Words from Fan Fics

[T]his was what it really meant to be brave: to choose something that terrified you, to give up everything you cared about, to keep going towards a small struggling spark of hope.

Silence used to be like breaths within unending conversations. Now, it feels like squandered time.

So stop seeing who you are as some kind of insurmountable obstacle to be overcome. It's not. The right person won't care. The right person will just view it as part of all the millions of things that make up you.

It's funny, she thinks, how endings remind you of why you began, and it's funny, too, that this feels like the most intimate thing they've done in years. It's funny that they were doing badly long before they ended it, but that she misses him, now. Misses him even though he's right there.

just poppin in to say THANK YOU for creating this blog. i know it hasn't been as active lately but i'm still so grateful it exists!! hope you have a lovely day!<3

“That’s all that faith is: something to comfort you in moments of vulnerability, to make you feel that you’re not alone. It is necessary, because for most of our lives we are facing our travails alone. Now, what is the opposite of faith?” “I don’t know. Disbelief?” “No,” Jiraiya says, shaking his head. “Not disbelief, but unbelief. The first is natural, the second willful. And what does it mean to be an unbeliever?” Naruto feels his throat go dry suddenly. “To despair.”

There comes a time in our lives when we’re all forced to accept that we can’t paint our portraits with blood forever.

A folded up paper, creamy and tattered. You unfold it with shaking hands, or maybe you cut to the chase and tear it in half. You’d call it palsy, but you’re no doctor. You’re just a soldier, with Lord Byron on your copper buttons and your ammunitions stocked with the sharp crescendos of Laurence Binyon. You were saying something to these false prophets, these anglican shepherds, but the only thing you can hear now is the sound of your red, red, hands. Stop screaming, Walt Whitman. It’s unbecoming of a poet.

It is only a vessel, he reminds himself as he strips out of his undershirt and dons a new one, eyes shut. There is no reason to be upset about what you cannot change. He would change it if he could, and sometimes he suspects in his heart that this is what drives his restless search for the spark of life – his wish to remake himself anew, to craft a better vessel for his soul.

Although I write of things in the past, I feel it must be told in the present tense. Such tension will not come out clearly in the dulled picture of the past. It is the difference between colour and black and white to my mind. I must live once again in the moment to understand my thinking.

First, probably not nice to call a king mad. Either he's not and takes offense to it, or he is and takes real offense to it. Then it's all bathing in blood and talking to decapitated heads. Messy.

hey, how do you get your quotes? and can I promote you to another blog? I think you deserve more followers

This is their movie, their star-crossed lovers play, and we’re just actors who recite our lines and burn with hope beneath the spotlights… and they never really see us or hear us at all.

I'm incredible, and if I'm not being incredible constantly, I'm merely a sociopath who likes to think about dying.

She doesn’t want this life. This is not the life she’s signed up for. [...] But it’s the life she has. Wake up. Go through the motions. Stop. Repeat. Until one day, maybe it won’t hurt quite so much.

There will come a time when you will truly understand the magnitude of love that you have been able to build around you. And then you will never feel alone again.

You can’t go around punching children, you’re supposed to be respectable now.