simone de Beauvoir/Anne Carson/ Andrea Gibson/Anaïs Nin
•Original context:
•Art reference:
1. British School - Head of a girl, c. 1850. 2. Painting ( details) by Richard E. Miller. 3. Paintings by Jen Mazza. 4. Neil Carroll Original Oil Painting Realism Impressionism. 5. The Gross Clinic (details), by Thomas Eakins 6. Wounds of the Earth by xis.lanyx. 7.painting by Herbert James Draper.
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flowerytale · 11 months
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The Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1944–1947
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sfsolstice · 2 months
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Anaïs Nin, in a letter to Henry Miller, d. March 9, 1932, from A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
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deviika · 15 days
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–Anaïs Nin
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incure · 8 months
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From The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955
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thebookquotes · 7 months
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I feel very small. I don't understand. I have so much courage, fire, energy, for many things, yet I get so hurt, so wounded by small things.
Anaïs Nin, Nearer the Moon: The Previously Unpublished Unexpurgated Diary, 1937-1939
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perfectfeelings · 1 month
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You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.
Anaïs Nin
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metamorphesque · 1 year
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— Anaïs Nin, Henry and June
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petaltexturedskies · 16 hours
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When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.
Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June - The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin 1931-1932
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quotefeeling · 3 months
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You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.
Anaïs Nin
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flowerytale · 1 month
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The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923
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sfsolstice · 2 months
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Anaïs Nin, in a letter to Henry Miller, d. March 26, 1932, from A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
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elvendeity · 1 year
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Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
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philosophors · 4 months
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“You cannot save people. You can only love them.”
— Anaïs Nin
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perfectfeelings · 4 months
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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds.
Anaïs Nin
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