Writing is a form of therapy. Sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.
Graham Greene (via psychotherapy) (via christinels) (via semicolonlove)
Really though. A year without painting is a year with madness.
“But love is always new. Regardless of whether we love once, twice, or a dozen times in our life, we always face a brand-new situation. Love can consign us to hell or to paradise, but it always takes us somewhere. We simply have to accept it, because it is what nourishes our existence. If we reject it, we die of hunger, because we lack the courage to stretch out a hand and pluck the fruit from the branches of the tree of life. We have to take love where we find it, even if that means hours, days, weeks of disappointment and sadness.
The moment we begin to seek love, love begins to seek us. And to save us.”
Paulo Coelho (By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept) (via kari-shma) (via lovebot) (via letterboxlove) (via loveyourselftoo)
On one level, I wanted very much to get caught. I did not want to get caught to be saved, I wanted to get caught to be seen as something, to have a claim to greatness, to have the sick admiration that comes to those of us who destroy ourselves particularly well.
Wasted, Marya Hornbacher (via girl-disappearing) (via christinels) (via semicolonlove)
Yeah, I got some last words…Fuck all y’all
Ice Cube ‘Better Off Dead’ (via silvanonymous)