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“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

— Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums (via amortizing)

“When I imagine myself I am barely there.”

— Clementine von Radics, “Sweet the Sound” from Dream Girl (via mythaelogy)

“Well, of course I’ve tried lavender. And pulling my memory out, ribbonlike and dripping. And shrieking into my pillow. And writing the poems. And making more friends. And baking warm brown cookies. And therapy. And intimacy. And pictures of rainbows. And all of the movies about lovers and the terrible things they do to each other. And watching the ones in other languages. And leaving the subtitles off. And listening to the language. And forgetting my name. And feeling the dirt on my skin. And screaming in the shower. And changing my shampoo. And living alone. And cutting my hair. And buying a turtle. And petting the cat. And traveling. And writing more poems. And touching a different body. And digging a grave. And digging a grave. Of course, I’ve tried it. Of course I have.”

— september is a weary month, yasmin belkhyr (via wildflowerveins)

“I was twenty-one at the time, about to turn twenty-two. No prospect of graduating soon, and yet no reason to quit school. Caught in the most curiously depressing circumstances. For months I’d been stuck, unable to take one step in any new direction. The world kept moving on; I alone was at a standstill. In the autumn, everything took a desolate cast, the colors swiftly fading before my eyes. The sunlight, the smell of the grass, the faintest patter of rain, everything got on my nerves. How many times did I dream of catching a train at night?”

— Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase  (via 5ft1)

“Have you ever had that feeling? That you’d like to go to a whole different place and become a whole different self?”

— Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle  (via mercurieux)

“But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move my living limbs into the world without too much pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight toward the pickup trucks break-necking down the road, because she thinks she loves them, because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud roaring things will love her back”

— Ada Limón, from ‘The Leash’ (via soracities)

“Sometimes I feel like a caretaker of a museum — a huge, empty museum where no one ever comes, and I’m watching over it for no one but myself.”

— Haruki Murakami, Pinball, 1973 (via larmoyante)

“Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.”

— Murakami, “Kafka on the Shore.” (via daisyflowerfairy)

“and the sound of the sea colors everything.”

— Louise Glück, from “Marriage,” A Village Life (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009)

“I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for.”

— Martha Gellhorn, in a letter to Hortense Flexner and Wyncie King, from Selected Letters of Martha Gellhorn (via cleminism)

“I feel numbered, and constricted all over. I barely fit inside myself.”

— Clarice Lispector, from Complete Stories; “Brasília” (via luthienne)

“If there really had been a Mercutio, and if there really were a Paradise, Mercutio might be hanging out with teenage Vietnam draftee casualties now, talking about what it felt like to die for other people’s vanity and foolishness.”

— Kurt Vonnegut, Hocus Pocus (via dukeofbookingham)

“I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made any sense, anything.”

— Richard Siken from “Straw House, Straw Dog” (via theclassicsreader)

“How living hurt. Living was an open wound.”

— Clarice Lispector, from Complete Stories; “The Departure of the Train”  (via mirroir)

“You remember too much, my mother said to me recently.Why hold onto all that? And I said, Where can I put it down?”

— Anne Carson, “The Glass Essay” (via wordsnquotes)

“She lives on a moor in the north. She lives alone. Spring opens like a blade there.”

— Anne Carson, from The Glass Essay; She  (via sempiternele)

“Today I will walk in the sun. I will simply walk in the sun.”

— Charles Bukowski, from a letter to Ann Bauman featured in Screams From The Balcony: Selected Letters 1960 - 1970 (via violentwavesofemotion)

“I’m thinking about people and trees and how I wish I could be silent more, be more tree than anything else, less clumsy and loud, less crow, more cool white pine, and how it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.”

— Ada Limón, from “Mowing” in Bright Dead Things  (via pigmenting)

““I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.””

— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via anamorphosis-and-isolate)

“Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not the flowers, not the blackberries brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees; I won’t whisper my own name. One morning the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident, and didn’t see me—and I thought: so this is the world. I’m not in it. It is beautiful.”

— Mary Oliver, “October” (excerpt)

“I keep remembering — I keep remembering. My heart has no pity on me.”

— Henri Barbusse, The Inferno (via thelovejournals)

“The way it’s night for many miles, and then suddenly / it’s not, it’s breakfast / and you’re standing in the shower for over an hour, / holding the bar of soap up to the light.”

—Richard Siken, from “Meanwhile” (Crush, 2005)