“I wanted to go on sitting there, not talking, not listening to the others, keeping the moment precious for all time, because we were, peaceful all of us, we were content and drowsy even as the bee who droned above our heads. In a little while it would be different, there would come tomorrow, and the next day and another year. And we would be changed perhaps, never sitting quite like this again. Some of us would go away, or suffer, or die, the future stretched away in front of us, unknown, unseen, not perhaps what we wanted, not what we planned. This moment was safe though, this could not be touched. Here we sat together, hand-in-hand, and the past and the future mattered not at all. This was secure, this funny little fragment of time he would never remember, never think about again…For them it was just after lunch, quarter-past-three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day. They did not want to hold it close, imprisoned and secure, as I did. They were not afraid.”
—Daphne du Maurier (via obdormio)
June 2011
“Its like my emotions have been caccooned all along. Wrapped up in the safety shell that is my heart, growing each day, turning into something else as the time passes. Something more meaningful. Slowly morphing. And then one day, when my heart is ready, it slowly opens realeasing all my emotions in a flurry, letting them fly free. Their wings tickling the walls of my existence.”
—Whimsical Enlightenment: Butterflies
“I’ve always believed that writing is like sorcery.”
—Wei Hui (via lipsticksmiles)
“And then I cried a flood of tears as if I really were a mermaid who had absorbed too much sea into herself. The tears spilled like a balm, like a potion, like a charm. In them swam a little girl whose father was dying without ever having seen her. In them swam a girl whose mother’s magic – the only thing the girl envied more than anything else in the world, the thing that had made her invisible, the most precious thing –might be dying too. In them swam a green-haired girl who had never been touched by the boy to whom she was so devoted that she would have lived with him forever in a shack by the sea or a ruined sand castle even if he never made love to her. My tears were for me, but they were also for him. They were to wash away the thing that had frightened him so much so long ago. The wound inside his thigh. My tears poured out of me and he drank them down his throat. He drank them in gulps deep into himself, swallowing sorrow. ‘Someday,’ he said, ‘when we are ready, I will give you back your tears.’”
—Francesca Lia Block (via oleandermilk)
