(dit en de geur van mijn parfum en de gedachte aan noorwegen en onderweg schaken in de trein ook al kan ik nog niet schaken en durf ik het niet te leren om een of andere gekke reden en dikke truien en wollige rokken en handgebreide polswarmers en rust)
Someone told me that they saw you today you were standing alone at the supermarket a grapefruit cradled between your hands like a bird’s egg and I didn’t know if I should be sad or proud about the way you’ve grown since us or how you used to hold me like that as though I was just shy of breaking but baby well done, for shrugging yourself into clothes and crawling out of bed because the last time we were in a place together you held my hands so hard that my knuckles turned white and I had nail marks on my wrists for an entire week and the only way that you could talk to me was lips by ear in case somebody heard you speak, baby I admit that I liked the way you felt when you were near me digging so far into my hips until we were both edges but there is nothing healthy about the way you fold curling so tight until you are an origami swan holding your breath for minutes at a time because the bustle of life turns you into the definition of breathless
so I heard that you were alone today, in a place today cradling a grapefruit between your two open palms and I half wished that it was me and half prayed that you would learn to unwind further
(Ik hoop dat ons huis later altijd naar wasverzachter en gloeiende verwarmingselementen zal ruiken. Dat de ochtenden zullen bestaan uit het strijken van slaapkreukels uit onze huid, en dat we dan weer lichtjes inslapen bij het geluid van het pruttelende espressokannetje op het fornuis.)
“It’s impossible to sleep, impossible to wake, impossible to bear life or more precisely, the successiveness of life. The clocks don’t agree. The inner one rushes along in a devilish or demonic—in any case, inhuman—way while the outer one goes, falteringly, its accustomed pace.”—Franz Kafka
“Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to sleep through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there- to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.”—Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
Hello I am ill but at least it’s at a good time for once, now the assessments are over and I passed them all. Now I get to play Ace Attorney on Stijns 3DS while lying in bed with my cherry pit cushion.
Stendhal Syndrome (Stendhal’s syndrome, hyperkulturemia, or Florence syndrome) is a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to art, usually when the art is particularly ‘beautiful’ or a large amount of art is in a single place. The term can also be used to describe a similar reaction to a surfeit of choice in other circumstances, e.g. when confronted with immense beauty in the natural world.