Forgotten Supernova by Tathya S is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at forgottensupernova.tumblr.com.
Page 1 of 13 →
Forgotten Supernova by Tathya S is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at forgottensupernova.tumblr.com.
And I thought, this was what it was like to be beautiful. What my mother felt. The tug of eyes, pulling you back from your flight to the target. I was in two places at once, not only in my thought, my aim, but my bare feet on the dusty yard, my legs growing stronger, my breasts in the new bra, my long tanned arms, my hair flowing white in the hot wind. He was taking my silence but giving me something in return, a fullness of being recognized. I felt beautiful, but also interrupted. I wasn’t used to being so complicated.
White Oleander by Janet Fitch (via thechocolatebrigade)
“I’m mad about the boy, I know it’s stupid to be mad about the boy. I’m so ashamed of it, but must admit the sleepless nights I’ve had about the boy. On the silver screen, he melts my foolish heart in every single scene. Although I’m quite aware that here and there are traces of the cad about the boy. And Lord knows, I’m not a fool girl. I really shouldn’t care Lord knows, I’m not a school girl. In the flurry of her first affair, will it ever cloy, this odd diversity of misery and joy?
I’m feeling quite insane and young again. And all because I’m mad about the boy. I’m feeling quite insane and young again. And all because I’m… mad about the boy.”
Questions on Witnessing Violence by Intan Paramaditha ›
This is the longer version of The Jakarta Post article, April 4, 2011. Questions on Witnessing Violence by Intan Paramaditha:
Violence is woven, almost seamlessly, into the banality of our everyday life. Welcome to the logic of “Timeline”: time progresses and gives us, the seers, the illusion that an event happens after the completion of another. A scene of violence attacks our senses, but it is one of the various displays available for us to see. Sometimes we forget that we have been shocked.
And then sometimes I think the people to feel saddest for are people who once knew what profoundness was, but who lost or became numb to the sensation of wonder—people who closed the doors that lead us into the secret world—or who had the doors closed for them by time and neglect and decisions made in times of weakness.
Life After God by Douglas Coupland (via thechocolatebrigade)
Whatever the reason may be, the sounds, smells, and images of the world we encounter in novels evoke a sensation of authenticity we fail to find in life itself. But on the other hand, novels put nothing concrete in front of us—not a single object to touch, not a smell, not a sound, not a taste. When we’re reading a good novel, a part of our mind thinks we are immersed in that reality—indeed, at a profoundly deep point in that reality—and that life is exactly like this experience. Meanwhile, though, our senses are reporting that this isn’t happening at all. This paradoxical situation is what leaves us feeling unsatisfied.
Orhan Pamuk, The Naive and the Sentimental Novelist (via invisiblestories)
(via booklover)
Stop and make sure that everything you are doing right now is really what makes you happy. You can’t just live for some goal in the future and have that be everything-have that be it. Because that is what some people do. They get on this road and there are all these signs saying, ‘This way. That way.’ But what if you get there, you get exactly what you wanted, like some people do, except all the things that were wrong, are still wrong. Then what?
Party of Five
With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand… hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
Sylvia Plath (via thechocolatebrigade)
