“I thought if only I had a keen, shapely bone structure to my face or could discuss politics shrewdly or was a famous writer [he] might find me interesting enough to sleep with.”—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (chap 7) (via andeventhis) (via quotewhore)
It isn’t love that’s all too dangerous. It’s the infatuation that love so often builds upon. A shoddily constructed lower level that is apt to give at the slightest dis-ease or push. Infatuated, the person sits within a sickly place that gives rise to obsession, uneasiness, and a strange illusion of another one particular person having the ability to completely negate all other aspects of your life. Whether this negation be positive or no, that isn’t the point. The point is that love, the show of compassion and willingness in and for another person isn’t what’s so dangerous. It’s where we all tend to build love from; build love on.
When you make one person so important, when you place in them such importance, it is almost inevitable (if not completely) that there will be a moment when you fall into disillusionment. It is too absolute, them as an icon and not as a human. One without error and one inherently endowed with it.
Infatuation is some strange mania. And as no mania can last long without exhausting its host, it is prone to a ready end.
“Love is the hardest thing in the world to write about. It’s so simple. You’ve got to catch it through details. Like the early morning sunlight hitting the grey tin of the rainspout in front of her house. The ring of the telephone that sounds like Beethoven’s Pastorale. A letter scribbled on her office stationary that you carry around in your pocket because it smells like all the lilacs in Ohio.”—~ The Lost Weekend (via gatekeeper)
“Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worst, returned. But one thing about human beings puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly within.” — Sigmund Freud
Your Cell Phone? indestructible Your Hair? short Your Mother? Inspiring Your Father? Patient Your Favorite Food? Fresh Your Dream Last Night? Frustrating Your Favorite Drink? Tea Your Dream/Goal? Professor What Room Are You In? Dorm Your Hobby? Sewing Your Fear? Failure Where Do You See Yourself In Six Years? Graduated? Where Were You Last Night? Same Something That You Aren’t? Submissive Muffins? blackberry Wish List Item? Time Where Did You Grow Up? Oregon Last Thing You Did? Read What Are You Wearing? Pajamas Your TV? NCIS Your Pets? None Friends? Hilarious Your Life? Forming Your Mood? Sleepy Missing Someone? Sorta Vehicle? Hybrid Something You Aren’t Wearing? Bra Your Favorite Store? Vintage Your Favorite Color? Many When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Recently Last Time You Cried? Few days Your Best Friend? Wonderful One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? Classroom Facebook? Addictive Favorite Place To Eat? Sesame
“You notice for the first time she has freckles. You didn’t know they still made them. You imagine her as a child carrying a bucket of sand down to the beach. You see yourself watching from a bluff, through a time warp, saying: Someday I will meet this girl. You want to watch over her through the interval, protect her from the cruelty of schoolchildren and the careless lust of young men.”—Jay McInerney, Bring Lights, Big City (via laurataylor)