essie

“There is so much silence all around
that I think I can hear
moonlight crashing against the
windows.

A foreign voice
awakes inside my breast,
singing a longing which is not my
own.

They say that ancestors, who died
before their time,
with young blood in their veins,
with great passions in their blood,
with living sun in passions,
return,
return to live
inside us
their unspent lives.

There is so much silence all around
that I think I can hear
moonlight crashing against the
windows.

Oh, who knows, my soul -in whose
breast you too will sing, in centur-
ies to come,
on sweet strings of silence
on a harp of darkness,
your smothered longing and your
broken joy of life? Who knows?
Who knows?”
― Lucian Blaga, Poems of Light

“Men cannot grieve as dogs do. But they grieve for many years.”
― Robin Hobb, Assassin's Apprentice

“Epidermal Macabre

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes,-
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.”
― Theodore Roethke

“Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result -- eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly -- in you.”
― Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything