Le Vent Nous Portera

a very hard week for me and my family ended with the most wanted welcome-back-home view and the most spot on song and a poem that spoke to my heart. It was a week of unexpected turning points and deep realisations that broke the dream. Altered the fantasy, made the past less immortal and more “fake”. Made the present so genuinely mine, real.

bedtime story (taken from berlin-artparasites):

“Mother, if you really want to know,
Yes. I wanted to die for her.
I wanted to lay down
in the middle of
Springfield Avenue
and die for her.
She is the death I don’t like
talking about.
The one that I survived.
The one that I came crawling
out of, fingernails bent back.
The one that bagged my groceries
and didn’t look at me
the right way.

I play shadow puppets with her memory;
drink champagne until
I’m tender.

Mother, her—her
absence was the most
beautiful thing I’ve ever
suffered for,
ache like a
purple gown that trailed
behind me when I walked.

I was glowing, mother.
I was the most elegant
loneliness, the most exquisite
creature among all of the
unloved.”
—Caitlyn Siehl, Quiet Death

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