“If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.”—Gabriel García Márquez
Rest In Peace (March 6, 1927—April 17, 2014)
how do you get over a book once you finish it?
a) you don’t
b) you can’t
c) you never will
The sun was out today and it seems like the Ohio winter might finally be over. It’s been a while since the sun has warmed my skin and even longer since I’ve posted my face so, hello, how are you?
Ray Bradbury, “The Fog Horn”
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
|—||Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day (via coffeestainedheart)|