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I miss 😢 those days . I used to read novels and dreamt of their characters as I am the character. It was much easy and hurtles. This reality sucks .

Love in reality is much more messier.

This is how I lived back then– through books. I locked myself into their stories, dreamt of their characters at night, pretended to be them. They were my armour against the hard edges of reality.  

― Tomasz Jedrowski, Swimming in the Dark

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You won’t find me in someone else.

--Yasu 9 june

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I can say with great certainty and absolute honesty that I did not know what love was until I knew what love was not.

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I don’t trust words anymore. I only trust actions. People can pretend to do a lot without beeing serious about it.

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Freedom isn't enough. What I desire doesn't have a name yet.

— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart

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The worst loneliness is to not be comfortable with yourself.

- Mark Twain

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پتھر کے خدا، پتھر کے صنم، پتھر کے ہی انساں پائے ہیں

تم شہرِ محبت کہتے ہو، ہم جان بچا کر آئے ہیں

بت خانہ سمجھتے ہو جس کو، پوچھو نہ وہاں کیا حالت ہے

ہم لوگ وہیں سے لوٹے ہیں، بس شکر کرو لوٹ آئے ہیں

ہم سوچ رہے ہیں مُدّت سے، اب عمر گُزاریں بھی تو کہاں

صحرا میں خوش�� کے پھول نہیں، شہروں میں غموں کے سائے ہیں

ہونٹوں پہ تبسم ہلکا سا، آنکھوں میں نمی سی ہے فاکر

ہم اہلِ محبت پر اکثر، ایسے بھی زمانے آئے ہیں

سُدرشن فاکر

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Shall I recognize the one who loved me. Frail as I was, 

Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, from Modern Poets of France: An Anthology; “Homesickness"

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“The person you’re meant to be with will never have to be chased, begged or given an ultimatum.”

— Mandy Hale

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hearts of darkness (1991) dir. eleanor coppola, george hickenlooper, fax bahr

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A story within a story where a mother sits her rowdy children down and tells them a story about a the world's sweetest, kindest mother who never lost her temper, never cursed and never yelled at her children, no matter how rowdy they could get. She would only gently, kindly told them to not do the dangerous things. One day she sweetly, kindly told her children to not go play at the riverbank, because it's dangerous and they might slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die. Her children do not listen. They go play at the riverbank, where they slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die.

And the sweet perfect mother of the story comes to the riverbank, sees that all her children drowned, and starts crying so bitterly that angels overhear her, and the angels say to each other, "she does not deserve this, this woman has never done anything wrong in her life, this should not have happened to her", and feeling great pity for her, bring her children back to life, and after that they always listened to their mother and lived happily ever after.

And the storyteller's children, who at this point are familiar with the concept that these stories are supposed to have some sort of a moral or lesson in them, interject to point out that their mother hasn't always done everything perfectly, she isn't always sweet, curses a lot, and as a matter of fact loses her shit at her kids all the time. She isn't like the mother of the story at all.

And their mother agrees: Her children are correct. She is not a perfect mother who has never done anything wrong. Angels will not have pity on her, and they will not bring her little shits back to life if they go to the river and die. So they better fucking not go get themselves killed in the first place.

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"A Letter That Will Never Reach You", Hovhannes Grigoryan (translated by metamorphesque)

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William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra

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But this, here, now, was not reality. This was reality's back room.

— Lorrie Moore, from “Vissi D’Arte,” Like Life: Stories (Alfred A. Knopf, 1990)

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A Storm in the Rocky Mountains, Mt. Rosalie – Albert Bierstadt (detail) // Lofoten Island – Lev Lagorio // Rosenlaui – François Diday // Mount Elbrus in the Clouds – Nikolai Yaroshenko // Storm in the Mountains – Hermann Ottomar Herzog // Sierra Nevada – Albert Bierstadt // Rocky Mountain Landscape – Albert Bierstadt // Inkpot Gods – The Amazing Devil