Anonymity, s.v.p

"We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel… is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become."

- Ursula K. Le Guin (via misswallflower)

(via prettybooks)

"Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it’s a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it’s a way of making contact with someone else’s imagination after a day that’s all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss."

- Nora Ephron (via atomos)

(via prettybooks)

The heaviest emptiness

So vast, so devoid of anything that the absence becomes pressing, unbearable, impossible. A void that reaches far beyond the edges of reason or even fallacy, a boundary-less void, an unlimited weight.

Imprisoning.

The heaviest emptiness: immobile. Life cascades by and the weight stays pinned down through rapids and eddies, washed clean and raw, worn down and down and down and never lighter for any of the waves or tides or currents.

The heaviest emptiness. Lead-rimmed hollowness. Unbeatable, fixed, crushing. What can emptiness be emptied of? What is there to take away from nothing?

odolnost:

This is extremely accurate and worth watching.

(via prettyfitbody)

Coins and keys and feelings

But what’s left?

After the rain has dried and the mud has hardened and the dust has settled, what is there to hide the cracks?

Nothing.

They sit there exposed, glaring lines in the foundation, endless black depths into which coins and keys and feelings can fall for days, forever, and nobody hears them hit the bottom. People trip, people fall on these cracks. They curse these spaces in what should be a smooth exterior; they begrudge these inconsistencies. They wait impatiently for someone to come fill them, and then the filling sinks and cracks and they wait impatiently again while their toes catch and they strain to save face despite these incontinent gashes in expectations.

So she fills them with dirt and buries the seeds and she tends them daily until they grow and blossom and they aren’t cracks any longer but gardens.

—Go around, she tells them.

So they go around, and some of them kick the flowers and others pick them, and she tends them daily so they grow and blossom and they aren’t cracks any longer but gardens. She picks herself tulips, roses, daffodils, and she puts them in her hair. They walk past and they stop sometimes, they ask where to find flowers like hers, and she picks one for them. They wear them in their hair.

She doesn’t lose her coins or keys or feelings anymore.