There is something wonderfully freeing and exciting about being somewhere new in which you know no one. It makes you grow as a person and realize things about yourself that you may not have ever known while perpetually enveloped in a zone of comfort. It keeps you from robotically going through life, and it keeps life from becoming mundane and habitual. I would say that it helps even more to move somewhere fresh—with just a suitcase full of clothes— in order to cleanse your life of what was past and allow room for what is new. It also helps, if you are moving somewhere with public transit, to go without a car or at least to use your car as little as possible, in order to become better acquainted with the city. You miss so much traveling by car; you miss places and things and the ability to meet people, things all better accomplished on foot. I’d happily spend my life bouncing from place to place in this fashion.
If you love a flower, don’t pick it up. Because if you pick it up it dies and it ceases to be what you love. So if you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.
This is a beautiful song with a beautiful message.
I love that feeling you get when you don’t remember that you’re reading. When you’re so captured by a book that you forget you’re reading the words. All you see is the descriptions and conversations that begin to play out like a movie in your head. You don’t even think about it. Then before you know it, you’ve read 100 pages without realizing it. That’s probably the best feeling in the world.
She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.
In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?
— Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin