“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”—Charles Bukowski (via girlwithoutwings)
“There is something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself. It is the only true guide you will ever have. And if you cannot hear it, you will all of your life spend your days on the ends of strings that somebody else pulls.”—Howard Thurman (via quote-book)
“Celebration when your plan is working? Anyone can do that. But when you realize that the story of your life could be told a thousand different ways, that you could tell it over and over as a tragedy, but you choose to call it an epic, that’s when you start to learn what celebration is. When what you see in front of you is so far outside of what you dreamed, but you have the belief, the boldness, the courage to call it beautiful instead of calling it wrong… that’s celebration.”—“Cold Tangerines” by Shauna Niequist (via julie911)
“It happened all at once: We exited the highway and there were the row houses of my imagination leaning precariously toward canals, ubiquitous bicycles, and coffeeshops advertising LARGE SMOKING ROOM. We drove over a canal and from atop the bridge I could see dozens of houseboats moored along the water. It looked nothing like America. It looked like an old painting, but real—everything achingly idyllic in the morning light—and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead. We drove over a canal and from atop the bridge I could see dozens of houseboats moored along the water. It looked nothing like America. It looked like an old painting, but real—everything achingly idyllic in the morning light—and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead.”—John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
XIII. The boy behind the gas station counter, he’s got eyes the kind of blue that grows insomniacs and a book behind his back the same way people carry weapons and things that kill. He looks at everything with the shame of a dreamer, and I want to tell him I understand. That on the worst of days I worry about dying a dreamer too, and that failure is a wild, cancerous thing I’ll never find a cure for. I want to tell him If you let me, I could make one hell of a poem out of you, that failure is a wild thing but that the poetry in him is savage with red stained teeth.
XIV. Failure looks like this. Success looks like a crowded funeral and a complete stranger on their knees with a hurricane through their bones. This hurricane, it’s me, a warring whisper of everything I once was (everything I once wrote) and everything I will continue to be. I am just trying to become something permanent. I am just looking to become something permanent. I want to tell him that, the boy behind the gas station counter, the young mom by the bus stop who closes her eyes and sings under her breath like she’s a star, and the house wife at the edge of town with Italy growing on the palm of her hand and Australia behind her heart. I want to tell them that it’s okay — who even cares about Shakespeare and Marilyn Monroe and Marco Polo anyway — that we’re all pretty, twisted poems anyway. I want to tell them that I am not ashamed of the universe behind my eyelids or of the way I can look at a stranger and dig metaphors and rhymes from the things they want buried, but that if I die just another dreamer I will shame this godawful Earth for turning me into one.
“Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented, dreamers, poets, lovers, are always superior to us creatures of the mind. You take your being from your mothers. You live fully; you were endowed with the strength of love, the ability to feel. Whereas we creatures of reason, we don’t live fully; we live in an arid land, even though we often seem to guide and rule you. Yours is the plentitude of life, the sap of the fruit, the garden of passion, the beautiful landscape of art. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffocating in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker. You sleep at your mother’s breast; I wake in the desert. For me the sun shines; for you the moon and the stars.”—Hermann Hesse (via weissewiese)
“Sometimes we need both hands to climb out of a place. Sometimes there are steep parts, where one has to walk ahead of the other. If I can’t find you, I’ll look deeper in myself. If I can’t keep up, if you’re far ahead, look back. Look back.”—Anne Michaels (via girlmeetsdream)
If you really want it, nothing is going to stop you from getting it. Nothing is going to be more important than whatever it is you’re reaching for. Pain disappears, but so does the opportunity. If you give up just because “it’s too hard,” then you don’t want it enough. If you’re in pain already, why stop now? You might as well get something out of it. You didn’t put yourself through hell for nothing. If you really wanted it, pain isn’t going to stop you from getting it. It may hurt now, but you won’t be thinking about the pain when you’ve finally reached your goal. Hard work always pays off. If you’re not satisfied with the outcome in the end, then you didn’t work hard enough. Don’t let your effort be the reason you didn’t get to where you wanted.