“I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.”—John Burroughs (via 500daysofkissingmypillow)
“Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”—Alice in Wonderland (via daniellekiemel)
There isn’t really a name for it, but it’s the kind of thing where you can still feel their skin on your skin even though it’s been years since anything has happened, but it was like your skin could remember everything your mind couldn’t. It was the kind of thing that doesn’t fade away, that still gives you goosebumps and draws the minuscule hair on your arms to fly up reminiscent over what once used to be, but now isn’t and never will be anything more than what it was.
“At the end of a day like this, a day when so many prayers are answered, and so many aren’t… We take our miracles where we find them. We reach across the gap, and sometimes, against all odds… against all logic, we touch.”—Grey’s Anatomy Monologue (via justbesplendid)
“There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. It is a soundless echo.”—West with the Night by Beryl Markham (via thechocolatebrigade) (via daniellekiemel)