Wild child full of grace, savior of the human race.

“A long time ago, in the Underground Realm, where there are no lies or pain, there lived a princess who dreamt of the human world. She dreamed of blue skies, soft breeze and sunshine. One day, eluding her keepers, the princess escaped. Once outside, the bright sun blinded her and erased her memory. She forgot who she was and where she came from. Her body suffered cold, sickness and pain. Eventually, she died. However, her father, the King, always knew that the Princess’ soul would return, perhaps in another body, in another place, at another time. He would wait for her, until he drew his last breath, until the world stopped turning.”

-Pan's Labyrinth

You Remind me of a Firework, Boy

Her life was a slow realization that the world was not for her, and that for whatever reason, she would never be happy and honest at the same time. She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release...

So she had to satisfy herself with the idea of love--loving the loving of things whose existence she didn't care at all about. Love itself became the object of her love. She loved herself in love, she loved loving love, as love loves loving, and was able, in that way, to reconcile herself with a world that fell so short of what she would have hoped for. It was not the world that was the great and saving lie, but her willingness to make it beautiful and fair, to live a once-removed life, in a world once-removed from the one in which everyone else seemed to exit.

-Foer

Happiness: happiness of unconditional love, happiness of company, happiness of being understood, kissing happiness, happiness of nostalgia, happiness of letting go, floating on happiness, happiness of reminders, happiness of finding the perfect words to express what you mean, happiness of doing exactly what you want exactly when you want, happiness of seeing things for the first time, happiness of things that are static

Sadness: sadness of being misunderstood, sadness of love without release, sadness of not knowing enough words to express what you mean, sadness of having options, sadness of wanting sadness, sadness of confusion, sadness of finishing a book, sadness of remembering, sadness of forgetting, anxiety sadness, sadness of feeling the need to create beautiful things, sadness of moving too quickly, sadness of laughter that’s not infinite

If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweler’s felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does.  Stay by me because that is what friends do in the presence of evil or love. Even when I can’t see it, show me that everything is illuminated. Keep me from sadness things. Like sadness of being misunderstood, sadness of love without release, sadness of not knowing enough words to express what you mean, sadness of confusion, sadness of remembering, sadness of forgetting, anxiety sadness, kissing sadness, sadness of laughter that’s not infinite. If our diamond doorbell breaks, keep it just for looks.

from: History of Love and/or Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Jan 24, 2007

She’s growing weary of her location on the couch, so she gets up and runs the filter of her cigarette over the white film left on the magazine, not hoping for a miracle. Her friends eyes tell her to hold on while she grabs a cigarette of her own, hand in hand they seem ready for a miracle, or maybe just a sit on a step. Here she is again, sitting on that front step with nothing but a cigarette and a new friend. Her life demands a new language when she has too many worried thoughts to sort through, but on a night like this there are no thoughts really. She is just left with the intoxication of the smoke that controls her lungs, but she is free.

There’s a temper in her words as she banters the lovely with her new friend, waiting for her old friend to close the door and come down the stairs. Her friend stops and says, “most days aren’t card games, they are much more raw, and much less restricted.” She says it not with a sense of experience, but with a sense of what impending experiences might make her feel.

There’s beauty in the simplicity of not having to worry about the night. She recognizes the beauty in the yellow light inside. The West took the sun away, and she wants to go too. She can feel some form of memory in the voices of the naïve mothers as they advise their children to come inside because it’s getting late. She can hardly remember back to a time when eight o’clock was considered late.

She feels the cigarette between her fingers as it slides through her lips with the words and the gin, and realizes that she has no more room for teenage antics. There is a sense of freedom and age in the steps she takes to the nearest bar with her old and new friend. It seems like the greatest, but most reluctant feeling in the world. It’s nearly impossible for her to allow herself to feel even modestly happy. She has tried, in her way, to be free. And now she can feel it in everything.

And aint it great, the feeling of having nothing but borrowed clothes on your back and a friend in your hand. For a minute, she knows she has everything. A flower in her hand and all the time in the world. There’s no more room for outrageous antics, and that’s a stability that her heart is beginning to accept.

              Salty words don’t make a pretty paragraph.

“‘I feel too much. That’s what’s going on.’ 

‘Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?’ 
‘My insides don’t match up with my outsides.’ 
‘Do anyone’s insides and outsides match up?’
‘I don’t know. I’m only me.’ 
‘Maybe that’s what a person’s personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.’ 
‘But it’s worse for me.’ 
‘I wonder if everyone thinks it’s worse for him.’ 
‘Probably. But it really is worse for me.”

-Oskar Schell

In this weird, unlucky week. I am feeling the same way as Oskar. 

Penniless and Tired, With Your Hair Grown Long

Penniless and tired, with your hair grown long
I was looking at you there and your face looked wrong
Memory is a fickle siren song
I didn't understand

In the gentle light as the morning nears
You don't say a single word of your last two years
Well you will be, you've reached the frontier
I didn't understand

See your rugged hands and a silver knife
Twenty dollars in your hand makes you hold so tight
All the evidence of your vacant life
My brother you were born

And you will try to do what you did before
Pull the wool over your eyes
For a week or more
Let your family take you back to your original mind

-Fleet Foxes

Kids

“oh, take their picture, said the woman to her bemused husband, i think they’re artists. oh, go on, he shrugged. they’re just kids.”

“Thomas Edison’s last words were "It’s very beautiful over there". I don’t know where "there" is, but I believe it’s somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful.”
-John Green

“But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed”

-John Steinbeck, East of Eden

 

 I'M GOING TO PARIS I'M GOING TO PARIS I'M GOING TO PARIS I'M GOING TO PARIS.

 we've all got broken strings but we try our best not to think of those kinds of things. I find myself thinking about how dark and swampy your eyes get in november and june. i find myself thinking about how the hottest stars are always white and blue. I wonder about love sometimes and the bodies I've seen it come in. How when we hit the light we never stay for long. Maybe our bodies weren't built for this. but I'll never be sorry for all the feelings that I bear in all the places they cannot fit. Sometimes when I listen carefully I think I hear you singing. maybe it's just the sound of the wind hitting our broken strings. but this world is a very lonely place if you never learn 
how to love
broken 
things. 

If I get murdered in the city
Don’t go revengin' in my name
One person dead from such is plenty
No need to go get locked away

When I leave your arms
The things that I think of
No need to get over alarmed
I’m comin home

I wonder which brother is better
Which one our parents love the most
I sure did get in lots of trouble
They said to let the other go

A tear fell from my father’s eyes
I wondered what my dad would say
He said I love you
And I’m proud of you both, in so many different ways

If I get murdered in the city
Go read the letter in my desk
Don’t worry with all my belongings
But pay attention to the list

Make sure my sister knows I loved her
Make sure my mother knows the same
Always remember, there is nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name

Always remember, there is nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name
-The Avett Brothers

I Loved you on May 21

January 14, 2010

The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"Remembering and forgetting are part of the same mental process. To write down one detail of an event is to not write down another (unless you keep writing forever). To remember on thing is to let another slip from rememberance (unless you keep recalling forever). There is an ethical as well as violent forgetting. We can't hold on to everything we've known so far. So the question is not whether we forget but what, or whom, we forget."

-Foer