Back to Top

Are you healed or do you only think you’re healed?

I told myself
from nothing
nothing could be taken away.

But can you love anyone yet?

When I feel safe, I can love.

But will you touch anyone?

I told myself
if I had nothing
the world couldn’t  touch me.

In the bathtub, I examine my body.
We’re supposed to do that.

I was vigilant: when I touched myself 
I didn’t feel anything.

Were you safe then?

I was never safe, even when I was most hidden.
Even when I was waiting.

So you couldn’t protect yourself?

The absolute
erodes; the boundary, the wall
around the self erodes.
If I was waiting I had been 
invaded by time.

But do you think you’re free?

I think I recognize the patterns of my nature.

But do you think you’re free?

I had nothing
and I was still changed.
Like a costume, my numbness
was taken away. Then
hunger was added.


Louise Glück, from Mutable Earth

(Source: incomfortable)

Andy Warhol (American, 1928-1987), Unidentified male, c.1955. Ink on paper, 16 3/4 x 13 7/8 in.

Ezio Bonfanti, Cesare Macchi Cassia and Marco  Porta, House, Circa 1972

Henri Matisse
Nude Among the Waves, 1938

sade, somebody already broke my heart

helen frankenthaler, around the clock with red

"it hurts to love. it’s like giving yourself to be flayed and knowing that at any moment the other person may just walk off with your skin."


susan sontag, reborn: journals and notebooks

“What, I ask, drives me to disorder? How can I diagnose myself? All I feel, most immediately, is the most anguished need for physical love and mental companionship ” 


susan sontag, reborn: journals and notebooks

"I have been told that a noble breed of horses, when overheated and hunted almost to death, will by instinct bite open a vein and so recover their breath. I often feel the same. I should like to open one of my veins and gain eternal freedom for myself"


goethe, the sorrows of young werther

Anna Ewers by Dimitri Hyacinthe

Tatiana Trouvé, 2006
“To become imperceptible oneself, to have dismantled love in order to become capable of loving. To have dismantled one’s self in order finally to be alone and meet the true double at the other end of the line. A clandestine passenger on a motionless voyage. To become like everybody else; but this, precisely, is a becoming only for one who knows how to be nobody, to no longer be anybody. To paint oneself gray on gray.”

Gilles Deleuze, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia  

(Source: heteroglossia, via sinthematica)

Hailey Clauson by Martin Lidell for Styleby Magazine

So I write another letter.

I love you very much. You are the city I live in; you are the name of the month and the day. I float, salty and heavy with tears, barely keeping my head above water. I seem to be sinking, but even there, underwater-where the phone doesn’t ring and rumors don’t reach, where it is impossible to meet you-I will go on loving you.

I love you, yet you force me to hang onto the running boards of your life. My hands are freezing. I’m not jealous of people: I’m jealous of your time. It is impossible not to see you. 

So what can I do when there is no substitute for love? You know nothing about the weight of all things.


Viktor Shklovsky, Zoo, or Letters Not About Love

(Source: ahuntersheart)