If Only I Ever Become Rich

How I miss the North

by Kirill Uyutnov

Im.. Soft 🥺🥺🥺

cr. 

Shoutout to people with Functional Neurological Disorder

Shoutout to people with functional tics

Shoutout to people who have dystonia

Shoutout to people with Psychogenic non-epileptic seizures

Shoutout to people with paralysis and or weakness

Shoutout to people with tremors

Shoutout to people who shut down/unresponsive episodes

Shoutout to people who have walking difficulties

Shoutout to people who have numbness

Shoutout to people who have speech problems

Shoutout to people with vision problems

Shoutout to people with hearing problems

Shoutout to people with memory loss

Shoutout to everyone with FND

The people who say shit like "I don't dream about labour" when asked about their dream job make me sad. It's not their fault and it's an obvious conclusion to come to in the environment that we live in, but they really do seem to make no difference between work, and being exploited. You do want to work, it is inherent human nature to want to do things, you just don't want to slave for shit wages while making profit for someone else.

If art wasn't an option and I didn't have to worry about being profitable, I know what I would be doing: Keep a little shop selling secondhand-thirdhand buttons and buckles.

Thrift shops and secondhand stores could dump (or sell, whatever) their unsold and unwanted goods to me, and I could spend all day going through the heaps and picking them apart, plucking the still-perfectly-good buttons, zippers and buckles out of discarded things with threadbare fabrics and sell them.

Probably also making those little trinket storage boxes out of hollowed-out books. By hollowing out books that nobody wanted or read.

Terrarium Life collection~

I painted these way back during the pandemic (hence the hoard of toilet paper and Switch that I wish I had, but they were all sold out) No pandemic now but the chimney smoke from all the neighbors have made the air unbreathable and I'm stuck inside again 😭 cuddling my dog, drinking tea

tending to my fish tank and my plants

Things two hungarian poets from the 1840s said to each other in their letters that make me crazy:

If my soul touches you and it happens to burn you I'm not to blame... it was you who lit it on fire

I swear to you on cottage cheese and tobacco

If the people rule in poetry, so will they rule in politics and that's the goal of the century! To hell with the aristocracy!

My dear buddy,

My soul, my bastard,

My golden mouthed saintly friend,

My rowdy brother,

My lovable dummy,

If you want to see a dead Pegasus, look no further than me

I am trying to learn to smile nicely ( he did not succeed)

My dear friend, you better side of my soul

I will never forgive you for NOT writing the address on the envelope yourself. A woman's handwriting... and a black seal... dear god, the devil took him! he worked himself to death writing poems, he died! ... and then i opened your letter... Never do this again. Only use black seal vax on your death, and even then, still write the address yourself!

I'm reading (your work) for the sixth time. It's really a horrible thing. I'll need to read it again to understand just how awful it is!

Sincerely, your friend whose balls are itching

It's really good that your sore throat is gone, I can finally strangle you

Leave the dedication! Veselényi is a great man but he's still a Lord, and a poet should never dedicate ANYTHING to a Lord

I'm hugging you a 1000000000000 times!

"ohh my god you can't just-"

Am I yours to command? Does the collar 'round my neck have your name on it? I kneel to no king nor god, and I see no crown on you.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), poem 85 from “The Gardener”, 1914 Translated by the author from the original Bengali. New York: The Macmillan Company.