“You didn’t love her. You just didn’t want to be alone. Or maybe, maybe she was just good for your ego. Or, or maybe she made you feel better about your miserable life, but you didn’t love her. Because you don’t destroy people you love.”—Grey’s Anatomy (via poeticheartache) (via 36974) (via chieflegit) (via nothingbutvagina) (via vaganja)
“Sometimes, I don’t think you realize that you could lose me. Are you sure you want to suffer the tortures of the memories of a lost love? Do you know the tortures of the memories of a lost love? It’s awful. It will haunt you night and day. You’ll wake up at night screaming. You can’t eat, you can’t sleep, you’ll want to smash things. You’ll hate yourself and the world and everybody in it. Are you sure you want to risk losing me?”—Lucy from Charlie Brown (via vavin)
“i would take being lint on your sweater or a snowflake in your hair over any worldly position that exists because our closeness burns my insides. playing hopscotch between your freckles and tracing pictures of us beneath your skin and if my words were confidence i would have no need for poetry. your legs and hips reflect your intelligence which is humbly buried in beautifulness.”—stick to your guns (via vavin)
Most times than not, I just want to give up, say “fuck it” to the ideals I hold sacred, surrender to the harden of my heart, grow bitter and lose faith in humanity, but then I remember those same ideals. That honest enabling resiliency is strength and growth. That people and lovers will break your heart. That the world will throw stones of jagged and edge at you, that you must not fortify and throw them back but rather become river: let them skip, sink, weather for a while. For those stones will grow peaceful and smooth. Be stream, lay at it your slinger’s feet, show them that everything that toughens can be soft.
This is the challenge of being “human.” Never harden.
Is entirely rare. I think that’s why we worked as friends, because of the basics of being private people of respect and dignity, love for the acoustic guitar, a fear of God, and existences made up of contradictions.
“I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn’t let me.”—Charles Bukowski (via transcendentaldreams)
“You’re not friends. You’ll never be friends. You’ll be in love till it kills you both. You’ll fight, and you’ll shag, and you’ll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you’ll never be friends. Love isn’t brains, children, it’s blood…blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love’s bitch, but at least I’m man enough to admit it.”—Spike, Buffy The Vampire Slayer (via whenthecamerasoff)
“My world falls apart, crumbles, “The centre cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go.”—
“The trouble with love is that once you’ve had it, it’s hard to want anything else, or anything less. So when it’s gone, it’s a shock to the system. Suddenly we’re stumbling around in the dark trying to find out where we’re supposed to go, what we’re supposed to do in order to heal. And after weeks and months and maybe years of searching, we finally find the light switch and are able to stand on our two feet without tripping.
And that’s when some part of us, conscious or not, decides to do it all over again.”—