The only thing I have learned from life is to endure it, never to question it, and to burn up the longing generated by this in writing.
-Karl Ove Knausgaard, “A Death in the Family” (via writteninsentences)
Mundane weird stuff can be the most holy, really
I’d like to know: once you’re happy what happens? What comes next?
Inside her it was as if death didn’t exist, as if love could weld her, as if eternity were renewal.
The result of those days wandering here and there, repudiating and loving the same things a thousand times over. Of those nights living on dark and silent, the tiny stars winking up high. The woman lying on the bed, vigilant eye in the half-light. The hazy white bed swimming in darkness.
I asked her if she believed in love, and she smiled and said it was her most elaborate method of self-harm