I was just wandering...

today my literature prof was daydreaming about being a existentialist poet in 1960’s paris. he was going on about how he just wanted to drink wine in dusty bookshops and argue philosophical theories with strangers and i swear the entire class let out the most dreamy sigh… i’m convinced everyone who loves literature is the exact same person

part of me wants to live a calm life, living in a small light house in New England and drink too much tea while writing flowery poetry about the mysterious strangers in the grey, sea salt scented town. another part of me wants to live in a mountain tucked village in Switzerland, owning sheep and cats and traveling across Europe every summer with my dog, reading books and keeping secrets. the third part of my soul wants to live in an apartment crammed city in the sixties, writing books and living in crowded apartments with artists who smoke and swear and throw extravagant parties and witness the growth of a culture. all of me wants to live

if you’re not wandering around in a sprawling library aimlessly running your hand on dated bookspines before settling down with a hardcover classic on a window seat while the afternoon rain pours down from outside then that’s the point

I honestly think that crying over a book is one of the most prominent sign of compassion for humanity. You’re crying over someone who isn’t really there, doesn’t really exist, but you still feel for them as if you have known them your entire life.