The Pale Poetics Volume II: The Sleepy Girls to the morose & the melancholic
Anna Karina Complex the illusion that one’s life is set in the 60s Paris, with intermittent existential crises, and lack of understanding own emotions about surrounding people. night sleeps are troubled by fading images of museums on a backdrop of voices reciting fragments of poems. clothes are usually of black or dark navy colour to prevent unwanted attention. usually a winged eyeliner is worn to conceal an night-long crying bout. a compulsive desire to be alone is present on weekends. writing and reading can be relieving factors. aggravation happens on rainy days, caffeine overdose, and remembrance of past lovers.
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“Be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.” — Advice to Sylvia Plath, from her mother
“I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.” — Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena
“I had sadness for breakfast.” —Andy Mionakis
My dear, I don’t know what to do today, help me decide. Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me afterall. Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage. Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but? Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? Falsely yours, Albert Camus
“It’s a most distressing affliction to have a sentimental heart and a skeptical mind.” — Naguib Mahfouz, Sugar Street
“I hid myself within myself.” — Anne Frank
“The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea.” —Isak Dinesen
I know a sad little fairy who lives in an ocean and ever so softly plays her heart into a magic flute a sad little fairy who dies with one kiss each night and is reborn with one kiss each dawn. —Forrough Farrokhzad
از موج، از رود، از پل،پرم از راه پرم از سايه برگي در آب چه درونم تنهاست I’m brimful of path, of bridge, of river, of wave, I’m brimful of the shadows of reeds in the water, Yet how lonely is my inside
Je suis plein de routes, de ponts, de rivières, de vagues, Débordant du reflet d’une feuille sur l’eau. Et pourtant comme mon coeur est seul! —Sohrab Sepehri
“For how hard it is to understand the landscape as you pass in a train from here to there and mutely it watches you vanish.” — W. G. Sebald
“She was waiting, but she didn’t know for what. She was aware only of her solitude, and of the penetrating cold, and of a greater weight in the region of her heart.” — Albert Camus
“How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.” — Virginia Woolf
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