The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via kiittenfairy)
It’s clean. That’s what it feels like anyway. Heartbreak feels clean. When she says she doesn’t love you, the air that carries her words feels like a vacuum. It tears the breath from your lungs. It pulls the cobwebs from your nervous system, like you’ve been numb for a while and now you can feel everything at once. It rips your heart strings like love poems between her vocal chords. It’s clean. Every cavity in your body feels empty. It doesn’t feel like Sunday mornings with her. It isn’t the disarray of a bun that rests sleepily against her head. It is not the drunken voicemail that slurs “I love you” into your phone at 3am. It is not the mess of bed sheets that wear her imprint. It is not the clutter that your bones have grown accustomed to holding. You feel like the carcass of an apartment, hollowed out, vacant of the owner. There is no one coming home to you now. Everything is gone. You’re clean.
Maybe that’s why they call it a “clean break” (via blackorwhitelife)
She was a rose. Everyone saw her beautiful complexion, the dewdrops upon her porcelain petals. But it wasn’t until you held her the way I did; it wasn’t until you touched her that you felt the thorns. And perhaps the worst part is that I could never quite get her thorns out. So she is forever etched into my skin, and I am the clumsy one for getting pricked.
Traveling is the best education. You see the world through another lens. You realize your homeland isn’t the only reality, there’s many.
Mark Patterson (via raysofthesun)