every narrator is unreliable bc ontological truth is non-existent and therefore unattainable
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@ydamontel
every narrator is unreliable bc ontological truth is non-existent and therefore unattainable
google what to do if literally everything manages to somehow remind you of all the terrible things that make up your life.
I think what’s wrong with a lot of people is they’re not eating breakfast. They’re starting the day with at most 16 ounces of milk with espresso and riding on that until lunch time. What they don’t understand is eating breakfast helps absorb all the excess yellow bile that builds up overnight when they sleep and makes them angry. It’s basic humor balancing
Job security by Umang Kalra
Words from Clarice Lispector in The Hour of the Star
I think the purest form of love is just wanting someone to notice life with you. "taste this. look at that. hear this song." again and again. until you can't imagine noticing life without them.
when the image you see in the mirror is distorted. when the voice coming out of your throat is mechanic and strange. when your body does not know what it wants to be. when the strangeness inside you consumes you. when the longing to be human eats you alive.
Moor me, mon amour, tathev simonyan
Someone said “The slow burn of becoming yourself” and I think that might be one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. It’s such a good reminder of how much it takes, how much character development, how much change, and beauty and courage it takes to reach your soul and I hope no one ever gives up on becoming themselves because it’s a never ending journey that only gets better.
Becoming a parent is optional but being kind to children is never optional. You don't have to have kids but everyone has a duty to society to treat children with the same basic level of respect you'd treat any other innocent person with no matter what your own personal feelings about parenthood are.
No talking in the grass, only persistent scars where cheek lay to hear a sound: the distilled conversation
of minute barbed legs, fiddle bow to fiddle. No movement on the pond surface— water slurring its beaded lining, blunted tapestry
of black and blacker, brown and tan. No talking on the part of two dogs engaged in chase and turn, alike under coats
wet dun and spotted damp, the heart's steady hiccough under layers of fascia, muscle, rib. Hands spill the pond water. Nothing can be grasped.
Why inedible hunger? Why insatiable need?
No Talking by Mary Jo Bang
I may not be physically horny 24/7 but I am mentally, emotionally, and maybe most importantly spiritually horny.
Well that’s not very in love with me of you
Andrea Gibson, "DEPRESSION [VERB]", Lord of the Butterflies