No one understands. Everything I am waits for you and still I hunt the night of the poem. I think only of your body while I shape and reshape my poem’s body as if it were broken.

—Alejandra Pizarnik, from “[untitled]" (translated by Cole Heinowitz)

Love is a word another kind of open
As a diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am black because I come from the earth’s inside
Take my word for jewel in your open light.

—Audre Lorde, from “Coal

There is little that does not disappear into the past. The ability to think, as abilities go, is just like any other. Constant relation between being and nothingness. The relation to the void. I opened an ossuary and saw the bones, a little box where tibias rested next to the skull. A gray blazer. Though death may get confused with nothingness they’re not the same. Though life may get confused with presence, they’re not the same either.

—Marcelo Morales Cintero, from “The World as Presence" (translated by Kristin Dykstra)

This blog turned 4 years old today, and I want to mark this occasion because it was a turning point in my life. When I created this blog, I really was in such a terribly dark place. I felt alone. I felt lost. I still feel those things most of the time, but tumblr has been such a source of comfort, inspiration, and beauty for me. I joke that it saved my life, but the truth is that it kind of did and it continues to help me survive.

I want to thank all of you who follow me and send me lovely messages and allow me to share my love of literature. It means more than you will ever know.

Before my reading yesterday, I sat there and sat there and sat there (nervous, sitting through my nerves, the life of nerves, the work of nerves) waiting for my turn to read and thinking about how I now know there are things we can only say to each other, about each other, about living, in writing. That we can only respond to certain things in writing. And how we can only know and recognize certain things when they’re written down. And even once we’ve learned those things about someone, about something, we can only retain and access that knowledge as a feeling in writing. How writing is an interstice of knowing that we enter in/through writing. And when the page isn’t there we are somewhere else, again; with our knowledge, with our understanding, with our feelings. How we go back to not-knowing, not-feeling. Again. How this used to bother me and bother me, how it isn’t enough, shouldn’t be the only way, but how I now know at least we have this.

Masha Tupitsyn