but even so, every now and then i would feel a violent stab of loneliness. the very water i drink, the very air i breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. the pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. i could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning. - Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I am allowed to do things that make me happy.

I am allowed to do things that make me happy.

It’s not a waste of time because it makes me happy.

And that is important.

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Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.

Sometimes at night I suddenly become aware of all the things I’m missing out on right now, and all the people who I’m not close to anymore, and all of the good times that will never happen again, and all the people who meant the world to me who have forgotten about me forever, and I get this awful feeling that’s kind of like a mix between loneliness and nostalgia.

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