“And That Was What Destroyed You In The End: The Longing For Something You Could Never Have.”

"Who's Sisyphus?" she asks. You begin to respond: "it's this myth about a guy being punished in the underworld where he has to-"

Her phone rings.

"One second," she says. A few minutes later, she prompts you to continue: "I'm sorry, I cut you off."

You start again. "Sisyphus is a-"

Her phone rings again. "Sorry, one sec."

This is why it hurts the way it hurts. You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache. You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.

- Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You and Only You

This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.

Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923

the conundrum never ends

(the painting is official gaspard and lisa art from their japanese twitter)

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights.

Art~ Safet Zec, 1943.

“All my life, I’ve felt like I belong somewhere that only exits in the depths of my mind – impossible for others to discover.”

— Quote from my journal, 10 July 2017

“Oh, to be in love…

…with someone capable of loving me.”

Words carry so much weight in my heart, pls watch what u say 2 me i’ll remember it forever

I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.

My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.

But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire