November's Child

The one who has stolen the cherries since a rainy day

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writingsforwinter:

"Her and Lost In Translation are connected to each other. They’re very much on the same wavelength. They explore a lot of the same ideas. This all makes sense since Spike Jonze and Sofia Coppola were married from 1999 to 2003 and had been together for many years before that. Sofia Coppola had already made her big personal statement in regards to love and marriage right when the couple was on the verge of divorce; Her would be Spike Jonze’s answer to those feelings. What makes it even more poignant is that Her never feels resentful or petty. It feels more like a legitimate apology. It’s an acknowledgement that, in the end, some people aren’t meant to be with each other in the long run. Some people do grow apart. Lost in Translation is about a couple on the verge of growing apart, Her is about finally letting go of the person you’ve grown apart with and moving on.”

(Source: scanis)

A long while ago I asked someone the reason why he decided to quit his business at the time during his middle-years. His respond was because he wanted to stop waking up at 3AM in the morning, thinking about what had been left undone. I said, with a satisfying tone in my voice, that was why I did not choose to pursue business study in the first place.

But guess what?

Love do the same to you, too.

The only difference is things that pour into your brain in the middle of the night are memories and longing, what were done and what might have been.   

"Oh well, what the hell, you obviously want to be alone, so I’ll leave you alone. Go ahead and think away to your heart’s content! But don’t get me wrong. I’m not totally mad at you. I’m just sad. You were so nice to me when I was having my problems, but now that you’re having yours, it seems there’s not a thing I can do for you. You’re all locked up in that little world of yours, and when I try knocking on the door, you just sort of look up for a second and go right back inside."

- Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via larmoyante)

I’m doing everything: my business plan, my Capstone and other engineering projects, my casual job for a living. From 7am to 2am, almost every day. And it’s like I’m just there, doing only one thing: You. Everything’s got your name on it. Initially I thought only the things that can make me smile did. But then I’m afraid the things that I have to do, the things that I hate, the things that I’m scared to do, do too. All the things I’m doing have your name on it. Janetta. Janetta.

Some kind women gave me tips in the place I’ve been working. I’ve got Lavenders for you from those tips. Isn’t this cute, Mon Enfant?


Ten years from now on, I hope I will be able to buy you a house full of Lavenders. And I hope I will not.

Is it greedy, that I want to make every single miscellaneous happen for you, but also want to enjoy the feelings of putting effort into getting these tiny things accomplished? The effort when we are on the border line between the life of an adolescence-pretending adult and a complete adult. The effort of youth. And is it greedy, if I want you to enjoy this too?

Remember the tiny little purple flower you got for me along the way when you went to buy me some medicine? It was the size of my pinky finger’s nail. I was 19, and you were 17.

Do you ever know that this flower - Lavender is truly your flower? 

It’s blooming here, in this island country, on the month you were born.

It’s October’s flower, Mon Enfant. It’s yours. Truly.

.

.

.

Like, I’m yours.

"Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that."

- Ally Condie, Matched (via larmoyante)

I miss the girl.

I miss the girl.



The one who’s dead.

During the time of my youth.



She is dead, darling.

She is dead.

Dead.

Dead.



Dead.





My life has started all over again.

I can’t even remember when it ended.





But I miss the girl who’s dead.

In the time of my youth.



Like roses.

Like dreams. On Vanilla Sky.

Like a little bird who can no longer fly.





From Y. V., to my Dead Girl.

"I don’t suppose I really know you very well—but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder."

- Zelda Fitzgerald, in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald 
(via seabois)

(via seabois)

"Mille rêves en moi font de douces brûlure
(A thousand dreams within me softly burn)"

- Arthur Rimbaud (via larmoyante)

(Source: larmoyante)

"

Missing someone is like hearing
a name sung quietly from somewhere
behind you. Even after you know
no one is there, you keep looking back
until on a silver afternoon like this
you find yourself breathing just enough
to make a small dent in the air….

I remember holding you against the sink,
with the sun soaking the window, the soft call
of your hips, and the intricate flickers
of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth,
like a Saturday. I remember your
long thighs, how they
opened on the sofa, and the pulse
of your cry when you came, and
sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air.

"

- Excerpt from “Slow Dance,” Tim Seibles (via commovente)

(via writingsforwinter)

"I live my own life and nurse my own wounds. It’s not the best way to live. But it’s the way I am."

- Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex (via larmoyante)

(Source: larmoyante)