From “Tender is the Night” by F. Scott Fitzgerald

“As an indifference cherished, or left to atrophy, becomes an emptiness, to this extent he had learned to become empty of Nicole, serving her against his will with negations and emotional neglect. One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.”

Posted on April 13, 2013

Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, who evidently has decided that we’re all either schizophrenics or time lords. (via quarkycharm)

(via quarkycharm)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via All the Stars Were Laughing with 149 notes

Source: allthestarswerelaughing

(via justalookinside)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via Oh na na, black white photos. with 86,649 notes

Source: black-white-photos

Of all the hardships a person had to face, none was more punishing than the simple act of waiting.

Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns (via serendipitousromance)

(via serendipitousromance)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via Larmoyante with 2,519 notes

Source: larmoyante

Do you know what I need? To escape into the mountains, surrounded by tall trees, I will lay on the moss, and breath in the scent of mushrooms, flowers and wet soil.

Les Discrets, L’échappée (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(via ajanem)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via in lak'ech ala k'in with 5,348 notes

Source: freyjageist

I’m The Mountain which
The World climbs down from and
I laugh because it tickles.

Mark Z. Danielewski, Only Revolutions, Sam. (via victoria-kaitlyn)

(via andthatsthetruthruth)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via Keep reaching; stay steady. with 7 notes

Source: victoria-kaitlyn

The words came to me like lines of poetry.

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami (via tianbunnie)

(via andthatsthetruthruth)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via analysis & synthesis with 6 notes

Source: sweetfilledcorner

I read in a poem:
to talk is divine.
But gods don’t speak:
they create and destroy worlds
while men do the talking.
Gods, without words,
play terrifying games.

The spirit descends,
untying tongues,
but it doesn’t speak words:
Language, lit by a god
is a prophecy
of flames and a crash
of burnt syllables:
meaningless ash.

Man’s word is the daughter of death.
We talk because we are
mortal: words
are not signs, they are years.
Saying what they say,
the names we speak
say time: they say us
we are the names of time.
To talk is human.

To Talk, Octavio Paz (via ktjjj)

(via andthatsthetruthruth)

Posted on April 12, 2013 via neener neener with 9 notes

Source: ktjjj

Anonymous asked: Who are all your poems and letters about? Does she know you love her? If not, why don't you tell her? I'm sorry if you don't love her, by the way. It just seems like it, the way you write kind of emotes it. What happened between you and her? I do love love stories, even the sad ones.

‘Pictures’ was about my dad actually. To Self was to Self, (not myself) I also love love stories, even the sad ones.

Posted on April 12, 2013