❝ In a sense, I’m the one who ruined me: I did it myself. ❞

— Haruki Murakami. (via nisanklv)

(via twinkxing)

tags:   pretty words

This is the chemical formula for love:

C8H11NO2+C10H12N2O+C43H66N12O12S2
dopamine, seratonin, oxytocin.

It can be easily manufactured in a lab, but overdosing on any of them can cause schizophrenia, extreme paranoia, and insanity.

Let that sink in.

tags:   pretty words

❝ At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare ❞

— Caitlin Moran (via ambvr)

(via leiias-deactivated20160109)

tags:   pretty words

Do you remember a simpler time when we were just kids, with our wide-eyed dreams and our ungrazed knees? When our limbs tangled together in a weary and beautiful train wreck, you in your sweatpants and me in my old shirt? When we watched Cosmos at 2 a.m. on a school night, Carl Sagan plucking poetry out of science and you plucking the veins out of my heart?

I do.

You whispered, “we are made of starstuff,” over and over, like if you stopped this half-remembered dream would dissolve into the night. I remember falling in love with the universe and physics and you. I remember looking at you and thinking that in all those 13.8 billion years, in all those cosmic collisions, hydrogen fusing and helium burning, the starstuff had never looked better in any stars but you. I held on to you like I was trying to pour all the secrets of the universe into my head.

But I always forget that you are made of the ashes of stars. You are made of light and air and smoke. You slip through my fingers, all chimera and haze, leaving behind this empty space when brilliancy should have been.

When a star collapses, if it is large enough, it will create a black hole. There can be another universe or there can be limbo. Only you have the answer, but you are on the other side.

And I, the untethered planet, adrift and directionless, am willing to dive right in.

— an undelivered note from an engineer to a biochemist (via ohfiitz)

(via snarkysweetness-deactivated2021)








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