[givemearmstopraywith]

every day i wake up and drink my silly little coffee while God eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me

[cheruib]

the show (going out to get groceries. making myself a nice dinner. showering and opening the windows. being kind to myself in everything i do) Must go on

[kweenokay]

im cool but i also cry a lot

[onlinecounsellingcollege]

“I used to dislike being sensitive. I thought it made me weak. But take away that single trait, and you take away the very essence of who I am. You take away my conscience, my ability to empathize, my intuition, my creativity, my deep appreciation for the little things, my vivid inner life, my deep awareness of others’ pain, and my passion for it all.”

— partyof5plus1.tumblr.com

[soracities]

Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch (trans. Gregory Rabassa)

[Text ID: “As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard.”]

[burninggravity]

“Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought — and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds.”

— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

[finita--la--commedia]

“We women—and especially his (Leo Tolstoy’s) wife—love to act like characters out of a novel, even at times with our husbands; we love sentimental strolls, we love to be emotionally cherished. But one doesn’t expect this from the Tolstoys. So often one feels an outburst of tenderness for one’s husband— but if, God forbid, it is expressed, he recoils with such disgust one feels mortified and ashamed of one’s feelings. He only cherishes me when his passions are aroused—which alas is not the same !”

— Sofia Tolstaya (1844-1919), a diary entry of 26th January, 1899, referring to her husband Leo Tolstoy, in: “The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy”, translated from the Russian by Cathy Porte “ Мы, женщины, особенно его жена, любим иногда и с мужьями играть в роман. Сентиментально погулять, пойти куда-нибудь, просто даже быть ласкаемыми духовно. Но этого от Толстых не дождешься. Сколько раз, когда сама чувствуешь прилив душевной нежности к мужу,— если, сохрани бог, ему это выразить, то он даст такой брезгливый отпор, что и стыдно и грустно станет за свое чувство. И сам ласкает только тогда, когда в нем проснется нежность,— но не та, увы ! “

[finita--la--commedia]

“So you are still working frantically ? Unhappy one ! you don’t know the ineffable pleasure of doing nothing ! And how good work will seem to me after it ! I shall delay it however as long as possible.”

— George Sand (1804-1876), in a letter to Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880), Nohant, 4 July, 1873, in: “ The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie (1921)

[finita--la--commedia]

“… those red roseleaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music and song than for madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry.”

— Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), in a letter to Lord Alfred Douglas (1870-1945), dated ?January 1893, in “Oscar Wilde: A Life In Letters”

[finita--la--commedia]

“… he (Leo Tolstoy) had been so jealous of my relationship with T—that he wanted to kill himself. Poor darling ! As if I could ever love anyone as I love him ! But how I have suffered from this mad jealousy of his throughout my life ! And how much I have had to give up because of it—friendships with good people, travelling, improving myself and generally everything interesting, valuable and important.”

— Sofia Tolstaya (1844-1919), a diary entry of 14th June, 1899, referring to her husband Leo Tolstoy, in: “The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy”, translated from the Russian by Cathy Porte “ он ревновал меня к Т… до такого безумия, что хотел убить себя. Бедный, милый ! Разве я могла любить кого-нибудь больше его ? И сколько я пережила этой безумной ревности в своей жизни ! Сколького я лишилась из-за нее ! И отношений с лучшими людьми, и путешествий, и развития, и всего, что интересно, дорого и содержательно. “

[finita--la--commedia]

“My tenderest kisses, beloved little being — I dreamt about you.”

— Simone de Beauvoir (1908-1986), in a letter to Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980),  Friday [7 July 1939], Amiens, in “Letters To Sartre”, translated by Quintin Hoare

[givemearmstopraywith]

“It is a fault to wish to be understood before we have made ourselves clear to ourselves.”

— Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace (via howieabel)

[liquidlightandrunningtrees]

“You are immortal; you exist for billions of years in different manifestations, because you are Life, and Life cannot die. You are in the trees, the butterflies, the fish, the air, the moon, the sun. Wherever you go, you are there, waiting for yourself.”

— Don Miguel Ruiz, The Mastery of Love

[finita--la--commedia]

“Why do I write ? Why do I weep in the early morning Why suddenly this taste of a swan’s song This green spume gathered at the throat”

— Alejandra Pizarnik (1936 -1972), from “Approximations. Buenos Aires 1956 – 1958”, in “Alejandra Pizarnik. Selected Poems”, translated by Cecilia Rossi

[finita--la--commedia]

“I’ll never be able to do anything because I’m much too lazy to care whether it’s done or not—and I don’t want to be famous and fêted—all I want is to be very young always and very irresponsible and to feel that my life is my own—to live and be happy and die in my own way—to please myself.”

— Zelda (Sayre) Fitzgerald (1900-1948), in a letter to Francis Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940) [Montgomery, Alabama], [ [Fall 1919 ], in “Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda. The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald”

[wordsthat-speak]

“Romantic obsession is my first language. I live in a world of fantasies, infatuations and love poems. Sometimes I wonder if the yearning I’ve felt for others was more of a yearning for yearning itself. I’ve pined insatiably and repeatedly: for strangers, new lovers, unrequited flames. While the subjects changed, that feeling always remained. Perhaps, then, I have not been so infatuated with the people themselves, but with the act of longing.”

— Melissa Broder

[liquidlightandrunningtrees]

“I feel good with my husband: I like his warmth and his bigness and his being-there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy for when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he is troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body-shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don’t want to look around any more: I don’t need to look around for anything.”

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath