Kay ・❥・

“You said I killed you-haunt me, then! [...] Be with me always-take any form-drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”
― Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

“I missed you,” he said quietly, his gaze darting between her mouth and eyes. “When I was in
Wendlyn. I lied when I said I didn’t. From the moment you left, I missed you so much I went out of my
mind. I was glad for the excuse to track Lorcan here, just to see you again. And tonight, when he had
that knife at your throat …” The warmth of his callused finger bloomed through her as he traced a path
over the cut on her neck. “I kept thinking about how you might never know that I missed you with only
an ocean between us. But if it was death separating us … I would find you. I don’t care how many
rules it would break. Even if I had to get all three keys myself and open a gate, I would find you
again. Always.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Queen of Shadows

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar