“Love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away… and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast…. be happy about your growth, in which of course you can’t take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don’t torment them with your doubts and don’t frighten them with your faith or joy, which they wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn’t necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again; when you see them, love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.”—Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via creatingaquietmind)
the way that lovers do even when his feet took him to the beds of other women because the signs we speak of which only appear too late are neglected like red lights to an adolescent excited and ready to drive as she was so ready to love & so excited to receive it in return
This girl pulls on my heartstrings like a puppeteer.
The kind of woman who wears her age like a crown. I came bumbling up to the door of our building with bags hanging off my clumsy limbs and she held the door open for me. I thanked her and we walked to the elevator, her with the confident saunter of a matriarch. She looked down at the large paper bag under my left arm.
"Celebrating something tonight I see," she said.
"No, actually. I’m just a writer."
"Oh," she replied. And by the way the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth welcomed the smirk, I knew that she understood.