My Romanticized Life

“The dream was gone. Something had been taken from him. In a sort of panic he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to bring up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf-links and the dry sun and the gold color of her neck’s soft down. And her mouth damp to his kisses and her eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness like new fine linen in the morning.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Winter Dreams

(Source: fitzgeraldquotes)

“I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless, and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone, and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.”

— Unknown 

(Source: clementinevonradics, via alethiologyy)

Night street scene in Berlin, Leipziger Strasse, Lesser Ury

Night street scene in Berlin, Leipziger Strasse, Lesser Ury

(via fleurishes)

“When your new girlfriend tells you that she loves you for the first time, you call me first. You say you can’t handle it. You say it’s too soon. You say words like smothered and clingy and I’m digging my teeth into my tongue because you must be the last person to know, aren’t you, you really must be the last fucking person on this earth to have a clue. You demand to know what makes you so lovable. I say empty, meaningless words like nice and funny because the truth is a lump in the throat. The truth is that I want everything that has to do with you, that sometimes that want is another living, breathing organism—a phantom limb of longing. You press harder, croon promises of everlasting friendship into your end of the line and I wonder if you can hear me falling apart at the joints on my end. I don’t know when I’ll finally be able to stop writing poems about you but I imagine it will happen when your new girlfriend tells you that she loves you for a second time and you don’t call anyone. You swallow the heavy. You know you’ll get there eventually, that soon she will be who you call when you want reassurances of love. My face is already starting to blur. You say it back.”

— Kristina H., “Your New Girlfriend Tells You That She Loves You”

(Source: fleurishes)

Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.

—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations 

(Source: larmoyante, via alethiologyy)