theunquotables

Get scared. It will do you good. Smoke a bit, stare blankly at some ceilings, beat your head against some walls, refuse to see some people, paint and write. Get scared some more. Allow your little mind to do nothing but function. Stay inside, go out - I don’t care what you’ll do; but stay scared as hell. You will never be able to experience everything. So, please, do poetical justice to your soul and simply experience yourself.
—  Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959
Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
—  Andrea Gibson
I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
—  Charles Bukowski

Tomorrow is the last night
till our love becomes an ellipses.
Me, leaving. You, going — the
distance between us stretching
across state lines that for me
hold oceans between them.
Please. I press my lips against your skin
like a plea. Your fingers between mine
are prayers that I’ve been trying to find the
words for since the first time I woke up
from a dream about angels to see you
looking at me with the sky
in your eyes.

The worst part about being human is having
a heart so susceptible to metaphors.

Your lips are tulips in the vase of my throat.
You photosynthesize and my blood is made of chlorophyll.

I can’t differentiate between your pulse and mine
and I want to tell you that
All my poems sound like sighs since I’ve met you,
but you’re painting my neck the color of your breath
and I’m so distracted, thinking of you and your lashes
that furl and unfurl just for me, tonight.

You are the summer of the seven-year locusts.
You are so much that it’s breaking my heart.

I read you the first page of a novel by Nathacha Appanah
but I’m terrible at words so you kiss them away.

The night yawns and wraps its arms
around us both. You hold me closer and I want to cry.

I write what I have never told you slowly on your skin.

Do you know how it hurts to touch you
knowing that in the morning I’ll still wake up alone?

Tomorrow is the last night
till our love becomes an ellipses.
I don’t want to think of all those suns
that will rise without you.

—  Shinji Moon, I Love You

In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in His cosmic loneliness.

And God said, “Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done.” And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close as mud as man sat up, looked around, and spoke. Man blinked. “What is the purpose of all this?” he asked politely.

“Everything must have a purpose?” asked God.

“Certainly,” said man.

“Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God.

And He went away.

—  Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle
I cannot stand small talk, because I feel like there’s an elephant standing in the room shitting all over everything and nobody is saying anything. I’m just dying to say, “Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?” or “Do you feel an emptiness inside your chest at night that is going to swallow you?” But you can’t say that at a cocktail party.
—  Paul Gilmartin, The Mental Illness Happy Hour
How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
—  Don DeLillo
Even our concepts about romantic love, I think, are destructive; treating people as property is destructive; being jealous of other people is destructive. You know, being jealous is a perfectly natural thing to feel, so it’s not about suppressing jealousy, but learning to come to terms with it and to recognize its destructiveness and then to transform it.
—  Jeff Mangum