8:20 am 10,617 notes
You look the mirror, hold your face between your hands and declare “yes. Yes I am.”
2:35 am 63 notes
— Lily Van Der Woodsen from Gossip Girl (via overactivedreamer)
3:40 pm 2 notes
— Henry Miller (via larmoyante)
8:20 am 14,695 notes
Franz Kafka, the story goes, encountered a little girl in the park where he went walking daily. She was crying. She had lost her doll and was desolate.
Kafka offered to help her look for the doll and arranged to meet her the next day at the same spot. Unable to find the doll he composed a letter from the doll and read it to her when they met.
"Please do not mourn me, I have gone on a trip to see the world. I will write you of my adventures." This was the beginning of many letters. When he and the little girl met he read her from these carefully composed letters the imagined adventures of the beloved doll. The little girl was comforted.
When the meetings came to an end Kafka presented her with a doll. She obviously looked different from the original doll. An attached letter explained: “my travels have changed me… “
Many years later, the now grown girl found a letter stuffed into an unnoticed crevice in the cherished replacement doll. In summary it said: “every thing that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.””
For me there are two wise lessons in this story: Grief and loss are ubiquitous even for a young child. And the way toward healing is to look for how love comes back in another form. - May Benatar
3:40 pm 39,108 notes
— Fernando Pessoa
8:20 am 128 notes
Day eighty four and I miss your smile
like I have never missed anything before
and I hate people who believe
I can swallow my grief once I get through
all the major firsts because time doesn’t erase
the way a sigh can take you away again.
You’re everywhere still but I haven’t seen light
in your window, hoping against all sense that
it will be on tomorrow. I know I’m going to
miss you until the ocean stops chasing
the shore line, that endless dance of our fathers,
and theirs, and the breath, the breath.
I saved your voicemail by accident and
I found it on day two hundred
and one minute in, I was on my knees.
The dust gathers here too, you know,
covering everything in a blanket and
reminding me of the way quarters still rusted
in every solution I studied for the sixth grade
science fair. I wipe time’s comforter of the desk
with a wet towel and I am still thinking
of you with every breath I take.
It’s been nine birthdays (one hundred and sixty two
flames blown out) since the day you left
and by now, it’s gone from a sandstorm of grief
stinging my eyes and collecting in my lungs
to a slow burning fire in my chest
that even my breathing fans to life.
It’s hard to know which is worse,
the storm so vast you have to take shelter
or the burning logs of my ribcage.
I don’t always notice the smoke
until it builds up in my lungs and burns my eyes
and nothing I’ve found yet has made it stop.
There are no days when it hurts less.
There are only days when it hurts different.
— By no-me-ha-dejado, “Dust Gathers Here, Too (For S, whose spoke more in her breathing than her words)”
9:31 pm 13 notes
4:40 pm 4,986 notes
9:20 am 102,198 notes
It does not matter
What you believe or feel
For something wonderful,
Is someday going
11:39 pm 65 notes
11:36 pm 9,619 notes
11:26 pm 17,242 notes
How could she feel nostalgia when he was right in front of her? How can you suffer from the absence of a person who is present?
You can suffer nostalgia in the presence of the beloved if you glimpse a future where the beloved is no more.”
— Milan Kundera
3:40 pm 9 notes