Yeah—we went back. RAWR!

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable
incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportion to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

Milan Kundera, from Slowness (HarperCollins, 1996)

(Source: liquidnight)

(Reblogged from quienesesachica)
One day, whether you
are 14,
28 
or 65

you will stumble upon
someone who will start
a fire in you that cannot die.

However, the saddest,
most awful truth
you will ever come to find––

is they are not always
with whom we spend our lives.
Beau Taplin, "The Awful Truth"  (via le-crystal)

(Source: afadthatlastsforever)

(Reblogged from stainedglasstears)
(Reblogged from stainedglasstears)
dichotomization:

In 1933, a girl dressed all in blue came to Willoughby, Ohio on a Greyhound bus. She stayed the night in a boarding house before spending the next day greeting everyone with heartfelt warmth. At the end of the day, she saw the train to New York approach, dropped her cases, sprinted for the track, was hit by the train and died of her injuries. No one knew her name for 60 years, yet 3,000 people attended her funeral. And no one will ever know if it was an accident or suicide.

dichotomization:

In 1933, a girl dressed all in blue came to Willoughby, Ohio on a Greyhound bus. She stayed the night in a boarding house before spending the next day greeting everyone with heartfelt warmth. At the end of the day, she saw the train to New York approach, dropped her cases, sprinted for the track, was hit by the train and died of her injuries. No one knew her name for 60 years, yet 3,000 people attended her funeral. And no one will ever know if it was an accident or suicide.

(Reblogged from annacorinaa)
If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.
Saint Thérèse of Lisieux   (via oiseauperdu)

(Source: kvtes)

(Reblogged from annacorinaa)
If I loved you I would have written differently.
Alice Munro, “Too Much Happiness” (via larmoyante)
(Reblogged from livefreefindquiet)

(Source: HKANGELA)

(Reblogged from whimsical-nostalgia)
If people sat outside and looked at the stars each night, I bet they’d live a lot differently. When you look into infinity, you realize there are more important things than what people do all day.
Calvin and Hobbes   (via -explosive)

(Source: hurtlamb)

(Reblogged from outofchaoscomesclarity)

(Source: suicidewatch)

(Reblogged from breakmyheartonsunnydays)