Nevermind

مرا خود کُشد تیر آن چشم مست چه حاجت که آری به شمشیر دست؟ #سعدی

کشتی‌ای را که پی غرق شدن ساخته‌اند هی به جان کندن از این ورطه برانیم که چه؟ «شهریار» @frida_ka

The Choice By William Butler Yeats The intellect of man is forced to choose perfection of the life, or of the work, And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark. When all that story's finished, what's the news? In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

بی‌پولی بد دردیه

He had come to that moment in his age when there occurred to him, with increasing intensity, a question of such overwhelming simplicity that he had no means to face it. He found himself wondering if his life were worth the living; if it had ever been. It was a question, he suspected, that came to all men at one time or another; he wondered if it came to them with such impersonal force as it came to him. The question brought with it a sadness, but it was a general sadness which (he thought) had little to do with himself or with his particular fate; he was not even sure that the question sprang from the most immediate and obvious causes, from what his own life had become. It came, he believed, from the accretion of his years, from the density of accident and circumstance, and from what he had come to understand of them. He took a grim and ironic pleasure from the possibility that what little learning he had managed to acquire had led him to this knowledge: that in the long run all things, even the learning that let him know this, were futile and empty, and at last diminished into a nothingness they did not alter.

John Williams, Stoner

من الان به زندگی استونر حسودیم می‌شه. درسته احساس رضایت از زندگی چندانی نداشت ولی عوضش تو زندگیش به یه نفر عشق ورزید، کاری که دوست داشت رو انجام داد تو جایی که دوس داشت و خونه و زندگی داشت ولی من چی؟ برای خوندن کتاب هم باید از یه چیزی حداقل بزنم. نمی‌دونم کسی دوستم داره و جایی نیستم که باید باشم.

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The Cold Heaven By William Butler Yeats Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice, And thereupon imagination and heart were driven So wild that every casual thought of that and this Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago; And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason, Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro, Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken, Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

بفرستید برا رئالیا خوشحال می‌شن.

U r as beautiful as 92:48