lumumba95:

This. Is. True.

lumumba95:

This. Is. True.

(Reblogged from stablevertigo)
How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
(Reblogged from battle-with-bipolar)
No more photos. Surely there are enough. No more shadows of myself thrown by light onto pieces of paper, onto squares of plastic. No more of my eyes, mouths, noses, moods, bad angles. No more yawns, teeth, wrinkles. I suffer from my own multiplicity. Two or three images would have been enough, or four, or five. That would have allowed for a firm idea: This is she. As it is, I’m watery, I ripple, from moment to moment I dissolve into my other selves. Turn the page: you, looking, are newly confused. You know me too well to know me. Or not too well: too much.
Margaret Atwood, The Tent (via iamlikethemoon)
(Reblogged from iamlikethemoon)
  • Me trying to make friends: haha so do you have any kind mental illness??
(Reblogged from mentallyillstuff)
When I first met you, I felt a kind of contradiction in you. You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore (via bookmania)
(Reblogged from bookmania)
The precarious balance that exists between sanity and a subtle, dreadful muffling of the senses.
Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind

marieclaire:

Lakehouse No.1

(Reblogged from marieclaire)
(Reblogged from f-cking-depressed)

marieclaire:

"Let me give you some advice: Try to approach things without preconceived ideas, without supposing you already know everything there is to know about them. Get that trick down and you’ll be surprised at what’s really all around you."

— 

Charles de Lint, Someplace to Be Flying

(Reblogged from marieclaire)