“I think you could fall in love with anyone if you saw the parts of them that no one else gets to see. Like if you followed them around invisibly for a day and you saw them crying in their bed at night or singing to themselves as they make a sandwich or even just walking along the street and even if they were really weird and had no friends at school, I think after seeing them at their most vulnerable you wouldn’t be able to help falling in love with them. ”—
“I used to feel so alone in the city. All those gazillions of people and then me, on the outside. Because, how do you meet a new person? I was very stumped by this for many years. And then I realized, you could just say, “Hi.” They may ignore you. Or you may marry them. And that possibility is worth that one word.”—Augusten Burroughs (via napsie)
It was hard to believe the word “anticlimactic” was a real word,
when all we thought and all we knew was the resounding of the intercoursing of the hair on my knees and your sighs and the greetings of your shoulder blades as they defied their constructive designs and how they we are naturally made.
We seemed to defy gravity in that tiny airless space. We felt alive and dead
and you felt errant to a sunset.
I couldn’t tell where you stopped and the Heavens began.
I sent you a message already once today, but I really love your blog! I found it via my personal site, stillpoetry, and I'm loving the quotes you post. Again, what is your theme? I think I asked this but I can't remember.
thanks! :) i got it from: heloteixeira.tumblr.com ..hope that helps!
“I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from skim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog.”—
“To love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weighs you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”—Ellen Bass (via frivolousandreckless)
“And it’s not “clever lonely” (like Morrissey) or “interesting lonely” (like Radiohead), it’s “lonely, lonely” like the way it feels when you’re being hugged by someone and it somehow makes you sadder.”—Chuck Klosterman (via kittenvomit)
“The thing about life is that you must survive. Life is going to be difficult, and dreadful things will happen. What you do is move along, get on with it, and be tough. Not in the sense of being mean to others, but being tough with yourself and making a deadly effort not to be defeated.”—Katharine Hepburn (via oceaniceyes)
She sleeps spreadeagle under a map of the world, all thread-thin ink and yellowing parchment. During the day, she traces the Equator from Congo to Columbia, then zigzags back, leaving a trail of skin cells between the Tropics. During the night, the North Atlantic laps at her left foot while the South Atlantic spirals around her right, the Mariana Trench aligns with the base of her spine, and Morocco murmurs into her ear like a lover, inspiring dreams of the Mediterranean sun.
“we wrote stories here that will never be told: stories of olive trees and rain rolling down tuscan hills; stories of acacia trees and rain ripping through saharan dunes; stories of lemon trees and rain rising from the earth while a little boy wrote to santa. drunk from the sun, we whispered salt-stained stories, sand-encrusted stories, stories that sounded like songs for saturn. we dreamed up sky-bound stories, stories that rode on currents of air, stories that made their way up to the troposphere where they turned to cumulus clouds. then a gust of wind shred the words we shared, and letter by letter, sound by sound, our stories fell to the ground, as silently and softly as freshly-cut wheat, never to be told, never to be found.”—