(via itsmylifetolive)
Rolls In.
I am incapable of understanding your actions. You eat porridge one day and muesli the next. You tell me you love me, but your voice is hollow and I have trouble hearing it through the many scarves which muffle your voice. Warm, warm, keep warm. You try to keep me warm, but I refuse. I kick off the blankets in my sleep, dreaming of freedom-painted fabric, and liberty bells. What is war? – I ask, and the conversation turns urgent. We gesticulate wildly, but our voices never exceed four. They are hushed, but you tell me everything that is wrong with the world and I tell you the same thing, looking into a mirror on my left. All this is, is intrigue and wild gesticulations and sweeping statements, urgent conversations behind the lampshade, reaching for a conclusion but finding only thin air.
Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you.
“She waited for the train to pass. Then she said, “I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.”
(via atomos)
If traveling and wandering is what your heart lusts after, go on, don’t stop yourself. You just have to make sure you’re not wandering away from yourself, your dreams, your future. Things you should be holding onto. Don’t be running away from something and just pretending it’s all okay because you’re “traveling.” You know that’s just nonsense. Run for something, run towards something, run with something. Don’t run away; you’ll just find that running away brings you around in circles- it’ll never work. So travel and wander as your heart desires. See the beautiful things in this world, discover yourself, but never ever wander to lose yourself.
(via hourglasss)
It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.
Lemony Snicket (via atomos)
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
Pablo Neruda (via atomos)
Love is a temporary madness; it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of eternal passion. That is just being in love, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Those that truly love have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two.
Louis de Bernieres (via impetrate)
(via coffeetablebooks)
So avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavour, laziness will not do. It also won’t do in your essays.
John Keating, Dead Poet’s Society (via brosephpaul)
(via sealegslegssea)
