These forests unapproachable by death, that shall endure as long as man endures, to think, to hope, to worship, and to feel, to struggle, to be lost within himself in trepidation, from the blank abyss to look with bodily eyes, and be consoled.
—
William Wordsworth, from The Prelude; Book VI. (via weepforadonais)
Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, and with such unknown horror as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.
If you can’t write about us with a love for who we are as [Indigenous] people, what we’ve survived, what we’ve accomplished despite all attempts to keep us from doing so; if you can’t look at us as we are and feel your pupils go wide, rendering all stereotypes a sham, a poor copy, a disgrace—then why are you writing about us at all?
—
Alicia Scott, “On Seeing and Being Seen” from A Mind Spread Out on the Ground (via smokefalls)
