“When one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day; a couple, however, does not have to put up with it. Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression for everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true. Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most - you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.”—Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena (via c-ovet)
“and there are nights I fuck up my own name, nights I sit and stare at the stars. years have passed and I’m still waiting for life to begin. you silly child, life has begun and each night resting and daydreaming doesn’t bring you closer to the past. and there are nights I…
People don’t like love, they like that flittery flirty feeling. They don’t love love - love is sacrificial, love is ferocious, it’s not emotive. Our culture doesn’t love love, it loves the idea of love. It wants the emotion without paying anything for it. It’s ridiculous.
“We often talk about empathy as an emotional virtue, but it’s also an imaginative art. Before I can empathize with you, you have to become real to me. I have to listen to you, I have to tell myself your story. I have to imagine what it is like to be you with your illness or your situation or your aspirations or whatever it is. If you don’t have empathy, other people might not exist for you.”—Rebecca Solnit (via mttbll)
My eyes were the first to forget. The face I once cradled tenderly between my hands, now a blur. And your voice is slowly drifting from my memory like a fading Polaroid. But the way I felt is still crystal clear. Like it was yesterday.
There are philosophers who remain adamant the past, present and future all exist at the one time. And the way I have felt, the way I feel—that same bittersweet ache between wanting and having—is evidence of their theory. I felt you before I knew you and I still feel you now. And in that brief moment between—wrapped in your arms thinking, how lucky I am, how lucky I am, how lucky I am—
“Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.”—Haruki Murakami | Kafka on the Shore (via blogut)
I don’t know why but for a hopeless person I feel kind of hopeful about this year. Last year was terrible and I’m hoping for it to be better. I hope that I’ll be able to get those butterflies in my stomach again. And be able to go to as many concerts that I can possibly can. Not to mention hang out with my friends and make new ones. But the thing I hope for the most is to just finally truly be happy.