(via coloredmondays)
oh look it's a giraffe!— White Oleander (via notsoplainemilyjane)
— Cat’s Eye, Margaret Atwood (via helplesslyamazed)
(Source: quote-book)
How will it matter, right after I’m gone? Because you never heard a god-damned thing.
“Disenchanted” - My Chemical Romance
— Augusten Burroughs, Dry (via creatingaquietmind)
(Source: foolreality, via creatingaquietmind)
When I pass by strangers on the streets, and I make eye contact, I feel instinctive fear. It’s because unlike the people I surround myself with, I know nothing about these people. I can’t sense what they’re feeling, what they’re thinking, and I can’t tell what they’re going to do next.
This blindness and uncertainty scares me. It’s like looking into a pool of water so dark and black that the bottom is nowhere in sight. It’s impossible to tell how deep or shallow it may be, and it’s impossible to tell what could be down there. Is the blackness so deep that I could fall in and suffocate? Is it so shallow that I could simply reach out and skim the bottom? Would that be disappointing, or a relief? Would it hurt me, save me, love me, or hate me?
All I can see is my own reflection, recognizable only because it is something of my own, and in reality tells me nothing about the waters.
The strangeness in strangers frightens me.
Sometimes I get the urge to pick a fight with people I am unsure of when I feel lonely. I guess part of the reason is that I feel like I need to confront them, and I can never do it when things seem so amicable. But I think a bigger part of the reason is that if we got mad at each other, I’d be able to release my fears and concerns and all the pent up frustration, and for once they would look at me and realize that I’m here, I exist, and that all along I just wanted to make sure they’d cared enough to fight back and reassure me, even if it’s through angry words.
Or maybe I just wanted to be sure of their honest feelings. It’s much harder to lie when you’re angry.
Whatever the reason, it’s pretty pathetic.
Sometimes on the subway I watch people. I try to see if they look happy, sad, worried, and if they’re deep in though I try to imagine what they could be thinking about. Work? Family? Relationships? It gets a bit awkward if they catch me watching though. Still, it amazes me sometimes that I could have passed by thousands of people in my life and each of them are living in their own world created by their unique thoughts and feelings. How many people have I passed could have been very similar to me? How many would I have absolutely hated?
— Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last (via larmoyante)