August 30, 2024

August 30, 2024

"In the silent night, in the dark of night, in the deep of night, I will come to you and listen, and I will speak, and I will sing, and I will love you.”

— Walt Whitman, The Sleepers, Leaves of Grass

photo courtesy - @booksmyquerencia

August 25, 2024

When they say life must go on, I wonder what kind of life they mean. It’s not life they’re living; it’s a show—a sartorial parade, a spectacle for the people, of the people, by the people. A show of money, of fleeting interests, of agendas dressed in fine fabrics. Is this what they call life, or is it just a rat parade, where we’re all racing towards an unseen never-ending finish line?

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Between takeoff and landing, we are each suspended in animation—a pause between the chapters of our lives. When I look out at the world, it's reduced to a flat projection, where mountain ranges are merely wrinkles in the continental skin. Oblivious to our passage overhead, other stories unfold beneath us. Blackberries ripen under the August sun, a woman hesitates at her doorway with a suitcase in hand, a letter is opened, and a surprising photograph slides out, capturing a moment of pure, unfiltered truth.

But we’re moving too fast, too far away; all the stories escape us, save for our own.As I turn away from the window, those stories recede, disappearing into the two-dimensional map of green and brown below. They vanish like a trout into the shade of an overhanging bank, leaving us staring at the surface of the water, questioning if we ever saw them at all ???

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses

from my notion archives, green forever 🌳

all photos by me, reblog is ok, don’t repost/use

September 2, 2024

At the day's quiet end, When the sky blushes with gold, She gathers the sunset in her hands, Holding its warmth like a secret, A light that fades but never truly leaves, Lingering in the twilight of memory.

photo courtesy - @booksmyquerencia

August 25, 2024

When they say life must go on, I wonder what kind of life they mean. It’s not life they’re living; it’s a show—a sartorial parade, a spectacle for the people, of the people, by the people. A show of money, of fleeting interests, of agendas dressed in fine fabrics. Is this what they call life, or is it just a rat parade, where we’re all racing towards an unseen never-ending finish line?

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Between takeoff and landing, we are each suspended in animation—a pause between the chapters of our lives. When I look out at the world, it's reduced to a flat projection, where mountain ranges are merely wrinkles in the continental skin. Oblivious to our passage overhead, other stories unfold beneath us. Blackberries ripen under the August sun, a woman hesitates at her doorway with a suitcase in hand, a letter is opened, and a surprising photograph slides out, capturing a moment of pure, unfiltered truth.

But we’re moving too fast, too far away; all the stories escape us, save for our own.As I turn away from the window, those stories recede, disappearing into the two-dimensional map of green and brown below. They vanish like a trout into the shade of an overhanging bank, leaving us staring at the surface of the water, questioning if we ever saw them at all ???

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses

Sylvia Plath