"The rest of your life is a long time and whether you know it or not it’s being shaped right now. You can choose to blame your circumstances on fate or bad luck or bad choices. Or you can fight back. Things aren’t always going to be fair in the real world. That’s just the way it is. But for the most part, you get what you give."
- One Tree Hill (via forallthatislost)
(Source: nagging, via thegreenstone)
"The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by an invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing."
- J.K. Rowling (via xenium)
(via quieteus)
(via mykindafairytalee)
"I don’t think of time off as writing blocks. I think that’s a western notion of demonizing inactivity. When your imagination decides it needs to take a nap, then maybe that’s what it needs to do."
- Elliott Smith (via elliottsmithappreciation)
(via crowshear)
Nothing moves me more and prompts me to write better than Pablo Neruda; “Clenched Soul” in particular. We have lost even this twilight. No one saw us this evening hand in hand while the blue night dropped on the world. I have seen from my window the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops. Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand. I remembered you with my soul clenched in that sadness of mine that you know. Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away? The book fell that always closed at twilight and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet. Always, always you recede through the evenings toward the twilight erasing statues.
Clenched Soul by Pablo Neruda
(via mykindafairytalee)
Never in my life have I felt anything like that.
(Source: pre-cum, via sophielouisep)
"I marvel at the calm of the Japanese haiku poets who just enjoy the passage of days and live in what they call “Do-Nothing-Huts” and are sad, then gay, then sad, then gay, like sparrows and burros and nervous American writers."
- Jack Kerouac, in a letter to John Clellon Holmes (Thank you, petitchou)
(via crashinglybeautiful)
