Diving Head First

Failing is better than giving up because failure shows what's not right, while giving up shows, that we didn't even deserve a chance.

I am the midnight of a soul I’m the other side of the wall The fissure between the tops Ever-hunted blood-red fox I am the glimpse of a thought I’m the wave broken by rocks A mystery of nothing Trapped, caught by snares whilst hunting I am the smoke of a burnt-out candle The smell of night The sight of blinds I am the broken glass’ torn-down handle The weight of light The might of fright But dawn follows the night I’ll enjoy an eagle’s flight And I already know Why I wait tomorrow

(via bernatk)

I got that same feel now, more than a year after writing this, though nothing's the same really ... #revival

Hope comes with faith. Faith is originated from past experiences, revelations and decisions, while hope in the other hand, is belief in uncertain things of the future, which could not be thought of without the first word of the sentence. Of course, without hope, what good would faith be?

How to stay friends

Befriend with the humorous guy in your class when you're 13. Let this friendship be loose and neglect each other. Then, when you hit the age of 14 or 15, start making inside jokes, watch movies together. When the others think you're weirdos, start dreaming big, believe, that the two of you can achieve antyhing. Then you'll be ridiculed by the people surrounding you, but you won't mind because they all seem to be irrelevant a-holes, since you two really WILL do something big. Someday... Then have a girlfriend, the normal teenage-love, which is idiotic and harmful in more than several ways. When your friend is against it, don't rely on his advice and make a fool of yourself. When it ends, just admit you were wrong and return to being friends. Graduate from school, go to uni. Grow up, start searching for jobs. Get acquinted with new people, who are fresh and exciting to you. Start feeling odd, then normal, then odd again and finally realise you're just a person, ergo completely like all other humans. And at the end of the day, when one dream collapses after the other and you're, again, running after your dreams from years ago, you know who's the one to call to help you out in writing a damn query letter for the thousandth time. Yes, it's them, the good old friends. They laugh at you and they always say you're just the same and repeat their old phrases over and over again but it doesn't bother you. Because they're your friends.

We all are lucky to have these people. Friendships might not be the brightly blazing fires of life but they will certainly be the most important relationships of it. Because someday you may find the girl, who used to be your closest friend, standing in front of you, lowly whispering 'I do' in a wedding dress, while your old friend keeps mouthing a joke about your favourite movie in the background...

My girlfriend and I visited a castle last weekend. It was smaller than the ones people usually visit, though I dare say it was much more picturesque, than any one I have ever seen.

My girlfriend is a very inspirational person and I'm glad she convinced me to go. I like castles and nice buildings just fine but an unusually busy period of summer was just over, so I felt overall tired-- almost too tired to go.

After exploring every empty hall, every majestic architectural feat, we headed home. I was happy to be able to rest and also to have visited this castle. The whole thing was good as it was.

Later (now), sitting at home, this trip began to hold importance, other than being a fantastic vacation. As it is said above, I've been very active recently. I was so active, in fact, that I've begun to believe, that it is all right to stop for a little while. Well, OK, periods of relaxation are inevitable, that's true. What I realized, though, is, that even in times of rest and peace, I can't stop completely. We aren't cars, which you turn off, when you arrive at home and turn on the next morning, when you want to go to work. Our breathing doesn't stop, our hearts don't stop beating. Even when the world is quiet, we need to stay in motion, or else, much like our organs, we will be difficult to reactivate. Life can be grand but only if we live it.

...you say that it’s a confession of weakness for a scientist not to write.

Fitzgerald - Tender is the Night

Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" - she always called me Elwood - "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant." Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

Elwood P. Dowd (Harvey)

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Scott F. Fitzgerald

When I was sixteen I read The Great Gatsby, and oh - Oh! I said, how it flows, how does this gorgeous iambic pentameter work its way through the valves of my arteries? ‘Within and without’ runs in my blood. Everything sounds like money to me. I wandered lonely as a cloud, only, no, old sport, I don’t wander, I plan. I lift weights like Benjamin Franklin. I gaze out, out, out, I am the poet. I am the huntsman. I lie in wait. I have for years. Sometimes I forget about The Bell Jar, but I remember The Iron Giant. Let me tell you, I’ve watched that movie every year of my life since I was seven years old, and I fell in love with the robot from a children’s story book to the big screen. I have since studied Metamorphoses and watched the hawk fly through the rain, but choking to death on my own breath? A touchy subject. What does F. Scott Fitzgerald have to say for himself when his wife’s journals lay strewn across his back catalogue? Where was Ted Hughes when Sylvia Plath collapsed in the kitchen? Boasting about his own work, or belittling hers? In 2008 The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of ‘The 50 greatest British writers since 1945’. Where is Sylvia Plath? Where is Zelda Fitzgerald? Where are the women? Where are the gentle hands, the voices that clink like coins, where are the dangerous curves, where is the soaring fire of our generation? Show me your nails, filed to claws. Give me your ragged hearts, give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, give me your words. I want to hear your voices, louder and more insistent than ever before. I want The Times to write a new list. I need to hear the murmurs of agreement of every lecturer in the Arts and Humanities department of each university as they turn it over in their hands. To see a split between every gender so even that no one remembers where the line is, where the line ever was. This wave’s classic writers are gone, so bare your teeth and show me your fighting stance.

we are still behind the yellow wallpaper | ishani jasmin (via ishanijasmin)

So beautiful, so complicated, so problematic...