You either like me or you don’t. It took me twenty-something years to learn how to love myself, I don’t have that kinda time to convince somebody else.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
I must get back into the world of my creative mind: otherwise, I die. I must be lean and write and make worlds beside this to live in.
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
All my life, I have been in love with the sky. Even when everything was falling apart around me, the sky was always there for me.
Eyes. Those damn eyes fucked me forever. We made love just looking at them.
“
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Charles Bukowski (via hrsvt)
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Silence is the essential condition of happiness.
I only see the faults, flaws, the imperfections. That attracts me.
In order to write about life first you must live it.
No one in my family, not one of my friends or classmates realized that I was going through life asleep.
It was literally true: I was going through life asleep. My body had no more feeling than a drowned corpse. My very existence, my life in the world, seemed like a hallucination. A strong wind would make me think my body was about to be blown to the end of the earth, to some land I had never seen or heard of, where my mind and body would separate forever. ‘Hold tight,’ I would tell myself, but there was nothing for me to hold on to.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear.
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.
“
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Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via larmoyante)
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We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.
I want you to stay with me. And that’s the problem. Every time you leave me, I need you a little bit more.
“
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Karina Halle, Lying Season (via fckypym)
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