my-book-quotes

Let your mind and heart rest for a while. You will catch up, the world will not stop spinning for you, but you will catch up. Take a rest.
—  cynthia go // Note to self ( @cynthiatingo )
There’s this funny feeling when you come around. I feel like you don’t even notice me at times, but our eyes catch each other’s one too many times for me to say that, am I wrong?
—  Midnight thoughts// Excerpts from a book I’ll never write # 19 // via (stuck-in-laughter)

I’m sorry for leaving…

I thought it was the right thing to do for me, for us. I thought if I left then it wouldn’t hurt as much. If you’re wondering how I feel about it now I would tell you that I was completely wrong and that nothing hurts more than this. Not even a knife to my chest could be of comparison to how I am feeling right now, knowing I messed you up but I messed myself even more. I thought space between us would allow us to heal but instead I find myself locked indoors, sleepless nights, continuous overthinking and barely eating a full meal anymore. My body has shut down not only physically but mentally as well. I know you probably think this is what I deserve for throwing your love away but if I could build up the courage to tell you how sorry i am then maybe someday I will be free of this terrible nightmare.

—  Tenari Ioapo // Apollogy to the love of my life #7.

Someone whose favorite laugh and smile is my own.

Someone I can tell stories to in pillow forts like children
and then kiss in the way children don’t.

One who makes me wish the day was a second longer
instead of hours shorter.

—  This someone is all I want
And I love you, but if I’m always asking you to tell me who I am, I’ll never learn that answer for myself.
—  from an unfinished story #462

previously my favourite genre of book was “fucked up 20-something woman’s messy public autobiographical psychic deconstruction of questionable relevance to any audience outside of woman exactly like herself” and while that can be validating to me that can also be a slippery slope when you’re trying to recover and all these woman for better or worse stew in their dysfunction proudly because they feel like being fucked up doesn’t just define their personality but their entire authorhood and to get better means to not be a writer anymore. idk i feel like that is too juvenile, for like, me lol, at this stage is my life i feel like reading something substantial and something that isn’t wholly centered on one woman and her sad solipsism. i mean i think these writers all have a special and necessary space because i’ll be fucked if men aren’t 10000% more narcissistic and selfish and generally unpalatable when it comes to them unpacking mental illness via text but its just not for me anymore really. maybe ill just read the encyclopedia of woodwork and call it a day

She was wildly drunk off the false prophecies of his love. Last night, after she left the imprints of her sadness on my white sheets, she’d promise she would sober up into reality. But, I found her again: red, giddy, and shit-faced, struggling to open her door with his shadow behind her.

I wanted to shake her awake, drown her in her feminist writings: give her a taste of the warrior within her words. Instead, she drowns herself in her own self-conscious sadness, wallowing in pity. She pulls herself down into hell’s abyss like a Penelope, except for her this is no abduction; this is a surrender to the weight of her desire, and I can’t pull her up anymore.

—  drunk // 12.05.2016 // terry nguyen
Why does it take a life ending to learn how to cherish each day? Why must we wait until we run out of time to start to accomplish all that we dreamed, when once we had all the time in the world? Why don’t we look at the person we love the most like it’s the last time we will ever see them? Because if we did, life would be so vibrant. Life would be so truly and completely lived.
—  Tillie Cole, A Thousand Boy Kisses.

“These images are from my book "NOT ALL” published by Poursuite Edition (Arles) in June 2016.

I wrote a short poem and add it at the end of the book :

A walk with life and death at the end of winter and at the birth of spring
When purple blooms everywhere along with Lenten churches and wisteria trees
Some of the places and faces that make up the Southeast
That’s not all.“

NOT ALL: Jedburg Road Near Moncks Corner, South Carolina by Pascal Amoyel (¼)

Constellations are such arbitrary things
Stick figures, born of imaginary lines
Drawn between infinitesimal points of light
Thousands of years ago, when we believed the gods had placed them there.

And yet, they endure.
We teach our children
To look to the sky, to find Orion
And Cassiopeia
And to trace the outlines of the stories of ages past,
Forever etched in the inky sky.

I think that
If I could choose a single place to be remembered
It would not be in books or word-of-mouth
Or even as another cryptic artwork, origins lost to time.
I would wish
To be remembered in the stars
In hopes of finding my place among the legends.
—  EMJ // Stick Figures In The Clear Night Sky