oh Wendi, you're drifting out to sea.

And still after all these years and all of this travel I do not know my own worth.

[abookblog]

“Books are for me, it must be said, the most important thing.”

— Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale (via antigonick)

[myonlywayoutofhere]

“I deserve better than what you could ever give me”

-Day 375

[hirxeth]

“We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.”

— Chuck Palahniuk, Diary (via naturaekos)

[philosophyquotes]

“Yes, be patient with me. My heart is heavy.”

— Albert Camus, The Possessed: A Play

[antigonick]

“—but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held aloof.”

— Charlotte Brontë, Villette

[lookawendibird]

I tell myself I am searching for something. But more and more, it feels like I am wandering, waiting for something to happen to me, something that will change everything, something that my whole life has been leading up to.

-Khaled Hosseini, And the Mountains Echoed

[adaliagray]

“I just have to remind myself that you will come home and you will still love me.”

— A.G.

[whothehellisyum]

“Maybe I deserve better, but I want you.”

— (via little-random-thoughts)

[hirxeth]

“I don’t want to walk past his apartment but his laughter is still the only thing I can trust. My body feels like a waiting room and I’ve already tried pills, vodka, men. Mascara piled on so thick I can barely open my eyelids but the thing is, I don’t want to see. You tried to love me once and compared it to having too many teeth. I don’t really miss you anymore but I still haven’t told my therapist. Sometimes it’s nice just to have someone to talk to, you know? When I’m afraid I sleep with the television on, volume low so the voices can’t quite touch me. Everything is just static. I am okay. I. Am. Okay. I-am, okay. He texts me about all the fun he’s having but I’m the first person he tells about a paper cut. My sister compares her body to a junkyard and I find bits of scrap metal beneath her bed from boys who bury promises in her belly. Maybe love ruins you a little bit. Maybe we don’t care. We are so young to hate everything so much. Can recite the periodic table from memory but still can’t quite believe it when they say that they love us, too.”

— Kristina Haynes, “The Year of Our Disbelief” (via fleurishes)

[anenlighteningellipsis]

“How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.”

— Virginia Woolf, from The Waves

[thespiandrummer-deactivated2025]

“There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, A quiet house, some green and modest acres (…) I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, With only streams and birds for company, To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.”

— Mary Oliver, from A Dream Of Trees in “New And Selected Poems: Volume One” (via adrasteiax)

[lookawendibird]

Such arrogance to think you own this world.

This world owns you.

You build walls so high and draw lines so deep

they become impossible to remove.

I could scale Everest's peaks before scaling your boarders.

You never let anyone not even yourself inside of you.

I want to untie the knots and pull out the threads of what you once were,

what you could have been.

Your mind has been seduced and sedated by the screens you stare at. Zombified, Petrified, Hypnotized.

You do not see, you do not observe.

You're blasting incoherent fickle bullshit out of those five dollar head phones.

But, you've never heard a song.

Not the melody of a white rushing river

echoing and bounding through red rock canyons.

Not the procession of bare ash footed children, stomping synchronized dances in ecstasy,

The Orange Malawian sun reflecting in their oak brown eyes, off of their glorious dark skin.

You'll never wonder how they feel so alive,

Do you ever wonder about anything?

Do you ever wonder if you even exist?

W.D

[lookawendibird]

[lookawendibird]

I want a winding, twisting, steep road.

I want a lover full of passion,

Someone who doesn’t which to put it my flames

But rather helps me burn the whole fucking city down.

[infpisme]

[woolfdaily]

“How nice it is of me to be writing to you, when you’re not writing to me.”

— Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West c. July 1927

[lookawendibird]