Everything around me burns.
Memories into ashes.
I buries my old self deep down under the ground,
Where no one will find.
We lie to ourselves to believe we’re well, that we will not and cannot be bothered. I lie that I will not let myself care. But I do. I still get attached to people who will not care that much about me. I’m hurt. We all are hurt, or disappointed at people who we’ve had great expectations on. As a saying goes, those who are heartless, once cared too much. I’m one if those. Or maybe I just lied about that too.
Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another, tree-friendly, its pages reincarnated from diaries of poets who now sit in cubicles. One is small and black like a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide under it— and I wonder why? For every blown out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch as she scrawls her way out.
written by Megan Falley, “If You Really Love a Writer” (via commovente)
I’m not one of those girls who want to give a first good impression. I don’t care about those people I meet who fake smile and act like they care. They’re like strangers in the street to me. I want to be remembered, by those who I met, who I cared. Just that. It’s probably a lot too ask. Because life is not only about holding on, but also letting go. And now I’ve heard all my middle school classmates are sharing their contacts and taking pictures together. I feel sad somehow. My name will not be written in their address books. My face will not appear in the graduation photograph. My smile and my words will be forgotten. Someday their kids would want to see the faces of their parents’ classmates and I would not be known. I’m eager to scream to every one of my classmates, my friends, the persons I spent three years with, please don’t forget me.
Today I finally found the place in school where I belong, library. Peace and silence. People who love to read as much as I do.
Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.
written by Kurt Vonnegut
1. Mark Twain - “He had his leather bound notebooks custom made according to his own design idea. Each page had a tab; once a page had been used, he would tear off its tab, allowing him to easily find the next blank page for his jottings”
2. Charles Darwin - “The notebooks were filled with memorandum to himself on things to look further into, questions he wanted to answer, scientific speculations, notes on the many books he was currently reading, natural observations, sketches, and lists of the books he had read and wanted to read. But the progression is far from orderly: the entries are chaotically arranged and wide-ranging; they jump from one scientific subject to the next and are interspersed with notes on correspondences and conversations. He would rest the notebook on his desk and write horizontally down the page with a pen, and, like Isaac Newton, he would sometimes start in from both ends of the notebook at once and work towards the middle.
3. Jack Kerouac - The notebook entry reads:
“Ginsberg — intelligent enuf, interested in the outward appearance & pose of great things, intelligent enuf to know where to find them, but once there he acts like Jerry Newman, the photographer anxious to be photographed photographing —— Ginsberg wants to run his hand up the backs of people, for this he gives and seldom takes — He is also a mental screwball
*(Tape recorder anxious to be tape recorded tape recording) (like Seymour Barab anxious to have his name in larger letters than Robert Louis Stevenson, like Steinberg & Verlaine Rimbaud Baudelaire”
4. Ernest Hemingway - The notebook entry reads:
“My name is Ernest Miller Hemingway
I was born on July 21, 1899
My favorite authors are Kipling, O. Henry and Steuart Edward White.
My favorite flower is lady slipper and tiger lily.
My favorite sports are trout fishing, hiking, shooting, football and boxing.
My favorite studies are English, zoology and chemistry.
I intend to travel and write.”
(Source: likeafieldmouse, via writelaurengray)
Rain is not my best friend but I’ve always loved the moment when the rain stops and the sun shines brightly again and those leaves on the trees sparkle like a million shiny stars. It may have been their teardrops but after all, it’s another beautiful day.
The blue-backed notebooks, the two pencils and the pencil sharpener a pocket knife was too wasteful, the marble-topped tables, the smell of early morning, sweeping out and mopping, and luck were all you needed.
written by The Moveable Feas
In the name of Alice, I, Fanetta, jot down my inner thoughts on this little blog, in order to remind myself to keep dreaming of Wonderland. Because it’s okay to wonder, and to dream impossible things. ღ