“Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion. And when you go, with all that distance between us, I am afraid that this cord will be snapped, and I shall bleed inwardly.”
— Charlotte Brontë (via larmoyante)
(via coffeetablebooks)
6:10 pm • 24 May 2012 • 825 notes
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
zachislame:
How’s It Going to Be | Third Eye Blind
(Source: 90sjamz, via consciousburning)
7:38 am • 24 May 2012 • 235 notes
“I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via blua)
7:35 am • 24 May 2012 • 833 notes
“I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy.”
— Pablo Neruda, “I Like For You To Be Still” (via skeletales)
(Source: atomiclanterns, via coffeetablebooks)
8:32 am • 14 May 2012 • 264 notes
“Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.”
— “Catch a Body,” Ilse Bendorf (via clavicola)
12:50 pm • 13 May 2012 • 305 notes
