Theme by Theme Static


Notes on literature and writing from The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa, page 30.

We really have to understand the person we want to love. If our love is only a will to possess, it is not love. If we only think of ourselves, if we know only our own needs and ignore the needs of the other person, we cannot love. We must look deeply in order to see and understand the needs, aspirations, and suffering of the person we love. This is the ground of real love. You cannot resist loving another person when you really understand him or her.

From time to time, sit close to the one you love, hold his or her hand, and ask, ‘Darling, do I understand you enough? Or am I making you suffer? Please tell me so that I can learn to love you properly. I don’t want to make you suffer, and if I do so because of my ignorance, please tell me so that I can love you better, so that you can be happy.” If you say this in a voice that communicates your real openness to understand, the other person may cry.

That is a good sign, because it means the door of understanding is opening and everything will be possible again.

Maybe a father does not have time or is not brave enough to ask his son such a question. Then the love between them will not be as full as it could be. We need courage to ask these questions, but if we don’t ask, the more we love, the more we may destroy the people we are trying to love. True love needs understanding. With understanding, the one we love will certainly flower.

Thích Nhất Hạnh (via purplebuddhaproject)


marry whoever you think of when you listen to Drake

The wonderful thing about tiggers, is tiggers are wonderful things 

Spring Day


The immense hope, and forbearance

Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day

Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled

As night returns bringing doubts

That swarm around the sleeper’s head

But are fended off with clubs and knives, so that morning

Installs again in cold hope

The air that was yesterday, is what you are,

In so many phases the head slips from the hand.

The tears ride freely, laughs or sobs:

What do they matter?  There is free giving and taking;

The giant body relaxed as though beside a stream

Wakens to the force of it and has to recognize

The secret sweetness before it turns into life—

Sucked out of many exchanges, torn from the womb,

Disinterred before completely dead— and heaves

Its mountain-broad chest.  ”They were long in coming,

Those others, and mattered so little that it slowed them

To almost nothing.  They were presumed dead,

Their names honorably grafted on the landscape

To be a memory to men.  Until today

We have been living in their shell.

Now we break forth like a river breaking through a dam,

Pausing over the puzzled, frightened plain, 

And our further progress shall be terrible,

Turning fresh knives in the wounds

In that gulf of recreation, that bare canvas

As matter-of-fact as the traffic and the day’s noise.”

The mountain stopped shaking; its body

Arched into its own contradiction, its enjoyment,

As far from us lights were put out, memories of boys and girls

Who walked here before the great change,

Before the air mirrored us,

Taking the opposite shape of our effort,

Its inseparable comment and corollary

But casting us further and further out.

Wha—what happened?  You are with

The orange tree, so that its summer produce

Can go back to where we got it wrong, then drip gently

Into history, if it wants to.  A page turned; we were

Just now floundering in the wind of its colossal death.

And whether it is Thursday, or the day is stormy,

With thunder and rain, or the birds attack each other,

We have rolled into another dream.

No use charging the barriers of that other:

It no longer exists.  But you,

Gracious and growing thing, with those leaves like stars,

We shall soon give all our attention to you.

-John Ashbery