we're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.
and one the storm is over you won't remember how you made it though, how you managed to survive.
you won't even be sure, in face, whether the storm is really over. but one thing is certain.
when you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in.
that's what this storm's all about.
you won't even be sure, in face, whether the storm is really over. but one thing is certain.
when you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in.
that's what this storm's all about.
haruki murakami
as virtuous men pass mildly away,and whisper to their souls to go,
whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"now his breath goes," and some say, "no."
so let us melt, and make no noise,
no tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'twere profanation of our joys
to tell the laity our love.
moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
men reckon what it did, and meant ;
but trepidation of the spheres,
though greater far, is innocent.
whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"now his breath goes," and some say, "no."
so let us melt, and make no noise,
no tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'twere profanation of our joys
to tell the laity our love.
moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
men reckon what it did, and meant ;
but trepidation of the spheres,
though greater far, is innocent.
dull sublunary lovers' love
—whose soul is sense—cannot admit
of absence, 'cause it doth remove
the thing which elemented it.
but we by a love so much refined,
that ourselves know not what it is,
inter-assurèd of the mind,
care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
our two souls therefore, which are one,
though I must go, endure not yet
a breach, but an expansion,
like gold to aery thinness beat.
if they be two, they are two so
as stiff twin compasses are two ;
thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
to move, but doth, if th' other do.
and though it in the centre sit,
yet, when the other far doth roam,
it leans, and hearkens after it,
and grows erect, as that comes home.
such wilt thou be to me, who must,
like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
thy firmness makes my circle just,
and makes me end where I begun.
it's when i'm standing six feet away from you and not being able to find the words to tell you how much i love you and how much i miss you that i want to just scream to the whole room that
i’m still in love with you.
i’m still in love with you.
it’s when i’m sitting alone with the phone in my hand dialing your number and hanging up that i would trade a thousand tomorrows for just one yesterday.
then i could just call you to tell you goodnight.
it’s when i am really sad about something and need someone to talk to that i realize you’re the only one who really knew me at all.
...it hits me how much i would give to hold you at that very moment.
it’s when i think about you that i realize no one else in the world is meant for me.
james frey
[a million little pieces]
life is too fucking short not to stay up all night reading.
the summer is too fucking long not to spend all your time outside, hitting a drum,
trying to tear everything up with your hands.
friends are too precious to care how they treat you. just stick with the ones that
want to feed you, believe in you, and travel with you.
there’s too much media to be picky or selective.
read, watch, listen to, and enjoy everything.
never be critical, never dismiss anything.
be open. be stupidly open.
what’s the fucking point in not trying to experience everything all at the same time?
florence syndrome, is a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to art,usually when the art is particularly beautiful or a large amount of art is in a single place. the term can also be used to describe a similar reaction when confronted with immense
beauty in the natural world.
beauty in the natural world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)