“Listen. Are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?” — Mary Oliver (via oofpoetry)
(Source: tylerknott, via we-are-a-dying-breed)
“The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine; My thoughts follow the exact same process.” — Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 21 April 1918 (via c-ovet)
(Source: fuckyeahvirginiawoolf, via nogreatillusion)
“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.” — The Pale King (David Foster Wallace)
(Source: wordsthat-speak, via wordsthat-speak)
“Depression…is so tiresome. People cannot abide being around you when you are depressed. They might think that they ought to, and they might even try, but you know and they know that you are tedious beyond belief: you are irritable and paranoid and humorless and lifeless and critical and demanding and no reassurance is ever enough. You’re frightened, and you’re frightening, and you’re “not at all like yourself but will be soon,” but you know you won’t.”
(Kay Redfield Jamison, “An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness)
“Pitch-black winter nights live in my bones.” — Friedrich Nietzsche, from Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)
“My roommate’s not suicidal
But it sounds sexier than saying
that she closes her eyes sometimes
when she’s changing lanes.”
— Chad Anderson (via writingsforwinter)
“All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.”
(Abraham Lincoln)
(Source: adamthought, via dxxvii)
(via aninspiredmind)