Solitude

Notes: 109 / 3 days ago from hyperoma (originally from poeticheartache)

"Be loved but never love. Attach but never combine. Trip but never fall. To be broken is better than to be shattered. Tell him of your strength but never your past. Be trustworthy but never trust. Be cracked but never open."

- (via poeticheartache) (via hyperoma)

2 months ago

"But now I’m at home, sitting on a chair, my head drooping lower and lower, until I drift off the only way I know how, moist lips against raised knees. Sometimes I remain in my Thonet position as late as midnight, and when I awake, curled up, coiled up in myself like a cat in winter, like a rocking-chair frame, I lift my head to find my trouser knee drenched with drool. I can be by myself because I’m never lonely, I’m simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-sacrum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me."

- Bohumil Hrabal - Too Loud a Solitude

Notes: 374 / 2 months ago from somethingintellectual

somethingintellectual:

I loled.

2 months ago

"You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight and a half years ago. Dare not say that a man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant."

- Jane Austen, Perasuasion

Notes: 1 / 2 months ago from bookmarklet

Notes: 1 / 2 months ago

2 months ago from bookmarklet

"He started the whole mess with those ice-blue eyes that kept me begging for my right to exist. Holly doesn’t know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t care whether you live or die. She doesn’t yet realize that love unreturned eventually transforms into a fierce tangled mess, nerves and entrails exposed like split animal innards. She doesn’t understand that sometimes the unrequited must demand reparations, that love can be a mean and spiteful process, that sometimes one loses patience with love. So, when the nerves and guts have seemingly been packed away, sewn in and cleaned up so as not to make all the innocent bystanders uncomfortable, the carrier of this love becomes heavy with a toxic lump that grows, slowly and steadily, into a fierce ball of scarred tissue. Located two ribs below the heart, it is called hate."

2 months ago from bookmarklet

"What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough: for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams."

-

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pedro calderón de la barca, life is but a dream

3 months ago