Still Life With Books, Jan Davidsz. De Heem, 1625 - 1630 (detail)

The Hermitage Museum. Saint Petersburg, Russia. 10/04/2015

Last night, I told my mother "I wish I was dead" in a fit of rage and winter clouded her eyes. But it wasn't white and it wasn't quiet, it resembled something like helplessness and rage. She was in pain and I knew I hurt her. I wanted to say something, anything, but how do you withdraw a declaration of war? How do you stop the bombs that already destroyed homelands? In that moment I remembered how she always told me that when she was a kid, she was too afraid to sleep with the lights on. Not because she was afraid of monsters, but because she feared her grandmother would die. Because when you're a kid, not seeing it means it doesn't exist anymore. I saw the winter in her eyes again and I knew I had switched off the light, she wasn't angry, she was afraid.

And I also remembered how she always told me I'd always be 3 years old for her, always a child, and for the first time, I heard in the voice of a three year old "I wish I was dead". My heart broke. And I wanted to hug her and hold her, tell her I was sorry, that I didn't mean it. Before I could move a hand, she left the room. The entire evening, I saw myself as she saw me, a 3 year old child. I saw the child hurt herself and cry herself to sleep every week, fight her friends with her tiny hands and two ponytails, I saw her depression and her anxiety, I saw her yell "I wish I was dead" and I knew. I knew. I wanted to shout through the walls, yell and cry and tell my mother that now I KNEW, but I didn't. I wept and wept until I heard a quiet knock and a soft familiar voice whispered, "Dinner is ready".

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

An Ode to Rays of Sun

Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight

seep through every crack, every seam

invading every crevice, every nook

until there is no space for night.

A million threads,

golden as fresh honey,

bright as a thousand suns,

tether me to the sky.

The shine of silk or velvet,

the beauty of a field of dandelions,

the yellow light,

sends a haze over everything,

obscuring all that is not good.

The morning is acissmus,

the night, a palimpsest.

Until you see the stars.

Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.

I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.

How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?

carpe noctem

You ever see a pretty dress, a well-organised notebook, a peculiar balcony or read one line of poetry and get the overwhelming urge to reinvent yourself

vintage perfume bottles, dusty books, stained glass windows, velvet sofas, dried roses, lipstick smudged coffee cups, shiny shoes, whispered wishes.

what do you do when the love you thought would last forever just walks away?

what do you do when you know this time its you, its you, its your fault, you chased him away?

what do you do when they hurt you but you know you hurt them even more?

what do you do when you try your best but your best isnt enough?

what do you do when the good ones hurt you?

do you just move on?

do you ever move on?

does it scar you?

do you forgive them?

do you forgive yourself?

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough.

ig: liberaureum.