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It was literally true: I was going through life asleep. My body had no more feeling than a drowned corpse. My very existence, my life in the world, seemed like a hallucination. A strong wind would make me think my body was about to be blown to the end of the earth, to some land I had never seen or heard of, where my mind and body would separate forever. ‘Hold tight,’ I would tell myself, but there was nothing for me to hold on to." — Haruki Murakami, Sleep
(Source: larmoyante)
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse’s neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It’s dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on." — Rupert Brooke, “The Life Beyond”
She was quiet in love, she,
had the kind of heart that knew
we survive on quietness, a sustained
rhythm that does not end. She was broken
by her strength, she was quiet because
she knew you could be both at once. Hold
my hand, she said, she was warm in the way
that saltwater seems warm, but her lips weren’t
like the sea and her fingers were not as strong
as palm trees; they trembled like mimosa pudica
in the sand, she folded into herself at
the approach of my hand, she was like
leaflets or paper, our hearts were both
paper cranes flapping their inky wings,
I think we were torn from the same book, I
think we were both looking for the same
things, I remember telling her not to
worry, we may have seen different
lights but we saw the same sun; and
stars, they know about you, I
tell them every night. You’d
like them, you know, they’re quiet
like you are, they sleep in the day and
sing in their dreams, they sound like
bells when they laugh, the kind that
grow on the bushes by the river we
found, with the green petals—finally
she took my hand, which meant
This is what it is like to miss. She
did not have to speak; I knew she
would have asked why there wasn’t a
word to describe the ways that we
exist.
All the time in the world—his life and hers. But for an instant as he kissed her he knew that though he search through eternity he could never recapture those lost April hours. He might press her close now till the muscles knotted on his arms—she was something desirable and rare that he had fought for and made his own—but never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night… .
Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.
" — F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Sensible Thing”before dawn in last night’s clothes.
Light snow or thick dew in the grass—
no one’s passed this way before.
The note you left needed only a few words,
no explanation where lies could creep in.
Your eyes, blinked clear, won’t squint or glance off,
it’s the stars that turn their faces away.
He or she is or is not the one you love
and you cannot stay. The dark
turns to mist and the mist cannot stay
but for once there’s no need for alarm.
You’re getting a good head start.
Maybe the world isn’t made of dust.
Maybe you won’t make another mistake.
You’re as young as you’ll ever be." — Dean Young, excerpt from “Alarm Clock” (via pleasebebrave)
(via grammatolatry)
