But it goes...

Há doenças piores que as doenças,
Há dores que não doem, nem na alma
Mas que são dolorosas mais que as outras.
Há angústias sonhadas mais reais
Que as que a vida nos traz, há sensações
Sentidas só com imaginá-las
Que são mais nossas do que a própria vida.
Há tanta cousa que, sem existir,
Existe, existe demoradamente,
E demoradamente é nossa e nós…
Por sobre o verde turvo do amplo rio
Os circunflexos brancos das gaivotas…
Por sobre a alma o adejar inútil
Do que não foi, nem pôde ser, e é tudo.

Dá-me mais vinho, porque a vida é nada.

—Fernando Pessoa (via pasargadeando)

It was past eleven; I walked to the door with him and stepped outside into the cool August night. “Come here,” he said. “I’ll whisper something: I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.” Then it hit me and I just blurted, “I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.” He was definite, “Nobody knows me.” So that was it; the end. “Goodbye for good, then,” I said. He looked hard at me, a smile twisting his mouth, “You lucky kid; you don’t know how lucky you are.

—The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (1950-1962)

(Source: itsabigenoughumbrella)

I have gone through a long period of awkward, self-conscious unpopularity. Although I could be called an extrovert now, there are still recurrent traces of my old inferiority complex. I put new people on a pedestal, worshiping them for their surprising kindness to me, for their benevolent notice. How many silver-plated statues have I erected, only to humanize them as I grew to know their vulnerable frailties-?

—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via alfard-almansi)

(Source: giantsainteverything)

And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness. I want to eat my cake abroad and come home and find it securely on the door-step if I still choose to accept it for the rest of my life. I am gambling. The workings of my destiny will be revealing the years hence.

—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via alfard-almansi)

(Source: giantsainteverything)

Oh, don’t explain, you inconsistent boy. You have no obligations, no responsibility toward me at all, at all. Only except for the fact that you could very possibly be the first and last man I was willing to make myself vulnerable for; to love, in the deepest, richest, intellectual and physical sense of the trite banal word!

—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via alfard-almansi)

(Source: giantsainteverything)