“I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn’t understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. ‘Do? You? Really? Love? New? York?’ He said, ‘New York?’ I said, ‘Your. Shirt.’ He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said ‘New,’ and the Y and said ‘York.’ He looked confused, or embarrassed, or surprised, or maybe even mad. I couldn’t tell what he was feeling, because I couldn’t speak the language of his feelings. ‘I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean ‘you.’ Thought was ‘I love you.’ It was then that I noticed the ‘I♥NY’ poster on the wall, and the ’I♥NY’ flag over the door, and the ’I♥NY’ dishtowels, and the ’I♥NY’ lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, ‘Well, then why do you love everybody so much?’”—
extremely loud and incredible close - jonathan safran foer (via xtremelyloud)
“When I am sad
I sing, remembering
the redwing blackbird’s clack.
Then I want no thing
except to turn time back
to what I had
before love made me sad.
When I forget to weep,
I hear the peeping tree toads
creeping up the bark.
Love lies asleep
and dreams that everything
is in its golden net;
and I am caught there, too,
when I forget.”—Mantra by Ruth Stone, from In the Next Galaxy (thank you, apoetreflects)
“Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.”—
so you lost your trust and you never should have no you never should have.
I feel panicked being in such a small cage, when all I want to do is accept was is surely coming to me. I would want this so much. I would fight for this so much. I would want you to know that. To know that I tried my best. That I always try my best. And that I feel nauseous just thinking about the perfect possibilities, nauseous in a good, scary, flighty sort of way. Like when you’re home alone watching a scary movie and your stomach flies up to your chest when you think you feel breathing next to you.
But then you turn the lights on. And, you’re still alone.
“At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don’t need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens — that letting go — you let go because you can.”—Toni Morrison (thank you, zenlikeme, via ohlydiane)
“There’s a moment when love makes you believe in death for the first time. You recognize the one whose loss, even contemplated, you’ll carry forever, like a sleeping child. All grief, anyone’s grief… is the weight of a sleeping child.”—Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels (via growing-orbits)
Hi my name is Michelangelo & this might be random but i felt like I had to let you know that your words are inspiring! Im not sure how I came across your blog, but I have been following for quite some time & I feel like you must be one of the most interesting people I have come across. Anyway I hope Ireland happens for you, I would like to know more about your plans once there, anyway sorry for the wordiness & randomness of this note. Take care, & feel free to write back mmalone at sandiego. edu
This totally made my day. Thank you! You are so very sweet. What is your tumblr?
And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born Then it’s time to go And define your destination There’s so many different places to call home Because when you find yourself the villain in the story you have written It’s plain to see That sometimes the best intentions are in need of redemptions Would you agree? If so please show me
I was writing this long shpeel when what I really wanted to say was:
I’m tired. I’m sick. My back hurts. I have fallen in love with an unrealistic dream of moving to Ireland in the next 6 months. I am alone. I am tired of working a job at 530 in the morning—a job I wasn’t even hired to do. I am worried about my mom.
“A jaded traveler with an invisible passport,
I am at home with this heaven of the unforeseen,
waiting for the next whoosh of sudden departure
when, with no advance warning, to tiny augery,
the unpredictable plummets into our lives
from somewhere that looks like sky.”—from The Blue by Billy Collins (posted on the-final-sentence)
I gotta start living at some point. I have nothing here to hold me back. Save up some money, move to Ireland. And I’m pretty sure mother is going to leave my father and do the same thing. And I’m starting to think that it’s a fantastic idea.
I want to say that you had it coming to you, you had it coming. And now you’re lying in your grave and you say you’re sorry to me, say you’re sorry. But from six feet under it’s hard to hear you whimper. And I can barely see you crying. And I’ll be the first to fill this goddamn hole in the ground. And I’ll be the last to fix the goddamn hole in your heart. And I will fall in love with the sound that other people’s voices make on the phone. And I’ll taste every new hello as if I had been waiting for it my entire life. And you will still be lying there on your goddamn ass, too afraid to face your own demons, too weak to use your own hands and crawl out of this life you’ve created. Fuck you. Fuck all of you who reached up for my hand only to pull me down in your dark company. Screw you. Screw all of you who tangled your veins around my neck—selfish little bastards. I overcame you. So what did you ever do?
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”—Louise Erdrich (The Painted Drum)