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“How do you even survive then, my dearest, how do you regenerate?”
Tomaš Šalamun, “Car le vice” from The Four Questions of Melancholy
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Incredibly jealous of anywhere with lily pads, frogs, fireflies, damp woodland, sea/ocean, fog
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“When people enter into an experience of loneliness, they trigger what psychologists call hypervigilance for social threat […] In this state, which is entered into unknowingly, the individual tends to experience the world in increasingly negative terms, and to both expect and remember instances of rudeness, rejection and abrasion, giving them greater weight and prominence than other, more benign or friendly interactions. This creates, of course, a vicious circle, in which the lonely person grows increasingly […] What this means is that the lonelier a person gets, the less adept they become at navigating social currents. Loneliness grows around them, like mould or fur, a prophylactic that inhibits contact, no matter how badly contact is desired. Loneliness is accretive, extending and perpetuating itself. Once it becomes impacted, it is by no means easy to dislodge.”
— The lonely city, Olivia Laing
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William Adolphe Bouguereau: La Loyauté (1876)
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To One In Paradise
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“The first day's sun questioned
the new appearance of being —
Who are you?
There was no answer.
Years went by.
Day's last sun
asked the last question from the shores of the west in the soundless evening —
Who are you?
There was no answer.”
Rabindranath Tagore, Final Poems
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“I am the witness of existence.
In the truth of the I lies the truth of being.
This I know for certain.”
Rabindranath Tagore, Final Poems
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Guinnevere (2005 Remaster)
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“What has happened? Why it happened is unknown.
Day and night, useless eyes search everywhere.”
Rabindranath Tagore, Final Poems
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Women glide silently across the night, wed to solitude the wedding gowns of our mothers, woven with gossamer from the moon and when the night finally closes, one final sip from the opium bowl to be bathed in the thin water of deserted love. You torment the songbird in my heart My soul, still, is dewy with an inaccessible memory Rose and jasmine perfume my lungs where the heaviness of your absence sits on my chest and my final breath will be a plead by your name. My mind is breathless and forsaken by magic, attended to with one last wish my knees digging into the wet grass of my hometown in a long, rolling field where I can be alone a toy of fate, with dignity I resign in a slice of silver my agony escapes, and spills on the soil I was raised.
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