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“I watch him in the kitchen, and I think of how much it hurts to love somebody. How deep the hurt is, how almost unbearable. It’s not the love that hurts; it’s the possibility of anything happening to the object of your love.”

— Augusten Burroughs, Magical Thinking

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I'm almost certain that I rely on books not just as a medium on entertaining myself. I went there to seek for the great perhaps, that I perhaps could find words that always troubled to appear on a surface but it's been in the back of my mind, that I perhaps able to feel all this time when I almost convince how stonehearted I become, that I perhaps just like other human with greatly flawed innocence, were only looking for a little bit of tolerance, in books everything are clearer, I catch myself becoming one with the character, which means I understood and tolerated by the writer, that perhaps that's how God feels when it see pass through me. It's pathetic to think how I found great joy on understanding myself towards other people ache, but I've been lost all this time, and no one I found is a mirror of myself, only in books I found similarities, even if it's partly, but how exciting.

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the vocabulary of loss is the dictionary

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James Baldwin.

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Fyodor Dostoevsky, Poor Folk (translated by C. J. Hogarth)

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the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

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― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit

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Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry

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Do you understand the violence it took to become this gentle?

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Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible. 

Carl Jung, “Memories, Dreams, Reflections”

I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. 

Franz Kafka, “Letters to Milena”

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I’m afraid to pour myself too much when I write

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—Salvador Plascencia, from The People Of Paper

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300122, S.T.

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I feel the desire to pray. I don’t know whom to address.

— Iman Mersal, from "As if the world were missing a blue window," The Threshold, tr. Robyn Creswell

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the way somebody comes back but only in a dream

1.)Hannah Lock, Not Quite Here / 2.)Wendell Berry, “A Meeting” / 3.)Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, tr. Anne Carson / 4.)Leila Chatti, “I Dreamed I Forgot” / 5.)Anna Akhmatova, Poem Without A Hero and Selected Poems, tr. Lenore Mayhew & William Mcnaughton / 6.)John Berger, A Seventh Man / 7.)Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, tr. Anne Carson / 8.)Xie Lei, Blow / 9.)Frank Bidart, “Light” / 10.)Li Qingzhao, “Tune: Pertridge Sky,” tr. Jiaosheng Wang / 11.)The Dog Island. Ubisoft, 2007 / 12.)Elisa Gonzalez, “After My Brother’s Death, I Reflect on the Iliad” / 13.)Ōtomo No Yakamochi, Written on the Sky; Poems from the Japanese, tr. Kenneth Rexroth / 14.)@/solavey, indigo / 15.)Louise Glück, 12.6.71