Writing To Reach You

My name is Ashley.


Blog: Writing to Reach You.
Twitter: @writetoreach.

One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
— Jack Kerouac, Dharma Burns (via girlwithoutwings)

(via girlwithoutwings)

Nothing happens until something moves.
— Albert Einstein (via girlwithoutwings)

(via girlwithoutwings)

That’s because it’s not the end.
— David Mitchell, from Black Swan Green (thanks, vclib)

(Source: the-final-sentence)

Wherever you go, you take yourself with you.
— Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book (via boxofoctaves)
Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.
— Victor Hugo (via libraryland)
When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest.
— Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (via paperbackgirl)
If I had had to write only about imaginary people, I would have had to close up my typewriter. I wrote about my life in less and less disguise as I grew older, and finally with no disguise — except the disguise we create for ourselves, which is self-deception.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
softly,
through the pale-pink morning light.
— Mary Oliver, from “Bone” (via the-final-sentence)

(via the-final-sentence)

I trudged along through each day in its turn, rarely looking up, eyes locked on the never-ending swamp that lay before me, planting my right foot, raising my left, planting my left foot, raising my right, never sure where I was, never sure I was headed in the right direction, knowing only that I had to keep moving, one step at a time.
— Haruki Murakami - Norwegian Wood (via murakamistuff)
You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934 (via immortels)