Brainechild

a dreamer stuck in the real world
afixforthefits: contusioni: Virginia Woolf’s suicide note to her husband Leonard before drowning herself. On 28 March 1941, Virginia Woolf put on her overcoat, filled its pockets with stones, and walked into the River Ouse near her home and drowned herself. Her body was not found until 18 April 1941.  Her husband buried her cremated remains under an elm in the garden of Monk’s House. God I love you a lot, Virginia Woolf.

afixforthefits:

contusioni:

Virginia Woolf’s suicide note to her husband Leonard before drowning herself.

On 28 March 1941, Virginia Woolf put on her overcoat, filled its pockets with stones, and walked into the River Ouse near her home and drowned herself. Her body was not found until 18 April 1941.  Her husband buried her cremated remains under an elm in the garden of Monk’s House.

God I love you a lot, Virginia Woolf.

neil-gaiman:

If you write fiction, you may want to watch this video and listen to this song.

It’s the sort of thing that cries out for people to write stories to accompany it…

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?

If I had my life to live over, I’d dare to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax; I’d limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I’d have fewer imaginary ones.

You see, I’m one of those people who lived sensibly and sanely hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I had my moments, and if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after the other, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I’ve been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had it to do over again, I would travel lighter than I have.

If I had my life to live over again, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dance; I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.