@jazbaaati on Tumblr

i can't believe i still use tumblr in 2023 i feel like an old guy who stubbornly refuses to get a mobile cuz house phones work perfectly fine. and he's right

jazbaaati reblogged

“The other day, lying in bed, I felt my heart beating for the first time in a long while. I realized how little I live in my body, how much in my mind”

-Rodger kamenetz, from Terra infirma

jazbaaati reblogged

— Louise Glück, from “Timor Mortis.”

jazbaaati

- Audre Lorde, A Sewerplant Grows In Harlem Or I’m a Stranger Here Myself When Does The Next Swan Leave, The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde

#audre lorde #poem #poetry #lorde

jazbaaati

Am I cursed forever with becoming somebody else on the way to myself?

- Audre Lorde, Change of Season

#audre lorde #poetry #poem #lorde

jazbaaati

But I have peeled away your anger

down to the core of love

and look mother

I Am

a dark temple where your true spirit rises

beautiful

and tough as chestnut

stanchion against your nightmare of weakness

and if my eyes conceal

a squadron of conflicting rebellions

I learned from you

to define myself

through your denials.

- Audre Lorde, Black Mother Woman

#audre lorde #poetry #poem #lorde

jazbaaati reblogged

weltenwellen

Erika L. Sánchez, from “La Cueva”, Lessons on Expulsion

jazbaaati reblogged

girlwithfish

be mid be average be non essential

jazbaaati reblogged

— Arabelle Sicardi, from “The Year in Ugliness.”

jazbaaati reblogged

— Adrienne Rich, from “Integrity.”

— Nikos Kazantzakis, from “Report To Greco.”

jazbaaati reblogged

thewavesbrokeontheshore

orpheuslament

realistically i could never work at a bookstore because someone would come to me looking for fucking colleen hoover or something & id spit in their eye

jazbaaati reblogged

neoyorzapoteca

whisperthatruns

“Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.”

— Virginia Woolf, Orlando