I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don’t belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn’t happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
—Anna Peters (via thescottishgirl)
(Source: winterkristall, via terriblyartistic)
mal de coucou
n. a phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends—people who you can trust, who you can be yourself with, who can help flush out the weird psychological toxins that tend to accumulate over time—which is a form of acute social malnutrition in which even if you devour an entire buffet of chitchat, you’ll still feel pangs of hunger.
love’s function is to fabricate unknownness
(known being wishless;but love,all of wishing)
though life’s lived wrongsideout,sameness chokes oneness
truth is confused with fact,fish boast of fishing
and men are caught by worms(love may not care
if time totters,light droops,all measures bend
nor marvel if a thought should weigh a star
—dreads dying least;and less,that death should end)
how lucky lovers are)whose selves abide
under whatever shall discovered be)
whose ignorant each breathing dares to hide
more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see
(who laugh and cry)who dream,create and kill
while the world moves;and every part stands still:
—e.e. cummings
I’m worried what you just heard was, “Give me a lot of bacon and eggs.” What I said was, “Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.” Do you understand?
—Sylvia Plath (via incorrectsylviaplathquotes)
(Source: starsfellonindiana, via lifeinpoetry)
Patience, n. A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.
(Source: kristenwiiggle, via bishopsrobes)
You can’t make homes out of human beings. Someone should have already told you that.
— Warsan Shire (via sagittarius-sun)
(Source: bitterbun, via thisdivorce)
Orson Scott Card, Sarah
(via besideyoudear)
When I look forward to Saturday all week and then realize how much I have to get accomplished this weekend.
(Source: elmontajista, via terriblyartistic)
nodus tollens
n. the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapters that you had originally skimmed through to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure.
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, via lifeinpoetry)
