Just One Of The Things That’s Been On My Mind

I cannot pretend anymore, I will burn the world for you if it only means to hold you in my arms for a minute, as my head is softly tucked into your chest. as our heartbeats march in sync towards doom.

Obsessed with the idea of sacrifice in a book being a selfish act rather than a selfless one. Their lover screaming at them: “How dare you leave me in this barren world? How dare you take away my choice to die for you and leave me with this grief?”. They are dead, and their lover is left - a gaping wound - bleeding into the ground. Do they love them so much that they would die for them, or do they love them so much that they forced the other to live without them? Sacrifice as a bitter act. Sacrifice as something wildly violent; something tormentingly cruel — but always, always built on love. Perhaps, they are both martyrs in the end.

I can’t help but wonder if those possessed in Fear Street were kind of like passengers during their individual sprees. Like they had to watch it all happen and feel everything that was happening to their body but couldn’t actually do anything to stop it. Nobody was strong enough to over come it until Sam briefly managed to near the end of 1666. Like I just keep thinking of Tommy being trapped in his own mind as he massacred his friends and the kids that he was supposed to be looking after.

It really drives me insane that I don’t know how people feel about me. Like am I nice??? Am I funny???? Am I mean???? Am I rude??? Am I obnoxious??? Am I dumb???? What am I????????????????????

My spirit soars where the air goes thin.

eu não posso ser sua amiga, porque a intensidsde dos meus sentimentos me machucam. Você não é amigo. Você é amor.

De: Fernando Sabino

Para: Clarice Lispector

Nova York, 10 de junho de 1946

Clarice,

Esta é a quarta carta que inicio para responder a sua. Ainda ontem me lembrei muito de você, porque um america­no me perguntou se o meu relógio era suíço. A Suíça existe mesmo? Daqui de Nova York não posso te contar nada além do que você calcula. Tenho sentido muita fal­ta de seu livro que deixei no Brasil, para plagiar uns pedaços quando vou escrever o meu. Tenho tido muitas dores de cabeça. Tenho tido muitos pesadelos. Tenho tido muito pouco dinheiro. Tenho tido muitas oportunidades de ficar calado. Tenho tido muita decepção com os Correios. Tenho tido can­saço, saudade e calma. Tenho bebido muito, muito, muito. Tenho lido os suplementos dominicais. Tenho tido vontade de voltar. Tenho xingado muito o Getúlio. Tenho tido muito medo de morrer. Tenho tido muita pena de Helena ter se casado comigo. Tenho tido muita vontade de voltar a brincar. Clarice, estou perdido no meio de tantos particípios passados. Estou com vontade de fumar e o meu cigarro acabou, estou com vonta­de de namorar de tarde numa pracinha cheia de árvores. Só de pensar que você estará lendo esta carta muitos dias depois de ter sido escrita me dá vontade de não mandar, mas mando. Me escreva, que responderei imediatamente. Como vai indo o seu livro? O que é que você faz às três horas da tarde? Quero saber tudo, tudo. Me escreva uma carta de sete páginas, Clarice.

Fernando.

in my sylvia plath, tortured poet, the lakes, jo march, dead poets society, albert camus, folklore, evermore, metamorphosis, dostovesky era

As a child i already had a longing for a life that wasn't mine. I thought it was the future. Now i sit at my desk and there are sunbeams on the floor. I cry because they look like how they used to in our old living room when i was 5. I long for a past unlived, dreamt away, filled with hope for something that already happened almost unnoticed, but at least it was bathed in honey and sunlight.