“Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist, there are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges and absorbs the impact.”—
Today is my one year tumblr anniversary. I still remember how much fun I had when I first signed up for this a year ago… I may reblog some of my old stuff that didn’t get much love back then due to only having a few followers. I don’t post as much as I used to, and I do a lot of reblogging, but that’s mostly because I follow so many amazing tumblrs, and I really only have time to reblog for the most part. And of course, there are some days, weeks, even months when I don’t post at all… So for all my followers who have stuck with me, and for all my recent followers, THANK YOU. You’re one of the many things I have to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. :)
To mark the occasion I thought I would try out this formspring thing. So tell me something, or ask me something if you’d like… Anything that tickles your fancy. I might think of some nifty questions later on, but my mind is kind of blank right now… Happy Thanksgiving to all those out there who celebrate it.
“As we walked, I began to wonder what the opposite of molting was and why, unlike the body, which sheds everything, the soul cannot let go but compiles and accumulates, growing annual rings around the things it wants and dreams and remembers”— Andre Aciman (via quote-book)
Virginia Woolf's suicide letter to her husband, Leonard
On March 28, 1941 Virginia Woolf committed suicide. She put on her overcoat, filled its pockets with stones, then walked into the River Ouse near her home and drowned. Her body was not found until April 18th. Her husband, Leonard buried her cremated remains under a tree in the garden of Monk’s House, their home in Rodmell, Sussex.
In her last note to her husband she wrote:
I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I can’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ‘til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.