I genuinely cannot talk anymore cause I know if I open my mouth so many hateful shit will come out, its not even funny.
❤1
Forwarded from Thy neighborhood Crow
"for that is love"
Love came not lightly, but with weight,
A shadow slipping through my heart's gate.
No bloom it brought, no merry, no song,
Just silence deep, and all things wrong.
Never a friend did Love appear,
But veiled in guilt, adorned with fear.
Its wine was bitter, dark, and deep,
It smiled with lies it couldn’t keep.
Among the lovers, love drew shame,
A silent sin, denied by name.
Among the kin, it wore a crown,
“Bow down,” it said, “be not your own.”
“If you love, then you obey;
Its will, not yours, must guide your way.
True Love,” they said, “is silent pain,
The more you bleed, the more you gain.”
So I drank that bitter wine,
And called it holy, called it mine.
And when I asked, ‘Was I enough?’
They chant back: “You mattered not_for that is love.”
#poem
Love came not lightly, but with weight,
A shadow slipping through my heart's gate.
No bloom it brought, no merry, no song,
Just silence deep, and all things wrong.
Never a friend did Love appear,
But veiled in guilt, adorned with fear.
Its wine was bitter, dark, and deep,
It smiled with lies it couldn’t keep.
Among the lovers, love drew shame,
A silent sin, denied by name.
Among the kin, it wore a crown,
“Bow down,” it said, “be not your own.”
“If you love, then you obey;
Its will, not yours, must guide your way.
True Love,” they said, “is silent pain,
The more you bleed, the more you gain.”
So I drank that bitter wine,
And called it holy, called it mine.
And when I asked, ‘Was I enough?’
They chant back: “You mattered not_for that is love.”
#poem
Rotten Luck
From the collection of Anton chekhov's letters (1888) You say that writers are God’s elect. I will not contradict you. Shtcheglov calls me the Potyomkin of literature, and so it is not for me to speak of the thorny path, of disappointments, and so on. I…
From The Selected Letters Of Anton Chekhov:
MOSCOW, September 21, 1886
It is not much fun to be a great writer. To begin with, it’s a dreary life. Work from morning till night and not much to show for it. Money is as scarce as cats’ tears. I don’t know how it is with Zola and Shtchedrin, but in my flat it is cold and smoky....
They give me cigarettes, as before, on holidays only. Impossible cigarettes ! Hard, damp, sausage like. Before I begin to smoke I light the lamp, dry the cigarette over it, and only then I begin on it; the lamp smokes, the cigarette splutters and turns brown, I burn my fingers ... it is enough to make one shoot oneself !
MOSCOW, September 21, 1886
It is not much fun to be a great writer. To begin with, it’s a dreary life. Work from morning till night and not much to show for it. Money is as scarce as cats’ tears. I don’t know how it is with Zola and Shtchedrin, but in my flat it is cold and smoky....
They give me cigarettes, as before, on holidays only. Impossible cigarettes ! Hard, damp, sausage like. Before I begin to smoke I light the lamp, dry the cigarette over it, and only then I begin on it; the lamp smokes, the cigarette splutters and turns brown, I burn my fingers ... it is enough to make one shoot oneself !
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من يشتري قلباً بالحزن ممتلئا يشكو الأسى ويعاني البث والوجها باع السرور وباع الصبر مكتثبا وضاع منه الذي قد كان مجتمعا يحيا ويحيا به الأحزان دائمة ويسكن الهم فيه كلما هجها يبكي ويبكي مع الأطيار في سحر ويشتكي لنسيم الليل ما صنعا
Who would buy a heart so full of grief that mourns in pain and suffers through its woe It sold its joy abandoned steadfast relief
and lost the peace it once used to know It lives yet sadness lives within its core and every night the sorrow settles more
Who would buy a heart so full of grief that mourns in pain and suffers through its woe It sold its joy abandoned steadfast relief
and lost the peace it once used to know It lives yet sadness lives within its core and every night the sorrow settles more