"Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me."
— Haruki Murakami

(Source: blackestdespondency, via fuckyeahexistentialism)


It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.


(Source: extrasad, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

Bre Elbourn
"It is a two-way traffic, the language of the unsaid."
— Anne Carson

(Source: likeafieldmouse)

"What if everything in the world were a misunderstanding, what if laughter were really tears?"
— Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or 

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via an-itinerant-poet)

Baixiang Chen
"A smile is the chosen vehicle of all ambiguities."
— Herman Melville

(Source: likeafieldmouse)

"If anything, my physical death would be, for me, a form of salvation. It would liberate me forever from this hopeless prison, this pain of being me."
— Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle