Above all, do not lose your desire to walk.

Everyday, I walk myself into a state of well-being & walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. But by sitting still, & the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill. Thus if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.

by Søren Kierkegaard (via)

A feeling like all the surfaces inside you have been rubbed raw

It starts in the morning as soon as you wake up. You see the sun through the curtains, it’s a beautiful day maybe, it doesn’t matter. You turn over to see if you can sleep some more but it’s already too late for that. The day is upon you. You want to hide, to curl up in a ball, but that’s not what you really want either. After all. It doesn’t stop your mind, does it? It doesn’t stop the ache. It’s not an escape. The whole day in front of you. How will you bear it. You want to escape, but there’s no place you can go where it won’t be with you.

The Dogs of Babel, Carolyn Parkhurst

we all make mistakes, we do

Please sleep softly
Leave me no room for doubt

the present is forever

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone, it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second, you have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand…hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.


Journals (1950-1955), Sylvia Plath (via)

hope you stay.

oh I know you can hear me all those million miles away.

hi again, familiar feeling.

A solidão envolve-o, encerra-o dentro de si mesmo, e com isso vem um terror pior do que tudo o que conhecera até então. Causa-lhe perplexidade mudar tão rapidamente de um estado para outro, e durante muito tempo alterna entre os extremos, não sabendo qual é o verdadeiro e qual é o falso.

Fantasmas, A Trilogia de Nova Iorque, Paul Auster