repressive desublimation

I remember learning the concept of repressive desublimation. I was 21 years old, maybe, it was the spring semester of my junior year in college. The semester before everything changed I guess. I was sitting in lecture, it was a class on Milton, and I was diligently filling my notebook, copying down almost word for word everything my professor said. I couldn’t bear to miss out on even the smallest piece of knowledge. I remember I stopped writing, though, when she started talking about repressive desublimation, and I just stared at her. There was something about it, about repressive desublimation, that inhered, that spread throughout the marrow. So I used that term, repressive desublimation, in all my writing… including in the naming of my tumblr.

I have no idea what repressive desublimation means anymore. It completely slipped my mind. I tried to look it up on Wikipedia a second ago, but I guess it is too obscure a concept, because I could not find an entry. 

Most of the time I miss so much the girl I used to be; I feel sick. I wonder if I will ever again feel like I am something other than an observer of my life—watching, waiting from the outside, through rain-painted windows, for something to change. It has been really odd to live like this, for the past year and a half, completely removed from myself. I think I am foreign to my own body. 

nostalgia

and you told me you wanted to eat up my sadness. 

(via oxblood)

(via audreyhepburncomplex)

(Source: misswallflower, via oxblood)

(via suzywire)

(via deadgirls)

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.