“The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that they always see the past better than it was, the present worse than it is, and the future less resolved than it will be.”—Marcel Pagnol (via madame-curie)
“Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that’s all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.”—Mitch Albom (via aslovelyasatree)
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”—Louise Erdrich (via aslovelyasatree)
I’ve spent the last four years (some parts more active than others) believing that what I experienced with Brooks was special; “a pay-attention-to-that” kind of special. Like when someone is telling you a great story and you pick up on all the little crucial things.
Something about those memories and feelings have stayed alive in me. For a long time I believed that that was a sign that things weren’t over. A sign that I shouldn’t forget about him. Because I believe in people coming back for you. I believe in those moments when you quit your job or tell someone to “fuck off” because something inside of you clicks and you realize that you can’t not do it. I believe in saying what you have to say while your hands are shaking. I believe in matters of the heart overcoming matters of everyday business. I believe in sentiment. But I’m beginning to fear that maybe I’m just a big idiot who believes in beautiful stories and wonderful feelings and that really we might not have an ironic and warm story to tell about our hearts.
“Fat people who love themselves scare the shit out of people who don’t love themselves. Even fat people who are TRYING to love themselves scare the shit out of people who can’t do the same. We force people to have to look at why they hate their bodies because we are “supposed” to hate ours and we don’t. And sometimes they have no idea what to do with that, so they act like assholes.”—Tigress Osborn (via boybitch)
There once was a girl named Dylan. She didn’t like her name at first and had a lot of sadness. So much, in fact, that she left herself. She and her body went to many of the same places, one was blind and one couldn’t speak and they wandered around trying to figure it all out. Slowly, Dylan started to like her name, her eyes began to open and her body began to speak and the world rushed in.
As Dylan began to see how things movied and bumped; loved, forgot, bended and flowed, her body got louder and they grabbed hands. The world was much too much to handle on their own. This is when Dylan began to feel — and oh the things she felt.
One day Dylan remembered him. She remembered late car rides, secret notes, and music. Her body remembered - remembered goosebumps and her stomach turning over. Remembering these things, Dylan and her body felt heartbreak. They cried and held each other.
Soon after, Dylan and her body were flipping through a magazine when they saw some interviews of female comedians. Articles, interviews, advertisements - Dylan and her body started speaking and it started in her ribs, it pushed, it circled her heart and spread, growing outward like fingers and sunshine and Dylan and her body ignited.
She understood with everything inside of her that she would be in magazines like this, she and her body would give people goosebumpbs and make them laugh and cry and wonder.
And just like that the heartache was gone; they were swimming in dreams.
I sat on Brooks’ couch last night. I pet his cats. I drank from one of his water glasses. I can’t shake the fear of temporary. It took me four years to work up the courage to get over him, and yet there I sat, laughing like it was the first time all over again. ”I’m hoping you’ll lettuce be friends again” he wrote, the fucking pun being so like him. What do I do with this? What do you do when you’re on his couch laughing, and Beth-Ann’s shoes are still in their apartment because she hasn’t completely moved out yet? what do you do when you’re the person he refers to when she asks if someone is there? My horoscope told me to not be impulsive and I kind of hope it’s referring to the perfume I bought and not about walking into his apartment. Opening everything all over again.
Driving home and the rain melts the streets into oil paint reflections. Strong stop signs are merely streaks of fluid red mixing with the runoff of headlights. Everything is glass and puddles of paint on the ground. All it did was rain, and now reflections have lost all credibility.
“Everybody can use more love. Do not take offense if people are rude or unkind or seem like they are trying to hurt your feelings. You cannot know what is happening with them. Send them love no matter how they act. It will come back to you many times over as increased love in your life.”—Orin (via light-essence)
Admit it. You aren’t like them. You’re not even close. You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the “normal people” as they go about their automatic existences. For every time you say club passwords like “Have a nice day” and “Weather’s awful today, eh?”, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like “Tell me something that makes you cry” or “What do you think deja vu is for?”. Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence.
Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others.