Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love”, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Louis de Bernières, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (via c0mets)

(via wordscolorssounds)


No matter how careful you are, there’s going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn’t experience it all. There’s that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should’ve been paying attention.
Chuck Palahniuk (via eloquia)

(via heavyheartsgrowlighter)


Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions destroyed.
Friedrich Nietzsche (via saddest-summer)

(via heavyheartsgrowlighter)


The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, Little Foxes (via bookoasis)

(via heavyheartsgrowlighter)



See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

The memory of oppressed people is one thing that cannot be taken away, and for such people, with such memories, revolt is always an inch below the surface.
Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States (via wordsfrombooks)

(via heavyheartsgrowlighter)


I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth itself.
Anaïs Nin, Under a Glass Bell (via wordsfrombooks)

(via heavyheartsgrowlighter)


And then [my heart] tumbles into sleep, grabbing me by the hair and pulling my down into these watery sleeps that are so terribly deep and cold.
Marya Hornbacher, Wasted (via the-final-sentence)

(via heavyheartsgrowlighter)


(via dreamdrifter)