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See the worst of me,
and try to love me despite
all the dark you find.
Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson(via myprettypower)
The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.
Margaret Atwood: The Blind Assassin(Source: quotesandnonsense, via eloises)
Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings—always darker, emptier and simpler.
Friedrich Nietzsche(Source: recognizedsaint, via qodless)
“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night.”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
(Source: apoetreflects)
I don’t think he could see her for what she is. A person deprived, for life, of any understanding or taste for the main current of poetry that flows through things, all things. She might as well be dead, and yet she goes on living, stopping off at delicatessens, seeing her analyst, consuming a novel every night, putting on her girdle, plotting for Muriel’s health and prosperity. I love her. I find her unimaginably brave.
Raise High the Roof, Carpenters by J.D. Salinger(Source: wearewriting, via benbraddocks)
There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one’s idea for thirty-five years; there’s something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot(Source: larmoyante, via eloises)
“I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face” — Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
(via nevver)
Morally as well as physically, I’ve always had the sensation of an abyss, not merely the abyss of sleep, but that of action, dream, memory, desire, regret, remorse, beauty etc. I cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror. I feel though as If I am attacked by a frightful illness, which has never played such havoc with me as in this year - I mean my depression, my reveries, my discouragement, my indecision. Truly, I consider the person who succeeds in healing oneself of a vice as infinitely braver than a soldier or a man who defends his honor in a duel. But how to heal myself? How transform despair into hope, weakness into willpower? Is this illness imaginary or real? Has it become real after being imaginary?
Charles Baudelaire, Selected Letters(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via benbraddocks)
Whatever is on my mind, I say it as I feel it, I’m truthful to myself; I’m young and I’m old, I’ve been bought and I’ve been sold, so many times. I am hard-faced, I am gone. I am just like you.
Detachment(Source: takingthisalltoheart)
Aquí tengo todo el tiempo del mundo para pensar en ti, que es lo que suelo hacer cuando no quiero pensar en nada
Delirio. Laura Restrepo.(Source: injeanniosa, via brendalapsicodelica)
I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
Sylvia Plath(via en-dure-sur-vive)
Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.
Elie Wiesel(Source: sonofbaldwin, via roseisreturning)
Nothing haunts us like the things we don’t say.
Mitch Albom(Source: goodreads.com, via laesquinitade-mishuesos)
Your letters got sadder. Your lovers betrayed you. I wrote back, all lovers betray. It didn’t help. You said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over the river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you.
Charles Bukowski(Source: cactuslungs, via artistsuffer)