Am I a bad person? Or have I simply fragmented myself in too many pieces to ever form an opinion?

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@quietlykept
Am I a bad person? Or have I simply fragmented myself in too many pieces to ever form an opinion?

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17 May, 1932 The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf (1924-1941)
Love doesn't hit like a storm. That's a lie people like to tell themselves to justify the wreckage.
No... love drips. Quietly, and slowly. A glance across a bookstore aisle. The way they say your name like it's theirs to keep. An empty mug left in the sink- proof they were here, even after they're gone.
You don't fall all at once. You collect pieces. Moments. Smiles. Breaths they didn't know you were counting.
And by the time you realize you've given them everything… you've already memorized how they close their eyes when they laugh.
They call it love. But sometimes, it feels more like possession with better PR.
Some books don't stay shut. You place them back on the shelf, carefully, deliberately; but somehow, the next time you look, they're open again. Pages parted, spine soft from being read too often.
It's almost like they're asking to be revisited. Like they know you weren't finished with them. Not really.
And maybe that's the problem. Some stories don't have a clean ending. Some leave their last line hanging in the air long after the cover closes.
And no matter how far you try to distance yourself... how many new titles you place between them... you always, always find your way back to the same page.
You can tell everything about a person by the books they keep. Not the ones they display proudly on coffee tables, no... those are for show.
Look lower. To the worn spine half-hidden on the second shelf. The one with pages soft from turning, stained by a forgotten glass of wine or maybe tears they'd never admit to shedding. That's the one that mattered.
We all have that book. The one we return to when no one's watching. The one that knows who we really are.
People lie. Books never do.

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She hums when she's alone. Off-key, barely audible. Like a song meant only for the walls to hear.
She locks her door but leaves the window open. Not wide. Just enough.
She moves through her apartment like it's a stage she's forgotten she's performing on... barefoot, distracted, her hair pulled up carelessly as if she's never had to consider who might be watching.
And she doesn't know. She doesn't know how much of her life has already been memorized. How much of her has already been kept.
— v, excerpts from a book i’ll never write #2 (via letsbelonelytogetherr)
Love isn't loud. It doesn't crash through the door and demand to be noticed. It lingers. In forgotten places. On the rim of a coffee cup, in a dog-eared page, in the way someone leaves the porch light on just a moment longer than necessary.
Love is a waiting room. A pen running out of ink halfway through a letter you were never brave enough to send. It's unfinished poetry and the silence after a favorite song ends.
We think love is grand gestures. But the truth? It's found in the quiet. And if you're not careful, you'll miss it entirely.
Sylvia Plath, in one of her last essays, "Ocean 1212-W" (dated 1962)
She left her coffee unfinished. Again. One sip, a faint smear of lipstick, and then she's off to something more important. But the cup is still warm. Her absence lingers longer than her presence ever did.

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Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.
Anne Carson
Joy Sullivan, from “Soup”, Instructions for Traveling West
They always ask about favorite books, favorite chapters, favorite lines. But no one asks about the pages you read over and over, quietly, in the dark, because something about them feels just for you. The words no one underlined. The moments no one noticed. Unread by the world. And yet… they stay. Some people are like that too.