"You were unsure which pain is worse — the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."

Simon Van Booy, Everything Beautiful Began After (via stxxz)

lately

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"What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart?"

Virginia Woolf, from Night and Day (Duckworth, 1919)

(Source: seabois)

aseaofquotes:

Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns

in my grief
i have buried words
and burned away poetry

“i love the way you write
poems, intimately
like letters” you once said.

poetry
mere words
won’t bring you back

an artful line
never  once saved
anybody

(Source: nevver)

"You whispered my full name and we fell asleep in each other’s arms and I remember how the next morning you were gone, completely gone, and nothing in my bed or the house could have proven otherwise."

Junot Diaz, This is How You Lose Her.

mangaes:

And it came to me then 
That every plan 
Is a tiny prayer to father time

you wrote to me

and you said, ‘Here’s to extra time!’

“do you still remember?” that’s what you ask. “do you still remember how it felt?” you are talking about pain. it seems to me anytime anyone opens their mouth they are always talking about pain, saying something about it, whether it’s with confused words or shuddering breaths. i nod and don’t tell you what i am really thinking: i remember. i remember because every morning i shatter into thousands of pieces and by the time the coffee is made i have taped myself back together again. it is this my mother calls my finest (and perhaps only) example of responsibility.

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"How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words."

David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King  (via prettypeachpeonies)

(Source: nequiquam)

file under: places i wish i was right now

(Source: airows)

"What if you didn’t run? This one time. What if you stayed, and let love overtake you?"

Josh Bennett   (via nofatnowhip)

(Source: angiewrites)

lately, art has been my stress outlet

mynameiselly:

I am learning that although
there are people who love
being made into metaphors,

the majority prefer a pretty girl
to prose or poetry—

they do not want my figures of
speech, they do not waste time
wishing for words on candles or
shooting stars, and can live as
peacefully as possible without
ever being written of, die with
nothing on their tombstones
and no love ever having been
weaved into language in
their honor.