Life Is So Hard When You Like Fictional Characters More Than Real People

it blows my mind that no matter the time or place, no matter how poor or rich, how happy or sad men were, we have always invented stories. to pass the time, to keep us company, to entertain and to teach; we never run out of characters, never run out of ideas. it's like our very souls can't bear the idea of not creating, of leaving tales untold

De: Fernando Sabino

Para: Clarice Lispector

Nova York, 10 de junho de 1946

Clarice,

Esta é a quarta carta que inicio para responder a sua. Ainda ontem me lembrei muito de você, porque um america­no me perguntou se o meu relógio era suíço. A Suíça existe mesmo? Daqui de Nova York não posso te contar nada além do que você calcula. Tenho sentido muita fal­ta de seu livro que deixei no Brasil, para plagiar uns pedaços quando vou escrever o meu. Tenho tido muitas dores de cabeça. Tenho tido muitos pesadelos. Tenho tido muito pouco dinheiro. Tenho tido muitas oportunidades de ficar calado. Tenho tido muita decepção com os Correios. Tenho tido can­saço, saudade e calma. Tenho bebido muito, muito, muito. Tenho lido os suplementos dominicais. Tenho tido vontade de voltar. Tenho xingado muito o Getúlio. Tenho tido muito medo de morrer. Tenho tido muita pena de Helena ter se casado comigo. Tenho tido muita vontade de voltar a brincar. Clarice, estou perdido no meio de tantos particípios passados. Estou com vontade de fumar e o meu cigarro acabou, estou com vonta­de de namorar de tarde numa pracinha cheia de árvores. Só de pensar que você estará lendo esta carta muitos dias depois de ter sido escrita me dá vontade de não mandar, mas mando. Me escreva, que responderei imediatamente. Como vai indo o seu livro? O que é que você faz às três horas da tarde? Quero saber tudo, tudo. Me escreva uma carta de sete páginas, Clarice.

Fernando.

I can’t help but wonder if those possessed in Fear Street were kind of like passengers during their individual sprees. Like they had to watch it all happen and feel everything that was happening to their body but couldn’t actually do anything to stop it. Nobody was strong enough to over come it until Sam briefly managed to near the end of 1666. Like I just keep thinking of Tommy being trapped in his own mind as he massacred his friends and the kids that he was supposed to be looking after.

I cannot pretend anymore, I will burn the world for you if it only means to hold you in my arms for a minute, as my head is softly tucked into your chest. as our heartbeats march in sync towards doom.

can we go back to at least 200 years ago when there was no smart phone or even telephone and writing letters was the only way to connect to other people in other places ? i'm not saying these because it's romantic or aesthetic. i'm just tired of those "why it took you an hour to answer me ?"s and those "why did you decline my call ?"s. i just wanna ignore people for a whole month and just say the post office had some problems.

last night as i was falling asleep i was thinking about the beauty of loving someone in any form and just wanting things with them without any ulterior motives or any other goal. like wanting to be around someone because you love them and want them in your life, not because they can do something for you, wanting to make someone food or make things for them in general not because you expect something in return but because you want them to eat well and to be happy. wanting to hold someone just because you want them close and want to make them feel safe and warm. wanting to wash someones hair because you love them and want to take care of them. anyway i think its really sweet and beautiful how a lot of times when we love someone we do things like this

bring back the habits that made you happy as a child. there’s no reason you should ever have to give up harmless things that bring you joy. you don’t have to age out of having fun. finger paint. write mediocre fanfiction and questionable poetry. put chocolate chips in your waffles. sing in the bath, and while working in the yard, and while washing your hands. hammer tunelessly on a piano. spin in circles until you fall down. climb a tree. just because you’re now in charge of your life doesn’t mean you’re expected to give up on the things that make life feel worth living

Sometimes I want to have a library with a secret door that opens when you pull the right book, then I remember that I panic in small places with low airflow and with no ways of scaping

I run from place to place, wanting to belong, wanting to find a home. When will I learn that my home is within me and it comes with me everywhere I go?

i love tumblr bc nothing matters here but pictures and inner thoughts