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Madison Julius Cawein, “Solstice”

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Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in “The Selected Diaries of Virginia Woolf,”

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There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.

Virginia Woolf

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Fyodor Dostoevsky, from a letter featured in "Letters of Fyodor Michailovitch Dostoevsky to his Family & Friends,"

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Fyodor Dostoevsky, from a letter featured in "Letters of Fyodor Michailovitch Dostoevsky to his Family & Friends,"

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And so I ask myself :"Where are your dreams?' And I shake my head and mutter: 'How the years go by! " And I ask myself again: 'What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived?'

—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights

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“There’s an ocean inside your chest.”

— Chelsea Wolfe, from Pain Is Beauty; “House Of Metal,” c. September 2013

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Pink Floyd - Time // The Dark Side of the Moon // 1973

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Anis Mojgani, from “Here I Am”, Songs from Under the River: A Collection of Poetry

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Anthony Thomas Lombardi, from "self-portrait as murmuration"

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No, we're not soulmates. This is not divine intervention. And this is most certainly not chance. I willed this. I knit the threads of fate myself until they spelled your name.

I love you intentionally. I love you with every bit of conscience I was born with.

— marsadist (via twitter)

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Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

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— jay vespertine (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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work in progress

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hi everyone. does anybody else miss something they can never return to. anyone else being swallowed whole by grief. anyone else clinging to love as a life preserver

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“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”

— Ray Bradbury (b. 22 August 1920)