♡♡

'Tell me about Saturday,' I say. 'Tell me.'
Her eyes widen in excitement as if she has anticipated this very question, this chance to expose herself. Like a budding actress speaking her debut lines, she wets her lips with her tongue and draws in a long breath that threatens to inhale the whole room.
‘I danced and danced, toes and heels pecking the earth like birds feeding,’ she answeres. Sandra always speakes like this: poetry at the speed of a subway train.
‘Where was this?’ I ask, watching nothing but her lips.
‘In the rain. I danced between the strips of rain.’
‘This was Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure, Sandra? It didn’t rain on Saturday.’
‘It didn’t rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass.’
‘That sounds very painful.’
‘No, it sounds beautiful.’

—Tablo, Pieces of You (via larmoyante)

I think that there’s a false notion that we all ought to recover from everything – divorce, and broken homes, and wars – and get on and be better; that we all ought to heal. I don’t believe in it. I believe the opposite: that there are some things you shouldn’t heal from, that are unhealable. And, if they are healable, that you oughtn’t do it anyway. There’s something to be said for remembering, and not healing.

The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien (via 9littlebirds)

Do you imagine at night someone
going to bed the very moment
you are going to bed? Turning
out the light?
And isn’t it so quiet you swear
the heart is telepathic.
Isn’t it—

Beckian Fritz Goldberg, from “Eros in His Striped Shirt,” In the Badlands of Desire (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1993)

(Source: apoetreflects, via exoticwild)

fatigue, n.: When the unbearable seems to outweigh the bearable, and you are too tired to correct the scales.

—David Levithan (via rrrachul)

(via loveyourchaos)

I keep thinking about depression like it’s a pocket watch that’s been passed down for centuries. “Keep it in the family” my mother says, gripping my wrists. I check the time. I check the time, again.

—Monogamy Songs, Gregory Sherl (via neurochemicals)

When he heard music he no longer listened to the notes, but the silences in between. When he read a book he gave himself over entirely to commas and semicolons, to the space after the period and before the capital letter of the next sentence. He discovered the places in a room where silence gathered; the folds of curtain drapes, the deep bowls of the family silver. When people spoke to him, he heard less and less of what they were saying, and more and more of what they were not.

—The History Of Love; Nicole Krauss (via eileenssummerreadinglist)

One day I just woke up and realized that I can’t touch yesterday. So why the heck was I letting it touch me?

—Steve Maraboli (via psych-facts)

(via shutupmerlin)