“I have always swung back and forth between alienation and relatedness. As a child, I would run away from the beatings, from the obscene words, and always knew that if I could run far enough, then any leaf, any insect, any bird, any breeze could bring me to my true home. I knew I did not belong among people. Whatever they hated about me was a human thing; the nonhuman world has always loved me. I can’t remember when it was otherwise. But I have been emotionally crippled by this. There is nothing romantic about being young and angry, or even about turning that anger into art. I go through the motions of living in society, but never feel a part of it. When my family threw me away, every human on earth did likewise.”—Wendy Rose (via jaegerjaques)
“She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.”—Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated (via -warmtea)
“We are very good at preparing to live, but not very good at living. We know how to sacrifice ten years for a diploma and we are willing to work very hard to get a job, a car, a house, and so on. But we have difficulty remembering that we are alive in the present moment, the only moment there is for us.”—Thich Nhat Hanh (via -warmtea)
“I waste at least an hour every day lying in bed. Then I waste time pacing. I waste time thinking. I waste time being quiet and not saying anything because I’m afraid I’ll stutter.”—Ned Vizzini (via -warmtea)
I want to be a nice person who does nice things and make others around me feel nice inside. But I’m as fragile as I am broken and I’m not asking anyone to put me back together. I just want you to acknowledge that the little cuts and cracks on me are the parts that let out the most light; like sunlight through the gaps of a forest.
“I’m finished as a human being,’ she said. ‘All you’re looking at is the lingering memory of what I used to be. The most important part of me, what used to be inside, died years ago, and I’m just functioning by auto-memory.”—Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via rabbitinthemoon)