“Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.”—A. A. Milne (via millionen)
“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.”—Catherine Breillat (via heterocera)
“2 A.M. You know. The person you can call at two a.m. and, no matter what, you can count on them. Even if they’re alseep or it’s cold or you need to be bailed out of jail… they’ll come for you. It’s like the highest level of friendship.”—Sarah Dessen, What happened to goodbye (via runawaytrain)
“When someone cries so hard that it hurts their throat, it is out of frustration or knowing that no matter what you can do or attempt to do can change the situation. When you feel like you need to cry, when you want to just get it out, relieve some of the pressure from the inside - that is true pain. Because no matter how hard you try or how bad you want to, you can’t. That pain just stays in place. Then, if you are lucky, one small tear may escape from those eyes that water constantly. That one tear, that tiny, salty, droplet of moisture is a means of escape. Although it’s just a small tear, it is the heaviest thing in the world. And it doesn’t do a damn thing to fix anything.”—Chase Brooks, Hello, My Love 2: First Love Deserves a Second Chance (via suavium)
“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I belive in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.”—Michael Ondaatje (via suavium)
“There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle. You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken. Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again. Whenever it rains you will think of her.”—Neil Gaiman (via tendollarbills)
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”—Charles Dickens (via ineffa-ble)
“The moon is backing away from us, an inch and a half each year. That means if you’re like me and were born, around fifty years ago the moon, was a full six feet closer to the earth. What’s a person supposed to do? I feel the gray cloud of consternation, travel across my face. I begin thinking, about the moon-lit past, how if you go back, far enough you can imagine the breathtaking, hugeness of the moon, prehistoric, solar eclipses when the moon covered the sun, so completely there was no corona, only, a darkness we had no word for. And future eclipses will look like this: the moon, a small black pupil in the eye of the sun. But these are bald facts. What bothers me most is that someday, the moon will spiral right out of orbit, and all land-based life will die. The moon keeps the oceans from swallowing, the shores, keeps the electromagnetic fields, in check at the polar ends of the earth. And please don’t tell me, what I already know, that it won’t happen, for a long time. I don’t care. I’m afraid, of what will happen to the moon. Forget us. We don’t deserve the moon. Maybe we once did but not now, after all we’ve done. These nights, I harbour a secret pity for the moon, rolling, around alone in space without, her milky planet, her only child, a mother, who’s lost a child, a bad child, a greedy child or maybe a grown boy, who’s murdered and raped, a mother, can’t help it, she loves that boy, anyway, and in spite of herself, she misses him, and if you sit beside her, on the padded hospital bench, outside the door to his room you can’t not, take her hand, listen to her while she, weeps, telling you how sweet he was, how blue his eyes, and you know she’s only, romanticizing, that she’s conveniently, forgotten the bruises and booze, the stolen car, the day he ripped, the phones from the walls, and you want, to slap her back to sanity, remind her, of the truth: he was a leech, a fuck up, a little shit, and you almost do, until she lifts her pale puffy face, her eyes, two craters and then you can’t help it, either, you know love when you see it, you can feel its lunar strength, its brutal pull.”—Dorianne Laux (via cite-belle)
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.
“But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drank, the very air I breathed, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at 4 o’clock in the morning.”—The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami (via lightedtunnels)
“I wake up, but where? I don’t just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: “Where am I?” As if I didn’t know: I’m here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this condition, this state of affairs in which I feature.”—Dance Dance Dance, Haruki Murakami (via lightedtunnels)