Gabriel García Márquez (RIP April 17, 2014)
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
written by Sylvia Plath, ”Elm” (via sad-plath)
written by Daniel Keyes, “Flowers for Algernon” (via splitterherzen)
Anonymous asked: what are you afraid of?
not leading a life which feels mine, drowning in perpetual self-deception and self-created lies, thinking myself to death, half-communicating my real thoughts or not communicating them at all, completely losing track of what feels simple, spontaneous, genuine, not being able to share my life with the people i adore/scaring them away just because i didn’t have the guts to stand up for what I am and what I truly feel, not embracing change to the point i willfully/subconsciously “alter” it in my head just because i literally cannot stand it, not being self-sufficient enough, not taking enough initiatives when time really calls up for it and instead choosing numbness and isolation when all i want to do is really not do that instead, causing my loved ones to believe i’m a self-obsessed, arrogant masochist who doesn’t really experience intense emotions but rather indulges in the pleasure of solely keeping them to herself for the sake of legit nothing, not letting the pauses speak to me, not trusting the hours themselves, time itself, in a nutshell: i’m afraid of fear