Seldom do I borrow books to friends - it’s a bit like stripping myself completely naked. In fact, one of the most intimate gifts I can give to someone is just giving one of the books that I read and I loved. And no, I don’t mean the same title repurchased once again from any bookshop, but the same book I thumbed through, page by page. ‘Cause I don’t simply read them and that’s it. I live them. I add notes to the side, I highlight sentences, I fill them with traces and symbols I identify myself most with. Just know, if I gift you one of “my” books, in all those scribbles and signs made with pens and pencils you’ll find inbetween the ink printed words, there are hidden parts of me. If you want to know me, look for me among the underlined phrases. One line, two lines, one pass all colored, some words handwritten vertically: there, lie words I still have yet to muster the courage to say.

If I gift or borrow you one of my books, I’m not simply saying, ‘this story is very nice, I want to share it with you’, but I’m telling you much more;

'you know, I trust you, dive into me'.

I hope that in the end, when I shut my eyes for the very last time, every bit of resentment I have towards my father will be dissolved into blissful solace. Oh father, why have you hurt me so much? I feel like I am beyond repair.


vvni:

Matias Santa Maria

Anonymous asked:
"Who are you?" It's Okano. I want to apologize for my behavior. It's weighing on my conscience. I feel like I caused conflict somewhere and dragged you down.

Send me a message off anon.


Who knows how many times we’ve been happy without realising it.

It’s hard to be happy about happiness — you get used to it right away, and you cease to notice it. Lightly veiling your other sentiments.

Until happiness becomes something you’ve lost.

Only then you realise you actually were.

You were happy, even if it was not all perfect. Because it’s never quite perfect — never. And that is good news, this: despite imperfections, you can be.

And perhaps, real happiness is nothing more than the ability to realise that in some point in time, you were.

Anonymous asked:
You up for a call? I gots to apologize to you.

Who are you?


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