It Feels Like A Lifetime Ago That We Had You, And It Feels Like A Decade Since We Have Lost You. The

Simone de Beauvoir, from a diary entry featured in Diary of a Philosophy Student

musings on april

Sylvia Plath (Leon Dabo), Edna St. Vincent Millay, E. E. Cummings, Naguib Mahfouz (Edgar Degas), E. E. Cummings (Édouard Manet), Rabindranath Tagore, T. S. Eliot (Edgar Degas), F. Scott Fitzgerald (Alphonse Osbert)

One day...I am going to wake up, look over and find you peacefully asleep beside me, I will admire how beautiful you are and I will draw you closer, showering you with tender kisses.

Salvador Dali’s exhibition was fun

“I love lilies. Blue lilies but they are so hard to find…”

Were the words that he told me the moment I asked him what he adores the most. It took me a while to make his vision my reality and I am so happy how it turned out.

I know his admiration and love for Vincent Van Gogh, and how he collects every little piece that he finds that resonates with the artist. Because of his biased nature for Vincent’s aesthetics and of course his love for lilies, I crocheted Starry Night themed lily bouquet for him, with two sunflowers that resonates the moon and frame of the painting.

I know he will love this more than anything and I hope to make him smile just the way he will when see these flowers I made for him.

"dead doesn't mean absent...", tathev simonyan

I gave you a love so vast it could have swallowed cities whole. I built galaxies in my chest just to make room for you, carved out pieces of my soul and called them home so you would never feel alone. I was there and offering, but you… you only ever loved the echo of me, the shadow I cast in your mind, not the woman who bled herself dry to be enough. You didn’t love me. You loved the idea of being loved by someone like me. And that was the slow undoing.

You were never really there, not when I shattered quietly in rooms we shared, not when I fell asleep hoping you would see me again, not just look at me. I held up the heavens for us while you watched, arms folded, eyes elsewhere. And still, I stayed. Still, I gave. Foolish, maybe. Devoted, definitely.

Now, that it’s all gone. I have crossed oceans of pain to reach a shore where your name doesn’t burn on my skin anymore. I am somewhere better, freer, lighter. And just when I have stitched myself together with gold thread and midnight prayers, you come back.

You come back with a whisper of apology, a handful of words you never had the courage to speak when I was drowning right in front of you. Why now? Why always after?

It is the cruel theater of time, isn’t it? The final act where ghosts knock at your door once you have already exorcised them. People see your worth only in absence, crave your presence only when it is no longer a gift they are entitled to. Love should never be a posthumous award.

And yet, here I am, haunted not by you, but by the echo of who I was when I loved you. And that is the deepest ache of all.

(Darjeeling’22)

My pov vs his.

(Brown dad core of a feline creature)