Regardless there’s something beautiful about stating the obvious. All of us do it in those moments when we can’t believe it we have to say it. It’s like pinching yourself to make sure you’re awake.
Take for example something as simple as touching someone; we so often say, ‘You’re so soft.’ And the person that touched them last may have said it for the twenty-eighth time, but today, I’m number twenty-nine. And I’m not saying it for her benefit; I’m saying it for mine. Because there’s almost seven billion people in the world, half of which are men, the number of them is 3.5 billion, pretty fucking cool that I was number twenty-nine.
by Shane Koyczan, More Often Than Sometimes(Source: larmoyante)
We wear clothes, and speak, and create civilizations, and believe we are more than wolves. But inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce and that is who we are.
by Anthony Marra, A Constellation of Vital Phenomena(Source: larmoyante)
The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.
by Georges Bataille(Source: likeafieldmouse)
I’d try to explain that it’s not really negativity or sadness anymore, it’s more just this detached, meaningless fog where you can’t feel anything about anything — even the things you love, even fun things — and you’re horribly bored and lonely.
by Allie Brosh/Hyperbole and a Half, Depression Part Two(Source: raspberrying, via vrban)
Now all you can do is wait. It must be hard for you, but there is a right time for everything. Like the ebb and flow of tides. No one can do anything to change them. When it is time to wait, you must wait.
by Haruki Murakami, The Wind Up Bird Chronicle(Source: vous-trouvez, via lunaoki)
You must be strong enough for this truth: you are not the life in you. You do not exist. There is nothing you can call “mine.” You do not own Life: it is Life that owns you. You endure it. It is a pure illusion to believe that this phantasm of a “Self” is able to live forever, following the decay of the body. Can’t you see that the relation with this body is essential to your “Self,” and that any illness, trauma, or accident has a precise influence on all of it’s faculties, no matter how “spiritual” and “superior” they may be? And now, detach yourself form your own self and cross the threshold, as you feel the rhythmic sensation of analogy, deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of the force that sustains your body. Here it looses name and individuation. The sensation of this force will expand to encompass the notions of “me” and “not-me,” pervading all nature, substantiating time, carrying myriads of beings along as if they were drunk or hypnotized, reaffirming itself in a thousand forms, irresistible, wild, limitless, burning with an eternal insufficiency and privation. Think to yourself: “This is.” If this knowledge leads you back to yourself, and as you experience a sense of deadly cold, you feel an abyss yawning beneath you: “I exist in this” - then you’ve achieved the knowledge of the waters.
by Julius Evola, 1929, Introduction to Magic: Rituals and Practical Techniques for the Magus(Source: ains0phaur, via litleaf)
Impossible, I realize, to enter another’s solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known. A man will say: I am cold. Or else he will say nothing, and we will see him shivering. Either way, we will know that he is cold. But what of the man who says nothing and does not shiver? Where all is intractable, here all is hermetic and evasive, one can do no more than observe. But whether one can make sense of what he observes is another matter entirely.
by Paul Auster, The Invention of Solitude
(Source: 13neighbors)
You don’t owe prettiness to anyone. Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don’t owe it to your mother, you don’t owe it to your children, you don’t owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked “female”.
by Erin McKean, You Don’t Have to Be Pretty(Source: larmoyante)
