Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?
- Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and Song of Despair (via books-n-quotes)
Sometimes I feel as though there are two me’s, one coating directly on top of the other: the superficial me, who nods when he’s supposed to nod and says what he’s supposed to say, and some other, deeper part, the part that worries and dreams… Most of the time they move along in sync and I hardly notice the split, but sometimes it feels as though I’m two whole different people and I could rip apart at any second.
I believed that writers were calm, sad people, knowing too much. I believed that there was a difference about them, some hard and shining, rare intimidating quality they had from the beginning,
- Alice Munro, from Stories; “Something I’ve been Meaning to Tell You,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
I only accept destructive criticism. If you don’t have a critique so mordantly incisive that the mere act of reading it will strike me dead on the spot lined up, don’t even bother.
there’s always this feeling of not living my life to the fullest. It’s always there, at parties, with friends, wherever I am, whatever I am doing, reminding me
