Quotebook

quietlyrearranged:

But now we speak with ruined tongues
And the words we say aren’t meant for anyone
It’s just a mumbled sentence to a passing acquaintance
But there was once you
You said you hate my suffering
And you understood
And you’d take care of me
You’d always be there
Well where are you now?

(via hood-lynch)

I want you to miss me. I want you to recognize me in your morning cereal and the voice of your favorite singer. I want you to wonder where I am when your fingers are stretched beneath your waistband, when you’re lighting up, when you’re tripping up the uneven step on your basement stairs. I want you to think of me when you look into your teacup and your rearview mirror. I want you.

—Camryn Pulaski Day (via not-badforagirl)

(Source: atomos, via mollywho)

I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.

—John Green (via abimopector)

(via daphneemarie)

She pressed her lips to mind.
— A typo

How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.

—“The Kiss,” Stephen Dunn (via clavicola)

(via myfaultypieces)

Getting you out of my mind is like separating the wind from the cloud. I’m so afraid of losing someone I never have.

—Padang Bulan - Andrea Hirata (@Andreahirata)

(Source: quote-book)

Love someone like you’re six. Bring your favorite toy to school to impress her; watch her hold it in her tiny hands and swell with pride when she’s receptive. She has good taste. Watch her cautiously; you couldn’t live if she accidentally dropped it, broke it. Draw pictures of her in your coloring book, in the margins, and ask your mother if she’s allowed to come over. Blush when she kisses you on the ear after you’ve skinned your knee. Blush whenever someone says her name. Whenever someone says her name, think it sounds like a curse or a whisper or a prayer.

Love someone like you’re ten. Notice that you like all of the same things: the same songs, the same animals, the same colors. You know there’s something between the two of you but you’re both too inexperienced to acknowledge it. Stand side by side during your elementary school graduation ceremony and feel a surge of loss course through his body and then through yours. Sign his autograph book; skip the white pages and the yellow pages and the blue pages. Sign the pink page, the one that means ‘love.’ Wear gloss and press your lips against the paper. Leave an imprint of your mouth between the words, ‘See U Soon’ and ‘Call me – 718- 768 – 8404.’ Never see each other again.

Love someone like you’re thirteen. Let him walk you home one night in October and ignore every chill. When he leans in to steal a kiss from your mouth, let him. Open your eyes in shock when you realize there’s tongue. Clench his shirt with your fingertips, release it, rest your open palms on either side of him and be unsure if you’re pulling him closer or not. When it’s over, slap him because you don’t know how else to tell him you liked it.

Love someone like you’re sixteen. Pass her in the hallways at school and try to transform yourself into something alluring, something confident. Know every CD she has in her car and her Taco Bell order and who her best friends are. Feel like your heart will explode when she signs on AIM, when she arrives at a party, when she looks in your direction. Get her alone one night, sit in her car and listen to songs you’ll never forget the words to. It’ll be the only time you lose your virginity but the first time you lose yourself.

Love someone like you’re nineteen. Spend hours looking at each other and saying nothing; meet each other’s parents. Text him from the bathroom of your childhood home when you’re visiting for holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas; say, “I wish you were here.” Drive around town together, put your hand on his knee and watch sidewalks and miles fly by; take interest in the blur because you can see your future in it.

Love someone like you’re twenty-five. Go to the movies even though you’re already sure you hate going to the movies, do it because she wants to. Spend weekdays and weekends together, get to know each other in the backs of cabs. Stay up until 4 AM because you’re young again; go to bed at 9 PM because you don’t have to prove yourself anymore. Don’t feel overwhelmed when they call instead of text, don’t feel afraid to be yourself. Be in Love.

Love someone like you’re thirty. Not like you’re running out of time, not like your options are drying up. Love him because despite failure and disappointment and fear, you can’t help yourself. Love him in spite of your past; believe in your potential when your better judgment tells you not to.

Love someone like you’re fifty, like the future has come and gone and will return again and it’ll all feel underwhelming because you know who you are and who she is and who “we” is and knowing that makes the rest manageable, you’ve learned.\

Love someone like you’re eighty. Look out of your window or in a newspaper or at the television and hear smell taste collateral damage: the result of the world passing you by, leaving you behind. Count the things you no longer understand on both hands; then count the one thing that still makes sense, that has always made sense and think, that’s all right.

Most of the writers I know are weird hybrids. There’s a strong streak of egomania coupled with extreme shyness. Writing’s kind of like exhibitionism in private. And there’s also a strange loneliness, and a desire to have some kind of conversation with people, but not a real great ability to do it in person.

—David Foster Wallace, 1996 (via sometimesagreatnotion) (via iamhungryallthetime) (via sophiaismissing)

littlepawz: I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? …we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. ~Franz Kafka~ I hope everyone realizes how funny it is that I’m posting anything to do with Kafka considering that fact that I despise him.