Latest Posts by hopelessromantism - Page 4

“…and we drink our coffee and pretend not to look at each other.”

— Charles Bukowski, Luck (via lescinemas)

““We were young,“ she said. “Stupid."” “Crazy,” he added. “Selfish.” “In love.” “Yeah,” she whispered. “That, too.””

— excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via yourhandwrittenletter)

“I love that word. Forever. I love that forever doesn’t exist, but we have a word for it anyway, and use it all the time. It’s beautiful and doomed.”

— Viv Albertine (via quotemadness)

“I’ve always hated my name for some reason. It always sounded weird when it passed through my lips like it never belonged to me, but when I heard you say it for the first time it was as if it was the only name I’ve ever known. You didn’t shorten it or call me by a nickname it was always my own, nothing more nothing less. You said a name as beautiful as mine should never be butchered in such a way and I believed you. Then you left and the boy I talk to now calls me by a different name and you don’t call me at all.”

— S.Z / Excerpts from a book I’ll never finish #4 (via elvishbabes)

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. you won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. but one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

—

haruki murakami, kafka on the shore

it makes you stronger than ever

(via astound)

“Spring: You had sunset eyes; beautiful to stare at, but they told the story of a life that had been steadily moving downward. Summer: Dusk melted into your smile and watched while happiness became an ocean for our paper hearts to drown in. Fall: There are never enough letters to house broken hearts, but we still break glasses to borrow emotion for self combustion to write a new lullaby. Winter: My sadness tastes a lot like your name tonight.”

— How to lose yourself in a year. (via teacup12)

“And the sad part is, when you ask people about love they tell you about heartbreak.”

— (via carlhandy)

“We were walking the museum’s length and as we passed the artworks, I could’ve sworn I heard them weep because you were the masterpiece they couldn’t keep.”

— Me (JNH). Yes, you’re a masterpiece. (via shatteredjuveniledays)

“Why do you always look up?” he asked.

She doesn’t want to share her secret. She doesn’t want to tell anyone what the real reason is. Yet for him, she found herself honestly speaking. “I don’t always look up. I just stare at the sky, whenever I feel the need to breathe. I look up every time I wanted to tell the world that I survived another day. That I love how the stars shine as if they were smiling at me.” She glanced at him and said, “It’s stunning, you know. The sky. No matter what mood it shows me. No matter how imperfect it is. It’s wonderful. And it always reminds me that there’s something beautiful beyond everything.”

Infinite // ma.c.a

“If you don’t love her, leave her. If you can’t picture her in a white dress walking down the aisle towards you, leave her.If you aren’t able to see her as the woman who will raise your children, leave her. If you don’t like the way she looks first thing in the morning, leave her. If her laugh doesn’t warm you up inside, leave her. If her smile doesn’t take your breath away, leave her. If her love for the sky bores you, leave her. If she in general doesn’t fascinate you, leave her because someone out in the world is searching for this extraordinary girl who you believe is just ordinary.”

— Qu0tationmarks {She’s far from ordinary}

“I feel sorry for us, because we are too afraid to call ourselves beautiful in fear of being told differently.”

— S. Renea

“Listen to me, girl, you have castles inside your bones, coronets in your heart, if he threatens you with battle, you raise him a whole war, the last time I checked, Queens cower before no man.”

— Nikita Gill

cemeteries aren't creepy they're actually devoted to memory and rest and love and humanity

being as i am an idiot, and having been one my whole life, i just wanna say that i find it very easy to do nothing, and go nowhere. i eat chocolate late at night in the dark. i stand in the garden also. and i’m often waiting for something to happen. and i’m stupid.

harmony

i write poems to the moon

you sing to the stars

and it matters so much

especially when we're miles apart

i hold the starry night around my neck

you see it in real life

our harmony must make

such a wonderful sight

i hold my cousins close

you smile at every child you see

so let's watch our children grow

under our garden's tree

i think coffee is a waste

you say it's too bitter

let's drink our cocoa, my angel

and make life sweeter

i write poetry to piano keys

you dream to flute's gentle blows

the whole orchestra to ourselves

so let's meet in contrabass lows

angel, apart and close

are we an eternal dichotomy?

but maybe in another life we are

in perfect harmony

~astraeye

Dark academia’s not spending hours and hours studying and doing homework for your uni

It’s spending hours and hours studying and working at topics that are completely unrelated to what you’re doing at uni

i think there is something sad and beautiful about willingly letting some things happen. about seeing you phone battery dying and not charge it. about letting your schoolbag get soaked on a rainy day. about not fretting when you lose your ring in the ocean. about not trying to stop it when you see a cup falling to the ground. about letting some people go from your life without trying to make them stay

you'll be mad and sad after, but it means you had let that go before it even tried to go away. and i find this sad, but oddly beautiful

“In November, we feel the hand of death closer at our backs. “Since the day of my birth,” writes Jean Cocteau, “my death began its walk. It is walking towards me without hurrying.””

— Nina MacLaughlin, from “Death’s Footsteps”, The Paris Review

“But the best walking is without reason, formless, scattering the self into thinking, more winter.”

— Jennifer Chang, from “We Found the Body of a Young Deer Once”, Some Say the Lark

“On the streets, / everything looks human. You forget / certain animals are bloodless injured. / You must imagine some other color / that means hurt.”

— Maya C. Popa, from “Broken Periodic”, American Faith

“Every water surface, velvet smooth, offers up that tormenting image, with the “ungraspable phantom of life” below it. Lean over. Look. What’s there? What’s on the other side of that smooth surface? Fathomless depths, total dark, the great yawn, the shadow, the gape, the frightening mess that’s easier to avoid. Look and look. The surface is penetrable, just slip on through, but you don’t come out, or maybe you just don’t come out the same.”

— Nina MacLaughlin, from “All This Blood and Love”, The Paris Review (via voirlvmer)

i am haunted. i am my own haunting. i am the ghost in the graveyard of my body, mournful, monstrous.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that bodies are never singular, but rather haunted, strengthened, underscored by countless other bodies.”

— Eli Clare, Exile and Pride: Disability, Queerness, and Liberation

Longing is the absent chatting with the absent. The distant turning towards the distant. Longing is the spring’s thirst for the jar-carrying women and vice versa. Longing allows distance to recede, as if looking forward, although it may be called hope, were an adventure and a poetic notion. The present tense is hesitant and perplexed, the past tense hangs from a Cypress tree standing on its rooted leg behind a hill, enveloped in its dark green, listening intently to one sound only : the sound of the wind. Longing is the sound of the wind.

—Mahmoud Darwish, from “XIV”, In the Presence of Absence. Archipelago, 2011

“Why is it that one runs to one’s ruin? Why has destruction such a fascination?”

— Oscar Wilde, Only Dull People Are Brilliant at Breakfast

“And where should I go now that I’ve reached the sea?”

— Jennifer Chang, from “Myself — Be Noon to Him”, Some Say the Lark (via voirlvmer)

ma makes one aware of the presence of absence. It’s the gap where the moonlight sifts through; it’s the space between two slate stones that guide your steps along a path; it’s the hollow where ghosts gather; it’s the pause in conversation, the ripe silence of the unspoken.

Nina MacLaughlin, from “The Dark Feels Different in November” , The Paris Review

“People sometimes think of themselves as a picture that matches / an invented longing:”

— Mary Jo Bang, “The Earthquake She Slept Through” from The Last Two Seconds (via smokefalls)

“The stars know everything, So we try to read their minds. As distant as they are, We choose to whisper in their presence.”

— Charles Simic, from “Autumn Sky,” Poetry (October 2002)

“here’s the sea / anyway in front of you, here’s the / rest / (the waves whispering, as if waves could whisper)”

— Carl Phillips, from “Blue Wash on Linen Canvas, Believed Unfinished”, Pale Colors in a Tall Field (via voirlvmer)