People may not tell you how they feel about you, but they always show you. Pay attention.
If you can’t be criticized for it, you aren’t doing anything interesting.
The first thing that reading teaches us is how to be alone.
It’s just this strange thing I do where I allow myself to briefly fall in love with another human being that I see on a train, or the sidewalk, or in a warm café.
Chelsea Fagan, Dear Beautiful Guys I Pass On The Street: I Love You (via thatkindofwoman)
I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.
Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
People say they love a lot of things, but they really don’t. It’s just a word that’s been overused. When you put your life on the line for somebody, that’s love. But you’ll never know it until you’re in the moment. When someone will die for you, that’s love, too.
Never compare, because all comparison is foolish. Everybody is just like himself. What is the point of comparing? Who are you to compare? And who are you to fix a criterion—to decide who is learned and who is not learned? Who are you to make a criterion who is beautiful and who is not beautiful? Who are you? Why should you judge?
Soon you’ll be ashes or bones. A mere name at most—and even that is just a sound, an echo. The things we want in life are empty, stale, trivial.