A sudden wind brought the cold:
I took my coat out of its shroud

and closed my face against the icy dust.

I put my hands inside my pockets
and found you there.

"Iseult to Tristan, pt. I," from Internal Monologues (a Romance), Danijela Kambaskovic

I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our more stupid melancholy propensities, for is there anything more stupid than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold it fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?

Voltaire, Candide: or, Optimism

(via mirroir)