I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost (via henretta84)

This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this, and I do not. Everything is unique—and insignificant.

Emil Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born (via tri-ciclo)

One moment I’m happy; next I’m miserable. I hate her for half an hour, then I’d give my whole life to be with her for ten minutes; all the time I don’t know what I feel, or why I feel it; it’s insanity, and yet it’s perfectly reasonable. Can you make any sense of it?

Virginia Woolf, Night And Day
(via poemusicoffee)