Our lives are not our own, we are bound to others, past and present. And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.
Would you say that you loved him?”
“Yes I do.”
“Do you mean you are still in love with him?”
“I mean that I will always be.
Moments like this…I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own and I know that separation is an illusion. My life extends far beyond the limitations of me.
A half-read book is a half-finished love affair.
Air in the chateau clammy like laundry that won’t dry. Door-banging drafts down the passageways. Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky rotted stage. Don’t remember summer even saying good-bye.
A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty. People pontificate, “Suicide is selfishness.” Career churchmen like Pater go a step further and call it a cowardly assault on the living. Oafs argue this specious line for varying reasons: to evade fingers of blame, to impress one’s audience with one’s mental fiber, to vent anger, or just because one lacks the necessary suffering to sympathize. Cowardice is nothing to do with it — suicide takes considerable courage. […] No, what’s selfish is to demand another to endure an intolerable existence, just to spare families, friends, and enemies a bit of soul-searching.
People are obscenities. Would rather be music than be a mass of tubes squeezing semisolids around itself for a few decades before becoming so dribblesome it’ll no longer function.
— Only as you gasp your last dying breath shall you understand, your life amounted to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean! — Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?
[…]now I’m a spent firework; but at least I’ve been a firework
Robert Frobisher, Cloud Atlas
aka put that as my gravestone epitaph when I die(via exploding-pens)