How are you feeling in ancient September
I am feeling like a truck on a wet highway
How can you
You were made in the image of god
I was not

Frank O’Hara, from ‘Naphtha’ (via rabbitinthemoon)

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis (via manarr2)

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

Franz Kafka  (via manarr2)

Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Khalil Gibran, The Prophet (via observando)

Tried living in the real world instead of a shell, but I was bored before I even began.

Morrissey (via manarr2)

What was I going to say? Something about the violent moods of my soul. I think I grow more and more poetic. Perhaps I restrained it, and now, like a plant in a pot it begins to crack the earthenware.

Virginia Woolf, from Selected Diaries  (via goghst)

Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the Universe together into one garment for us.

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (via observando)

Had I simply understood that life had no meaning I could have borne it quietly, knowing that that was my lot. But I could not satisfy myself with that. Had I been like a man living in a wood from which he knows there is no exit, I could have lived; but I was like one lost in a wood who, horrified at having lost his way, rushes about wishing to find the road. He knows that each step he takes confuses him more and more, but still he cannot help rushing about. It was indeed terrible. And to rid myself of the terror I wished to kill myself.

Leo Tolstoy (via charlottexroy)

To realize that all your life, all you love, all you hate, all your memory all your pain. It was all the same thing. It was all the same dream. The dream that you had inside a locked room. A dream about being a person. And then like a lot of dreams, there’s a monster at the end of it.

Rust Cohle True Detective (via thatsirencall)