“You know, “I love you” is one of the greatest originally unoriginal phrases ever created. I mean it just seems so easy to say, three small, simple words that anyone can come up with. It’s been said about a billion times before, in every love story, in every relationship. But when you’re on your last sheet of paper, struggling desperately for the right words, it’s beautiful. I love you. And when the right person says it to you, and means it, it sounds like the most amazing combination of words in the English language. Not only that, but it sounds like it was written just for you. So creative and wonderful is the phrase “I love you”.”—(via treeswithoutleaves)
“I stood willingly and gladly in the characters of everything—other people, trees, clouds. And this is what I learned, that the world’s otherness is antidote to confusion—that standing within this otherness—the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books—can re-dignify the worst-stung heart.”—Mary Oliver on “staying alive” in Blue Pastures (via melancholynotes)
“Everything was for tomorrow, but tomorrow never came. The present was only a bridge and on this bridge they are still groaning, as the world groans, and not one idiot ever thinks of blowing up the bridge.”—Henry Miller (via thechocolatebrigade)
I don’t feel like things have changed. But they must have, somewhere along the line when I wasn’t paying attention, some things fell away and others latched on to me for dear life, not wanting to be discarded. When I was twelve I would go outside and I remember I would stay there and not want to find myself indoors till the sun had set and I had nowhere else to go. I don’t know what we did during the long hours of the day, where we hid from the sun. I remember making food out of mud and eucalyptus leaves, I remember playing with my Barbie dolls long past the acceptable age to play with dolls. I liked the make up stories, I liked using them as props, I liked pretending I was a secret agent or a ninja or a witch like Sabrina. Everything was good till a certain point and then everything felt bad and I remember instead I was the kindof person who didn’t want to leave the house for days. I would stay at home and read, I would hide in my bed, I didn’t want to be lost in a crowd, I didn’t want to see anyone or hear anyone. I wanted to be invisible.
I feel like we have separate lives. There’s the life I’m living when you’re not around. My regular life. And then there are these moments we share when we’re in the same place at the same time. I want you around for more than a day. More than two days. I want you all the time.
I want to get married. Probably not today or tomorrow, or even next year, but some day I will be someone’s wife. I will be proud to be someone’s wife. I want to be a mother. Probably not today or tomorrow, or even next year, but yeah, some day I want to be someone’s mother. I would be proud to be someone’s mother.
“When you stop [writing] you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again.”—Hemingway, The Paris Review (1958)
We used to have urban picnics, where he would come wake me at noon and we would walk down to the fish’n’chip shop to buy burgers that barely fit into our hands, smothered in mayonaise. We would find a little lane to sit in, our backs against the old wooden fence, small stones digging into our legs. He would make me laugh, even though I didn’t feel much like laughing. And It was all those small things he did, that helped me be put back together again. The picnics in the streets, the books left on my doorstep, the cds in my mailbox. Small things, to let me know I wasn’t alone, that he was waiting for me to claw my way out of my sadness and return to him.