A Girl With Melancholia

[melancholichumann]

Hear me out....

Bright blue skies and fluffy clouds!

[melancholichumann]

پھر اصل زندگی کہاں تھی؟

اور اصل موت؟ موت کی پرچھائیں کا زاویہ کیا تھا اور اس کے پڑنے کے امکان کہاں تھے؟ حالانکہ موت نے اپنے آپ کو سات پردوں میں پوشیدہ کر رکھا تھا، پھر بھی اس کی چھوٹ کہیں تو پڑ رہی ہوگی چاہے وہ اس وسیع و عریض زمین پر ایک بونے جوکر کی پرچھائیں کی طرح ہی کیوں نہ ہو۔

سائے، خالد جاوید

[melancholichumann]

فروری کا موسم دراصل کوئی موسم نہیں ہے۔ یہ ایک دن کی پرچھائیں کو لگاتار کئی دن دیکھتے رہنے جیسا ہے۔ یہ ہر موسم کا متضاد ہے۔ مماثلت کے اتنے مایوس کن پہلو ان دنوں ہی دیکھنے کو ملتے ہیں۔

سائے، خالد جاوید

[melancholichumann]

فروری کا ہر دن اکتا دینے کی حد تک دوسرے دن کا ہم شکل ہے۔

ساۓ ، خالد جاوید

[lovewarmsoftdeers]

it’s so painful to watch yourself grow cold, bitter, and resentful, even toward small, irrelevant things, when all you’ve ever wanted was just to be warm, gentle, kind, and loving.

[melancholichumann]

[deeplifequotes]

“That was how you knew love. My mother had told me that all you had to do was imagine your life without the other person, and if the thought alone made you shiver, then you knew.”

— Alice Hoffman

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

[metamorphesque]

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

[typicalabdullah]

I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.

Anaïs Nin

[westiec]

see the THING IS I don't feel like I ever worked hard enough to have "earned" the burnout, which is. probably how we got here.

[lunamonchtuna]

— Fatima Aamir Bilal, excerpt from Moony Moonless Sky’s ‘I am an observer, but not by choice’ (via lunamonchtuna)

[melancholichumann]

And the winter begins

With sad skies

[melancholichumann]

But it was frightening: or, more exactly, it was like a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive.

1984, George Orwell

[melancholichumann]

The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no further.

Sylvia Plath

[melancholichumann]

They were corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave.

George Orwell

[melancholichumann]

He was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable.

1984, George Orwell