No matter how dear they are to me, no matter how deeply I care for them- I cannot bring them peacefulness from inner demons, nor the simplest forms of happiness. I care less of my own skin than I do for them, and have known no greater agony than that which overcomes me with such realizations.
"Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?"
Pablo Neruda
"I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain."
John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne
"There are some things about myself that I can’t explain to anyone. There are some things I don’t understand at all. I can’t tell what I think about things or what I’m after. I don’t know what my strengths are or what I’m supposed to do about them. But if I start thinking about these things in too much detail, the whole thing gets scary. And if I get scared, I can only think about myself. I become really self-centered, and without meaning to, I hurt people. So I’m not such a wonderful human being."
Haruki Murakami, A Slow Boat To China
(Source: wildthicket, via selfinspiration)
"Please, remember me, my misery
And how it lost me all I wanted
Those dogs that love the rain and chasing trains,
the colored birds above there running
In circles round the well
And where it spells on the wall behind St. Peter’s
So bright with cinder gray and spray paint
“Who the hell can see forever?"
The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine
"Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace."
Oscar Wilde (via otroblog)
(via splendourfading)
"Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat—your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me."
Charlotte Brontë
(Source: atomos, via word-digest)
"Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun."
Jack Gilbert, Horses at Midnight Without a Moon (via yesyes)
(via alightthatnevergoesout)
