At the temple there is a poem called “Loss” carved into the stone.
It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out.
You cannot read loss, only feel it.
Memoirs of a Geisha // Arthur Golden
literature
MIND: Omission
What an odd thing a diary is:
the things you omit are more important than those you put in.
The Woman Destroyed // Simone de Beauvoir
MIND: Hindsight
those who escape hell
however
never talk about
it
and nothing much
bothers them
after
that.
// Charles Bukowski
MIND: Rusted
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utterβ they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
// Sylvia Plath
SOL: Inferno
I abandoned all
hope the moment I put my
hands all over her.
3AM Thoughts // AKA “Haiku 161.”
MIND: Requited
It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.
Sense and Sensibility // Jane Austen
MIND: Detached
So as long as you can forget your body you are happy and the moment you begin to be aware of your body, you are wretched. So if civilization is any good, it has to help us forget our bodies, and then time passes happily without our knowing it. Help us get rid of our bodies altogether.
Lady Chatterley’s Lover // D.H. Lawrence
MIND: Incongruity
You’re spending your life without renewing it.
You’ve got to be amused, properly healthily amused.
You’re spending your vitality without making any.
Can’t go on you know. Depression! Avoid depression!
Lady Chatterley’s Lover // D.H. Lawrence
MIND: Spark
We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers,
who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly,
all at once, before a word has been spoken.
Crime and Punishment // Fyodor Dostoyevsky
MIND: rebirth
I would spend all that winter and spring meditating under the trees and finding out the truth of all things.
The Dharma Bums // Jack Kerouac
