BANGLADESH, Dhaka : Islamists run as Bangladeshi police fire rubber bullets towards demonstrators during clashes with Islamists in Dhaka on May 5, 2013. “At least one person was shot dead and 35 people were injured,” police sub-inspector Rokon, who uses one name, told AFP. Deputy Commissioner of Dhaka police Sheikh Nazmul Alam would only confirm that they fired rubber bullets to disperse unruly protesters. Hundreds of thousands of hardline Islamists demanding a new blasphemy law blocked major highways cutting off the Bangladeshi capital Dhaka from the rest of the country, police said. AFP PHOTO/Munir uz ZAMAN
Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.
Harper Lee, Author of 1961 Pulitzer Prize winner To Kill a Mockingbird.
At some point, everyone will shed his physical body like old clothing and die. In Korean, “to return” is a common expression for dying. To return means to go back to where we came from, that is, to go back to our fundamental roots. Everything in the universe moves in cycles. The white snow that collects on the mountains will melt and flow down the slopes, first forming streams and then a river, and eventually go into the ocean. The water that flows into the ocean will absorb the heat of the sun’s rays, become water vapor, go back up into the sky, and prepare to become either snowflakes or drops of rain. To return to our original place in this way is what we call death. Then, where do we human beings return to when we die? Body and heart come together to bring about human life, and death is the act of shedding the body. So we go to the place from which the heart came.
Sun Myung Moon, As A Peace-Loving Global Citizen (via commovente)
Sometimes I imagine my own autopsy. Disappointment in myself: right kidney. Disappointment of others in me: left kidney. Personal failures: kishkes. When the clocks are turned back and the dark falls before I’m ready, this, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel in my wrists. And when I wake up and my fingers are stiff, almost certainly I was dreaming of my childhood. Yesterday I saw a man kicking a dog and I felt it behind my eyes. I don’t know what to call this, a place before tears. The pain of forgetting: spine. The pain of remembering: spine. All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist: my knees.To everything a season, to every time I’ve woken only to make the mistake of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorrhoid. Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love (via skeletales)
take me there