Simone De Beauvoir, From A Diary Entry Featured In Diary Of A Philosophy Student

There is nothing poetic in sadness. No salvation in pain.

You won't ease the suffering by running away.

It was always inside you.

The fear.

The grief.

The rage.

The sorrow.

Let it slip.

Nothing is everlasting but everything is eternal.

Maybe you fear death but

you're still about to be born.

We forgot who we actually are.

Tangled up in our daily lifes we believe everything that happens is important. That every bad thing that happened is proof that the universe is against us. But it's not.

We are it's children.

We are the same.

Marcel Proust, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Marcel Proust

5 May, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

Giuseppe Ungaretti, from a poem titled "Christmas," featured in Selection of Modern Italian Poetry

Mahmoud Darwish, from The Butterfly's Burden; "Maybe, Because Winter Is Late,"

Franz Kafka, from a letter to Milena Jesenka featured in "Letters to Milena,

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vanessa Bell, featured in The Selected Letters of Virginia Woolf

Each cut of fiber on my skin should represent the things I deserved. The pain I deserve. If I counted all, I may not be breathing by dawn.

I wanna mute my overthinking.