"No one should ever ask themselves that: why am I unhappy? The question carries within it the virus that will destroy everything. If we ask that question, it means we want to find out what makes us happy. If what makes us happy is different from what we have now, then we must either change once and for all or stay as we are, feeling even more unhappy."

Paulo Coelho, The Zahir (via observando)

"I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
―"

Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via observando)

"Don’t sacrifice yourself too much, because if you sacrifice too much there’s nothing else you can give and nobody will care for you."

Karl Lagerfeld (via observando)

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #757 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
I want rainfall and I want your hair soaked in it.  I want green grass and light pouring in through tree branches and slow steady steps towards me.  I want the sound of nothing when it’s shared with you, I want to gasp as nothing always becomes something when your hand is in my hand and the night unfolds.  I want movies that play as we don’t bother watching them and I want kisses in the back of the theater when we forget people can see. I want popcorn spills and candy hands and the stillness we swear lives around us.  I want the noise rustling grocery bags make when you try to squeeze them to all be carried in one trip and I want the fullness of pantry shelves and I want the standing with hands on hips and long stares into them to unearth the secret of what dinner will consist of.  I want the slow motion fall of hair that was cut and I want the chuckling laughter when you cut a spot too short.  I want to watch the broom sweep back and forth and forth and back and I want to hold the dustpan to catch the cast aside pieces of me you no longer thought I needed.  I want your feet in my hands and my thumbs sore from pressing out the hours you spent on them.  I want laughter that comes on so suddenly that everyone around us thinks our tears are of sorrow and our breath abandoned us like we were sinking ships and the sea was filled with lifeboats.  I want to be the mirror that watches you disapprove of yourself and I want to be the voice that comes in at the perfect moment to say how beautiful the exact spot you didn’t know I knew you were staring at is.
Part Three.
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