No era necesidad. Era gusto, comodidad y silencios. Era querer, cariño y confianza. En direcciones distintas, quizás, en una complejidad de introspecciones. En ti, en mi, pero jamás en los dos.
━ Sensaciones egoístas. De la unilateralidad y otras cosas. (via notasdepapel
At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare.
La belleza otoñal es la más fuerte quizás porque tiene que ver con las cosas que faltan, que irremediablemente perderemos: no tiene la pueril rotundidad del invierno ni del verano ni esa obligación a la alegría de la primavera. Me gustan esos colores, el vaticinio y la sensación que implican: la de algo que se extravía, como la belleza apasionante que tienen los amores perdidos, tal vez los únicos verdaderos.
¿Por qué no hacernos el favor? ¿Por qué no? Volver a vernos como antes, con los ojos atontados y el espíritu despierto.
Es preferible la soledad digna y sin conflictos, que una relación incompleta en la que la carencia manda.
Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, ‘Where have I gone wrong’
Then a voice says to me, ‘This is going to take more than one night.’
We write as the birds sing, as the primitives dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it. When I don’t write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
━ Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947–1955
You wait a lifetime to meet Someone who understands you, accepts you as you are. At the end, you find that Someone all along, has been you.
I have always been the type of person who has to drown in order to remember I can breathe
The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.
One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. That is what lies at the root of true harmony.
━ Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage