— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables (via kaylinviazanko)
To A Poet, First Aid Kit
I need to read more poetry. I need to stop feeling guilty for not finishing books. Words are a thing of beauty, words are flowers and I’m a butterfly, words are to be savoured.
But also, words are tears and I’m a five-year-old who just scratched her knee. As they leave me they make me more full instead of more empty.
I ingest words as sugar and as I purge myself of them they’re full of salt.
Each word has its place in my brain but I will never know what that place is and if it’s anything like in other people’s brains. I learned that today. I learned about the things no one knows yet and the things no one will ever know. It’s called neuroscience, and I can’t decide if it’s bullshit or if it’s fascinating. I suppose it’s fascinating bullshit.
I don’t know what I am saying. There’s my Wernicke’s area acting out again.
Springtime means rebirth. It means cleaning your flat and getting your eyes on a piece of paper on which you’d scribbled a story in the fall. It means reading it: having your stomach flutter and your eyes water. It means being knocked breathless by the realisation that you can write words that aren’t perfect but that aren’t completely shitty, either. It means smiling disbelievingly and whispering to yourself, alone in your flat, “Good job, honeybee.”
Because it’s springtime and you’re an infant again. You’re lost, and you deserve your own guidance. You deserve your own support. You deserve your own love. You’ve done this before. You can do it again this year. You can do it better. You can grow back into a believer.
Now, step outside and feel the warmth of the spring’s wind. Look at the grey of the sky. Look at the burgeoning flowers. Be amazed at how much a warm spring day in the city resembles a cold summer day at the seaside.