Nº. 1 of  60

There's an art to everything

He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.” 

(Kate Chopin, “The Awakening”)

It’s just not how I expected my life would be … I suppose — this sounds stupid, but I suppose I thought there’d be more of a narrative arc. A direction. A point. A sense that it’s not just a bunch of days piling up on top of each other.

—Paul Murray, Skippy Dies (via fuckyeahmentalhealth)

(via nogreatillusion)

Over the past couple of years, I haven’t felt completely lost all of the time, but—

But for too long—much too long—I have felt adrift. I have been shuffling along, waiting for something, for anything, for anyone, to just give me a sign, to tell me what to do. 

The old adage: life is very short. The other: life is very long. Both scare me.

But for the first time in a damn long time, I am excited about my future. I know I will flail about, I will be tired and pissed off and stressed—but, my god, I am moving to a new city. I am starting fresh. 

I know so few people here. I know I might be lonely as hell most days. But I still feel hopeful, and I feel excited for the future, and the possibility that it could be fulfilling and stimulating and just…good. And, for me, that is no small thing. 

I may very well just fall back in to my old ways. But hope springs eternal—and having hope, feeling that a beautiful future exists out there for you, is no small thing.

You’re the same
wilderness you’ve always

been, slashing through briars,
the bracken
of your invasive
self. So he said,
in a dream. But

the rest of it—all the rest—
was waking…”

(Civilization, Carl Phillips)

I feel like there’s something terrible and wonderful and amazing that’s just beyond my grasp. I have dreams about it. I do dream, by the way. It hovers over me at odd moments. And then it’s gone. I feel like I’m always on the brink of something that never arrives. I want to either have it or be free of it.” 

(Michael Cunningham, “Specimen Days”)

Almost. It’s a big word for me. I feel it everywhere. Almost home. Almost happy. Almost changed. Almost, but not quite. Not yet. Soon, maybe.

—Joan Bauer (via 13neighbors)

…and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, ‘That was fine’. And your life is a long line of fine.

—Gillian Flynn (via uglypnis)

(via never-take-it-seriously)

"Open up your eyes

You can see the flames of your wasted life

You should be ashamed
You don’t want to waste your life…

All your life is such a shame, shame, shame…”

(Counting Crows, “Murder of One”)

(Source: hannah90, via nogreatillusion)

There were many nights when I would worry myself out of a dead sleep and think Christ, I’m not doing it yet, and I’d think, doing what, and I’d think back, the thing I’m supposed to be doing, the special thing, I’m not special yet, and I’m going to die if I don’t do it, and I’d think well what is it but I refused to elaborate.

The Only Time I’ve Ever Been To Connecticut | Mallory Ortberg (via christinefriar)

(via nogreatillusion)

"I grow old … I grow old … 
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.”

(T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”)

seafoamchild:

places i wish i was

  • on a spring picnic in a quaint english village
  • eating macaroons in a parisian boulangerie
  • sipping a pumpkin latte in a warm coffee shop on a rainy october day
  • picking blackberries on an august morning
  • at a summer evening garden party, wearing a white dress and drinking champagne
  • exploring a very old cemetery
  • in a rowboat, watching the sun rise on a misty morning
  • watching the ocean waves from a high stony ledge

How do we forgive ourselves for all of the things we did not become?

—"14 Lines from Love Letters or Suicide Notes" by David ‘Doc’ Luben  (via bruisedkneesclub)

(via nogreatillusion)

memoryslandscape:

I don’t know which life I am living now.
A gentle wind leans into the trees. Evening
crawls up from the river bank. The words we never
say are looking for some path away from here,
maybe from that town a few hills over where
the leaves forget the earth that waits for them.

Richard Jackson, opening strophe to “Fear,” from Resonance: Poems (The Ashland Poetry Press, 2010)

(Source: twitter.com)

Nº. 1 of  60