To simply live is not enough.

I always feel like I’m struggling to become someone else. Like I’m trying to find a new place, grab hold of a new life, a new personality. I guess it’s part of growing up, yet it’s also an attempt to reinvent myself. By becoming a different me, I could free myself of everything. I seriously believed I could escape myself — as long as I made the effort. But I always hit a dead end. No matter where I go, I still end up me. What’s missing never changes.

—South of the Border, West of the Sun - Haruki Murakami (via creatingaquietmind)

(Source: squeasel, via creatingaquietmind)

She loved the guy. She did it for him. She would’ve done anything for him. Some people are like that. Some loves are like that. Most loves are like that, from what I can see. Your heart starts to feel like an overcrowded lifeboat. You throw your pride out to keep it afloat, and your self-respect and your independence. After a while you start throwing people out—your friends, everyone you used to know. And it’s still not enough. The lifeboat is still sinking, and you know it’s going to take you down with it. I’ve seen that happen to a lot of people here. I think that’s why I’m sick of love.

—Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram  (via barbieandken)

(Source: larmoyante, via pyramusandthisbe)

But I must admit I miss you quite terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby. I go to bed early and rise late and feel as if I have hardly slept.

—Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters (via loveyourchaos)

(Source: matricides, via loveyourchaos)

But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?

—Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore  (via obdormio)

(Source: anec-dotes, via thewayloveshould)