I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Saturday, October 24, 2015
— Sara Keirsten Quin
I don’t think people
understand how stressful
it is to explain what’s going
on in your head when you
don’t even understand
it yourself.
understand how stressful
it is to explain what’s going
on in your head when you
don’t even understand
it yourself.
— Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
I like you to be exactly the way that you are, because in all my experience, I have never known anyone like you.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
— ~Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #52
“I’m falling around you.” He mumbles against her skin and it doesn’t make much sense but he’s intoxicated on a mixture of alcohol and just her.
It shouldn’t make sense but somehow it does. At the end of the world, if the sun was going to grow the size of the sky, if it was going to burn brighter and hotter than it ever had before, if it was going to reduce everything and anything to dust and ash, everyone will fall.
And as the image of falling dust, through nothing but space, fills her mind, she guesses he’s right, he’s falling around her.
“Maybe.” She murmurs back, voice choked and thick, eyes spilling over as she runs her fingers delicately through his hair. Maybe she was the sun or maybe it was the other way around, maybe she was falling around him.
Monday, October 19, 2015
— Brian A. Ortiz
Passionate women are like fires: often misunderstood and unfairly written off as wild, troubled, broken. And a fire left unchecked can be destructive; for example, a wildfire traveling through a forest. They’re unrestrained passion bordering rage.
Yet if that same fire is burning in a fireplace, people are able to appreciate its natural beauty and warmth, especially when they can feel how cold the outside world is. All because the fireplace has the depth (and through that, the capacity) to channel the fire’s unbridled energy.
Passionate women are the same way. They need someone who loves with a depth that matches their passion; someone they can burn for, and in the sense of having that love reciprocated, to burn within.
Yet if that same fire is burning in a fireplace, people are able to appreciate its natural beauty and warmth, especially when they can feel how cold the outside world is. All because the fireplace has the depth (and through that, the capacity) to channel the fire’s unbridled energy.
Passionate women are the same way. They need someone who loves with a depth that matches their passion; someone they can burn for, and in the sense of having that love reciprocated, to burn within.
— Linwood Barclay
Sometimes, it’s easier to tell a stranger something very personal. It`s like there’s less risk, opening yourself up to someone who doesn’t know you.
— Rachel Cohn and David Levithan, Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List
It’s bullsh*t to think of friendship and romance as being different. They’re not. They’re just variations of the same love. Variations of the same desire to be close.
— Leaves and Butterflies
There’s something freeing about being able to say ‘You’re not healthy for me’ and just walking away.
— C. Joybell C.
There is some kind of a sweet innocence in being human - in not having to be just happy or just sad - in the nature of being able to be both broken and whole, at the same time.
— The Smiths, “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”
Why do I give valuable time to people who don’t care if I live or die?
— marina v., (dis)honesty.
sometimes honesty is selfish. sometimes honesty is about making yourself feel good. sometimes honesty is about moral high-grounds and principles and lines in the sand. sometimes honesty is as much of a lie, as anything else you could say. sometimes honesty is a way to break, to shatter. sometimes honesty harms. sometimes, the greatest kindness is a lie.
