Mysterium Tremendum et Fascinans
Lemony Snicket (via fairestregal)
This is important.
I think breathlessness is the wrong word. I understand why people use it, though. You glance over to the dimly lit face; the sun diminishes to a lowly street lamp. A shadow dances on their faces, bobbing with their steps. Their eyes twinkly in and out, fixed on the road, the people walking by. You realize your chest just took a smoke break, that must be that suffocating feeling. Your diaphragm removes itself from being, unable to handle a reality to bizarre and wonderful as to contain her in it. Your lungs aren’t empty – just the opposite. They’re full of her. Full of the terrifying power of overabundance. Like a bad horror story where someone dies from drinking too much water, from wanting too much of life. At some point you let her fill you, and you never let yourself deflate. It isn’t a bad way to go. After all, some of us die without knowing what its like to perish from a bright, bright light.
Oh, when you love it. Caitlyn Siehl (via insanity-here-i-come)
When my husband [Carl Sagan] died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it still sometimes happens — and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again.
Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful.
The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful. Ann Druyan (via carbonqt)