Once I was a genius, now I am myself.

Now, there is the story that must be told, and there is the story that can’t be told, and sometimes they are the same story.

—Richard Siken, Love From a Distance (via henrikiibsen)

I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good.

—Richard Siken (via henrikiibsen)

Character-traits are secret psychoses.

—Sandor Ferenczi (via human-voices)

Of course that is not the whole story, but that is the way with stories; we make them what we will. It’s a way of explaining the universe while leaving the universe unexplained, it’s a way of keeping it all alive, not boxing it into time. Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently.

Jeanette WintersonOranges Are Not the Only Fruit
(via bookmania)

(via teachingliteracy)

At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via larmoyante)

(via allthelions)


Im a fun person ok but whenever someone cute talks to me i turn into a fucking raisin

(via loseit-alll)

I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love.

—Kuba Wojewodzki, Polish journalist and comedian (via childoflust)

(Source: ughbenedict, via lua-a)

There’s a dream where we break all the dishes in my kitchen and then
eat the pieces.
I know it’s a dream because we are still alive after we swallow.
It sounds more like a nightmare,
and it would be, except that we are together,
so even the fractured ceramic is tender as we chew it.

There’s a dream where we want our own world,
so we cut it out of blue and green paper like a science project,
except your silhouette is every piece of land
and my spine is every mountain range laying across you.

Here are the broken plates
mending inside of us, healing soft and pliant, bending like the necks of swans,
forgetting that they are glass.
Maybe we can forget, too.
I can kiss you where it’s sharp
until you can’t remember how the pain
made you someone to be afraid of.

There’s a dream where nothing bleeds, but everything is alive,
where broken things can be made
unbroken just by wishing it.

Let me tell you about the earth
and what it looked like before we
got our hands on it.
Let me tell you about the earth and
how it broke apart like a plate on
the tile floor.
We all know what it is to be unmade.
In a dream, we tried to forget.

Caitlyn Siehl, "Drift" (via alonesomes)

(via palidoeazul)