(via coldflowers)
im lauren
“
‘What of art?’
‘It is a malady.’
‘Love?’
‘An illusion.’
‘Religion?’
‘A fashionable substitute for belief.’
‘You are a sceptic.’
‘Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.’
‘What are you?’
‘To define is to limit.’
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via larmoyante)
i’m not going to fix myself for the sole reason that it will fit your definition of acceptable
“
How can you even think of killing yourself? (…) What if there’s no God, and you only go around once and that’s it. Well, you know, don’t you want to be part of the experience? You know, what the hell, it’s not all a drag. And I’m thinkin’ to myself, geez, I should stop ruining my life. Searching for answers I’m never gonna get, and just enjoy it while it lasts. And, you know, after, who knows? I mean, you know, maybe there is something. Nobody really knows. I know maybe is a very slim reed to hang your whole life on, but that’s the best we have.
Woody Allen, Hannah & Her Sisters (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via 2amconversations)
“
No night is too late and nothing is too much and nothing is enough.
Marya Hornbacher, Madness (via bruisingfetish)
(via twelve-ten)
“
This is not another cliche poem
about how the women I loved and perhaps still love
took a piece of my heart and left me.
This is the reality of trying to replace it,
trying to figure out
if she temporarily replaced the hole
that was already there.
This is the story of how I learned
that some people are born with empty spaces,
or live with the hollowness only a dead lover
can fill.
This is the acknowledgement and accepting
of the nothingness,
because fullness is perfect
and perfect is boring.
This is how I plan to spend the rest of my life:
befriending my nothing and occasionally visiting
my nothing with one night stands and cigarette smoke
and whiskey.
“This is”
“
He loved her in a subtle kind of way. It wasn’t the kind of love you see in movies, with swelling music and giant gestures and running through the streets to catch a departing train. It wasn’t the kind of love that Byron or Shakespeare wrote about, with flowery language and hyperbole and iambic pentameter. It was still and deep, like water that you might mistake for shallow if you just watched the surface. It was entirely his, not dependent on her own feelings for him, and it would still be there whether she, or him, or everyone else on the world disappeared. It was a subtle kind of love, but it was true.
Jake Christie, Small Stories (via perfect)
(via 2amconversations)
