“People fall so in love with their pain, they can’t leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves.”
Chuck Palahniuk, “Haunted” (via sadsapling)
(Source: thenocturnals)
“I go through phases. Some days I feel like the person I’m supposed to be, and then some days, I turn into no one at all. There is both me and my silhouette. I hope that on the days you find me and all I am are darkened lines, you still are willing to be near me.”
Mary Kate Teske (via alighthouseofwords)
John Fowles, The French Lieutenant’s Woman
“The sweet small clumsy feet of April came
into the ragged meadow of my soul.” E.E Cummings, from ”If I Have Made My Lady Intricate” (via eulum)
into the ragged meadow of my soul.” E.E Cummings, from ”If I Have Made My Lady Intricate” (via eulum)
(Source: violentwavesofemotion)
“Please know there are much better things in life than being lonely or liked or bitter or mean or self-conscious. We are all full of shit. Go love someone just because; I know your heart may be badly bruised, or even the victim of numerous knifings, but it will always heal, even if you don’t want it to; it keeps going. There are the most fantastic, beautiful things and people out there, I promise. It is up to you to find them.”
Chuck Palahniuk (via thatkindofwoman)
(Source: hellanne)
“A junkie’s skin crawls because it’s trying to shed itself.”
William S. Burroughs (via criminalwisdom)
“What I value most is the perishable. I love the way it exhausts and refills me. Yes; I love only what vanishes: shaky words, trembling answers, not knowing how to say goodbye, not knowing how to stay inside my head […]”
Katherine Mansfield, from a journal entry dated 10 January 1910 (via violentwavesofemotion)
“Love is so strange, so conducted, since time began, under the illusion that it brings the lovers closer together; which it does, of course, in all sorts of physical and psychological ways. But it is also based on some profoundly blind assumptions, the prime fantasy being that the nature of the loved one during the first passionate phase is the everlasting true nature. But that phase is an infinitely delicate balance of reciprocal illusion, a meshing of wheels so finely cogged that the slightest atom of dust—the intrusion of hitherto unrecognized desires, tastes, twists of character, any new information thrust into the idyll—can wreck the movement. I knew this, I had learned to watch for it as one learns to watch for signs of familiar disease in certain plants.”
John Fowles, Daniel Martin (via violentwavesofemotion)
“I wish I wrote the way I thought
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should” Benedict Smith, “I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought” (via growing-orbits)
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should” Benedict Smith, “I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought” (via growing-orbits)
“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”
David Foster Wallace, “The Pale King” (via salitterdrying)
(Source: nequiquam)
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