How is your life with that other one?
Simpler, is it? A stroke of the oars
and a long coastline—
and the memory of me

is soon a drifting island
(not in the ocean—in the sky!)
Souls—you will be sisters—
sisters, not lovers.

How is your life with an ordinary
woman? without the god inside her?
The queen supplanted—

How do you breathe now?
Flinch, waking up?
What do you do, poor man?

“Hysterics and interruptions—
enough! I’ll rent my own house!”

How is your life with that other,
you, my own.

Is the breakfast delicious?
(If you get sick, don’t blame me!)
How is it, living with a postcard?
You who stood on Sinai.

How’s your life with a tourist
on Earth? Her rib (do you love her?)
is it to your liking?

How’s life? Do you cough?
Do you hum to drown out the mice in your mind?

How do you live with cheap goods: is the market rising?
How’s kissing plaster-dust?

Are you bored with her new body?
How’s it going, with an earthly woman,
with no sixth sense?

Are you happy?
No? In a shallow pit—how is your life,
my beloved? Hard as mine
with another man?

Marina Tsvetaeva, from An Attempt At Jealousy (via violentwavesofemotion)
It took me so many years to learn
how to love the parts of myself
that I once hated
so I won’t allow you or anyone else
to come along and decide that
I am not good enough because
I want to wear a red dress when I go out
and I want to wear shorts with cowboy boots.
I want to eat pastries all the time
and I want to wear glasses instead of contacts.
I want to laugh loudly and obnoxiously
and I want to go to bars to dance instead of drink and I don’t care if you think that’s boring.
I think drinking is fucking boring.
I want to grow my hair a mermaid length and then dye that shit jet black.
I like what like.
I choose the people I want in my life and those that I want to leave.
I like to spend my time in bed all day
or taking long walks
or reading and writing in a quaint place.
I like to put on makeup and do my hair this way and that.
I do things,
not to impress you but for myself.
I don’t want to work out and become fit
for the hell of impressing you.
I don’t do my eye liner and mascara and apply lipstick every day
to get you to notice me.
I do it
because it makes me fucking happy.
I want to do things for myself
and I am who I am,
thanks to myself
and I won’t let anyone take that away from me.

Ming D. Liu, A Story A Day #161 (via mingdliu)
I don’t know what sort of world she will live in and I have no fixed opinions concerning how she should live in it. I only know that if she does not come to value what is true above what is useful, it will make little difference whether she lives at all.
Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses (via observando)