May 2012
63 posts
“People think they know you. They think they know how you’re handling a situation. But the truth is no one knows. No one knows what happens after you leave them, when you’re lying in bed or sitting over your breakfast alone and all you want to do is cry or scream. They don’t know what’s going on inside your head — the mind-numbing cocktail of anger and sadness and guilt. This isn’t their fault. They just don’t know. And so they pretend and they say you’re doing great when you’re really not. And this makes everyone feel better. Everybody but you.”
—William H Woodwell Jr. (via venebelle)
“I’m not fascinated by people who smile all the time. What I find interesting is the way people look when they are lost in thought, when their face becomes angry or serious, when they bite their lip, the way they glance, the way they look down when they walk, when they are alone and smoking a cigarette, when they smirk, the way they half smile, the way they try and hold back tears, the way when their face says they want to say something but can’t, the way they look at someone they want or love… I love the way people look when they do these things. It’s… beautiful.”
—Unknown (via venebelle)
“Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion. And when you go, with all that distance between us, I am afraid that this cord will be snapped, and I shall bleed inwardly.”
—Charlotte Brontë (via venebelle)
“The lonely, like the fictive, love one-way watching. For lonely people are usually lonely not because of hideous deformity or odor or obnoxiousness––in fact there exist today support and social groups for persons with precisely these attributes. Lonely people tend, rather, to be lonely because they decline to bear the psychic costs of being around other humans. They are allergic to people. People affect them too strongly.”
—David Foster Wallace. “Act Natural.” A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. (via thekateblack)
“You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.”
—Johnny Depp (via le-jadore)
“I fear we might be losing the basic human facility to be alone - and with that you throw out independent decision-making, what to trust, what not to trust, key stuff, a perilous loss.”
—Dylan Moran (via heartmindspirit)
“I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. Your letters got sadder.
Your lovers betrayed you.” —Charles Bukowski (via coffeeislovely)
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. Your letters got sadder.
Your lovers betrayed you.” —Charles Bukowski (via coffeeislovely)
“No one will know how I truly feel. Cause I can no longer differentiate between what is fake and what is real. I don’t know how I feel.”
—Evil- Andrew Jackson Jihad (via fyeahandrewjacksonjihad)
“I’m afraid of the way the world works.
And I’m afraid of the words in my notebooks.” —(Andrew Jackson Jihad)
And I’m afraid of the words in my notebooks.” —(Andrew Jackson Jihad)
“May you do the things you want to and always remember what it felt like when you were doing them.”
—I Wrote This For You: The House We Keep Moments In (via kari-shma)
Bright Star by John Keats
Tom Hiddleston
Tom Hiddleston reads Bright Star by John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
