The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.
In me, too, many things have been destroyed that I thought were bound to last forever and new ones have formed that have given birth to new sorrows and joys which I could not have foreseen…
When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.
I live on Earth at present, and I don’t know what I am. I know that I am not a category. I am not a thing – a noun. I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process…
“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression;
of something beautiful, but annihilating.”
— Sylvia Plath
“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.”
― Charles Bukowski, What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
– Paul Laurence Dunbar
There is still slavery in the world. There is still a valuing of human beings according to their race or class or gender or culture or sexuality. Part of the reason for this cutting off of empathy is the anesthetizing of our senses to the suffering of animals. Once we grow callous, we cannot feel fully for anyone- not even for ourselves.
I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old,
Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,
Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow,
Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south
– Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry