January 2012
December 2011
“There are only two worlds - your world, which is the real world, and other worlds, the fantasy. Worlds like this are worlds of the human imagination: their reality, or lack of reality, is not important. What is important is that they are there. these worlds provide an alternative. Provide an escape. Provide a threat. Provide a dream, and power; provide refuge, and pain. They give your world meaning. They do not exist; and thus they are all that matters.”
—Neil Gaiman (via venebelle)
“Inside me, there is an organ more important than my heart. Although you can’t see it, I feel it going right through my head and down to my legs, and I know that it exists inside me. It’s the one that lets me stand up and walk forward. So that I can walk forward, without ever trembling. If I stopped here I feel like it would break…My soul would break. Even more than if my heart stops beating, to me that is the most important. Even if I become senile and my back gets bent, I still have to walk forward.”
—Sorachi Hideaki (via atomos)
“Sometimes I really wanna talk. Sometimes I forget I’m -not- that sweet girl that needs attention. Sometimes I want a hug because the world may be falling apart. And the next morning I wake up and just think about myself as a fool. One day I can smile hard and in the next, cry harder. I can beg someone to be with me and two seconds after I can beg for him to leave me alone. That’s what I do, what I hate the most about me. I hate missing a voice, an arm, a song. I hate missing a call or even the way things were before. But I what I hate the most is to feel. Because when you feel, you just can’t let you, you can’t control, you can’t step back. But sometimes I really need attention. But I swear I’ll learn to live with this.”
—Combat Boots & Chinese Takeout (via atomos)
“From this experience, I understood the danger of focusing only on what isn’t there. What if I came to the end of my life and realized that I’d spent every day watching for a man who would never come to me? What an unbearable sorrow it would be, to realize I’d never really tasted the things I’d eaten, or seen the places I’d been, because I’d thought of nothing but the Chairman even while my life was drifting away from me. And yet if I drew my thoughts back from him, what life would I have? I would be like a dancer who had practiced since childhood for a performance she would never give.”
—Memoirs of a Geisha (via atomos)
“Not just beautiful, though — the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me. What I’ve up till now, what I’m going to do — they know it all. Nothing gets past their watchful eyes. As I sit there under the shining night sky, again a violent fear takes hold of me. My heart’s pounding a mile a minute, and I can barely breathe. All these millions of stars looking down on me, and I’ve never given them more than a passing thought before. Not just the stars — how many other things haven’t I noticed in the world, things I know nothing about? I suddenly feel helpless, completely powerless. And I know I’ll never outrun that awful feeling.”
—Haruki Murakami (via atomos)
“I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. Nothing more than an empty house, the warm hazy weariness from a day spent setting strawberry runners in the sun, a glass of cool sweet milk, and a shallow dish of blueberries bathed in cream. Now I know how people can live without books, without college. When one is so tired at the end of a day one must sleep, and at the next dawn there are more strawberry runners to set, and so one goes on living, near the earth. At times like this I’d call myself a fool to ask for more…”
—Sylvia Plath (via venebelle)
“I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room – I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful – awful beyond all – but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me… or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude.”
—Charles Bukowski (via venebelle)
