You can pick a Writer from an early age, not because he or she is particularly clever or inclined to reading or even creating little picture books, all children may do this with the unconscious freedom of youth, yet later put aside such whimsy to become bankers and engineers. No, you shall discover the writer because the little devil will be an unrepentant liar. Not the sort of liar who tells tales to avoid punishment, but rather for whom the tale is itself a pleasure. A Writer of any age avoids the truth and bends the facts, because it makes a better story.
Can change who we are, can’t change who we were, can’t hide or run or disguise the years. False identities lead to false hopes. Make-believe is a clever sort of evasion but memories are indestructible. You only ever want me yesterday, but I’m already tomorrow.
Can not imagine anything worse than having everything I want. Longing is sometimes the only escape from ennui, which is the monotony of contentment, purgatory to the over-sensitive. Happiness is the opiate, desire is the stimulant. The greatest books, the truest art, the most aching music was made by those on the knife edge of longing. Only through exposing our wounds, our weakness, can we fill the emptiness in others. Happy people, who stifle their own desires and accept the ways things are, make mediocre art.
The greatest danger lies in thinking there is only ONE of anything.
When you are being insincere, they will deride you for it. When you are being sincere, they never quite know what to do with you, but dearly wish you would stop.
Drowning in all their unshed tears. This constant languor is a symptom of the daily struggle not to care so very much.
…and the worst of it is, not what you are, but what you could have been, and knowing it wasn’t that you were born under the wrong stars but that you never had the courage to climb up to them, you were always too afraid of falling to ever be a star…
"For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else. And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him."
Fyodor Dostoevsky (via enchanting)
(via booklover)
scorpio moon
There are no depths beyond the depths, none so deep that you don’t sink in with both feet, up to the waist. They say that with quick sand, you’ve got to lay down horizontal so as not to sink, but every time I lay down I’m sinking. There is a man in Morecambe whom the Queen pays to guide travellers across the sands, and I look for him in my dreams, with his walking stick (for measuring the depths.) Such a vanity, this idea of others being shallow, because we can’t see past the skin, can’t see the marrow is just as dark as our own. There are no deep souls, however pretty their words and pictures, only brave ones. Those who walk out on the sands and come back again, their gloves turned inside out against the faery lanterns. There are no depths beyond the depths we find by moonlight.
"The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd; the longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are."
Fernando Pessoa | Bernardo Soares, The Book of Disquiet (via itookadeepbreath)
(Source: happycollision, via booklover)
