“Each person who ever was or is or will be has a song. It isn’t a song that anybody else wrote. It has its own melody, it has its own words. Very few people get to sing their song. Most of us fear that we cannot do it justice with our voices, or that our words are too foolish or too honest, or too odd. So people live their song instead.”—Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys
“If you look at the fact that you have a roof over your head, food to eat, that you are young and beautiful and live in a peaceful land, then no, you have nothing to be sad about. But the fact is, we are not only a physical body, we have souls too, and sometimes our souls get sick. If you break a leg you don’t just say ‘I have no reason to have a broken leg’ and ignore it; you seek help. It’s the same when your soul gets hurt. Don’t apologize for being sad.”—My doctor when I told her I had no reason to be sad (via hrive-ithiliel)
t’s so good to learn that right outside your window There’s only friendly fields and open roads And you’ll sleep better when you think you’ve stepped back from the brink And found some peace inside yourself; lay down your heavy load
It’s always been love: the love we feel for the man with the beady eyes and the gleeful wail and the fingers pressed to the pulse of our sadness, and the love we feel for the stupid, desperate, pure-hearted people we were when we needed him.
“It’s funny. It seems in retrospect like a very clean time. You behave differently if everything you do hurts. You pare down the elements of your life to a handful of essential things, and when you start feeling better you memorialize those things as a kind of survival kit. Mundane ways of passing time become talismanic. After all, you used to want to die and now you don’t; this seems so remarkable, and the number of things in your life that could have compelled such a transformation seems so small, that you can only assume each one of them was vital. You tell yourself (ignoring the fact that people change and circumstances change and postadolescent depression is objectively small potatoes) that from now on it will be OK, no matter how bad you feel, because you still have those things, and you can pare your life down to them again if you need to.”— Emma Stanford, Let Us Consider the Mountain Goats (via noepithets)
“It gives me great joy to make music; even telling dark and horrible stories, I sort of feel the burning joyous affirmative righteousness of how awesome it is just to be alive, even on your worst day…you know? It’s a sort of defiance. Suffering is seldom joyful, but expressing one’s capacity for survival almost always is. I think what I mainly sing about is survival, tenacity, practice patience.”—John Darnielle (via alecfoxy)
“I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.”—b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)
i dont think some feminist artists have figured out that using a picture of the uterus to symbolize “grrrl power” is a microaggresion and excludes trans folk so let this be a public service announcement.