• About me

    Hello there! My name is Jessie and I'm located in Brooklyn, New York.

    Morning Passages is a blog that represents the interior of my imagination, and it's a place for me to share my daily inspiration.

    This is a Found Blog: I am fascinated by the creations and perceptions of others, and how I personally connect to their stories.

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Decorating Ideas

Decorating Ideas


House of Incest/Anais Nin

I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort which I cannot make. Please give me that heavy book. I need to put something heavy like that on top of my head. I have to place my feet under the pillows always, so as to be able to stay on earth. Otherwise I feel myself going away, going away at a tremendous speed, on account of my lightness. I know that I am dead. As soon as I utter a phrase my sincerity dies, becomes a lie whose coldness chills me. Don’t say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and the ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world, and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.

The Maker/Jorge Luis Borges

Little by little, the beautiful universe left him behind: a stubborn mist blurred the outline of his hand, the night was emptied of stars, and the ground grew uneven beneath his feet. Everything receded and ran together. When he realized he was going blind, he cried out; Stoic modesty had yet to be invented, and Hector could flee unperturbed. Never again will I see the sky full of mythological horror (he sensed), nor this face that the years will go on changing. Days and nights flew past the despair he experienced in his flesh, until one morning he woke up and looked at the indistinct objects around him (without surprise, now) and felt inexplicably —like someone recognizing a piece of music or voice— that it was over, that he had faced it all with apprehension but also with high spirits, hope, and curiosity. It was then that he dug deep into his memory, which struck him as bottomless, and managed to snatch from the whirlpool the lost recollection that shone like a coin bathed by rain— perhaps because he had never looked at it, except possibly in a dream.



[tinkerbell’s boudoir]

[tinkerbell’s boudoir]