When I look at the stars, it feels like something awakens from within the deep confinement from my chest. A feeling that I can not fathom to explain as purely as it feels or explain just how tremendous that emotion is and how it encompasses all that I feel in its expanse as if being held in its hands. It is somewhere between bliss and an ache, like nostalgia but pain; its like memories you have never lived and if you have, some are your own while some vicarious, but regardless it feels like everything will be okay but a question remains about the future. How many times have people laid under the same sky or even looked at it and felt so much and pondered about the same things. How many souls from the past have learnt to live under this sky. It is like seeing hope glimmer bright enough to blind you yet guide you in the most breathtaking way. The night sky in its velvet vastness hides behind a veil with so much to uncover, which is much like our souls and the layers that are to the human mind and existence. To our amazement and wonder, to our breathing and heart beating. Nothing is truly dead, and everything exists with a chord that binds all together under the same sky. It's unbearably beautiful and astounding. Esoteric philosophy that lingers in my mind, wistfullness, ecstasy, and love and all that built a home in my heart. It is evident and a reminder of the fact that beauty is everywhere.
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"Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life."
– Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
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normalize reading a book without caring if the spine breaks, folded cover, misspelled annotations and just ruining the book completely as a form of art
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“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
“No harm in that. I’ve never known what to do,” said Rincewind with hollow cheerfulness. “Been completely at a loss my whole life.” He hesitated “I think it’s called being human, or something.”
Terry Pratchett, ‘Sourcery’.
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I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean 'sugary.' It's dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain.
— Catherine Breillat
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