Why was I given this overwhelming sensitivity? Why do I always have to question myself? Why can’t I just live in the present without fixating on the past and future? Why am I constantly yearning for something more? Why do I always feel stuck?

Questions I always ask myself

violentwavesofemotion:

“I adore you, but I hate you too. You’re a prison smothered in flowers. I can’t stand this enchantment anymore, I can’t stand being bewitched like this–when I look at you, my gaze turns to nothing but a mirror of light, I’ll stare at you hypnotized for ages, and when I stop seeing you I’ll feel you, and when I stop feeling you I’ll die.”

Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from “The Sleepwalker,” (x)