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"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering,
known strle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
“Being with him when he died was something I will never forget. His bravery. His happiness. His acceptance. It was a colossal experience for me. Changed my life completely in a way that I had not expected. I expected to feel sad and lost. But I felt the opposite. Just, like, ‘Boy, this is it. This is all we have. Right here. So you’d better pay attention.’”
Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed
“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power.
Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget… another world is not only possible, she is on her way.
On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing."
“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories... water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”
Clarissa Pinkola Estés
“May the sun bring you new energy by day, may the moon softly restore you by night, may the rain wash away your worries, may the breeze blow new strength into your being, may you walk gently through the world and know it’s beauty all the days of your life.”
“I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.”
Clementine von Radics
Moja je pjesma moje stopalo,
koje žmireći ljubio si
kad u dva daha sve bi stalo.
Na pjesmu se oslanjam svoju nejaku
sasvim krhkih kosti,
ona će me vlastita gdje treba,
u potpunom mraku,
do suza probosti,
odbacit do neba,
izvrnuti, prevrnuti, dati mi mjeru i začin,
na obraz ću ti je stavljati
ko i stopalo,
da, na baš isti način.
On me grli, on me samo grli
i dlanovi su mu znojni
i umišlja da me osjeća
I dok sklapa oči ja razmišljam:
imam li dosta rublja za okrenuti mašinu
i kako ću se snaći do plaće.
Kad mi se zacakle oči studeno
a u njemu izdajnički zasjaje
dva mala tvoja opala
Umirao je baš poput stabla
izgubivši najprije sluh, pa glas,
a dugo prije toga redovito čitao osmrtnice
s radošću nosio satove koji su stali
točno u određeno vrijeme- jer vremena nema
Upalim li za njega svijeću danas
može se lako desiti da mi podivlja ruža pod prozorom
to mu ne donosi mir
duhovi još se ljube
Sanjam mu usta, govori mi nešto
ali Zlato moje, ja ga ne čujem.
Tuzi crtam masnom crnom olovkom
strašne obrve, nazivajuć je vješticom.
Rugam se, baš onako kako smo to činili zajedno.
Danas je dan duhova koji odbijaju umrijeti
pa me sjenovito susreću u kupaonici
dok u sapunici mirisnoj natapam bluzu
u kojoj me grlio
Umirao je baš poput stabla
ne ljuteć se pritom nimalo,
zato i nije umro.
Otišao je samo da se makne s puta mojoj sreći,
ko vosak mi se otkinuo s prsta
ponijevši sa sobom vruće kapilare mojih jagodica