lol

Sometimes, being hurt too many times, doesn’t make you stronger, it destroy who you were, who you wanted to be and makes who you are today.

“On March 28, 1941, Virginia Woolf loaded her pockets with stones and walked into the river Ouse. Her husband, Leonard Woolf, was obsessively punctilious, and had kept a journal every day of his adult life, in which he recorded daily menus and car mileage. Apparently, nothing was different on the day his wife committed suicide: he entered the mileage for his car. But on this day the paper is obscured by a smudge, writes his biographer, Victoria Glendinning, a brownish-yellow stain which has been rubbed or wiped. It could be tea or coffee or tears. The smudge is unique in all his years of neat diary-keeping.”

“How many times I have looked / at the world and turned away.”

“Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?”

“Write to me in spite of my silence.”

“This is my heart. Even if I can no longer use it … It’s my heart.”