be kind

seek what sets your soul on fire

[filmaticbby]

Vivre sa vie (1962) dir. Jean-Luc Godard

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Gabbeh (Mohsen Makhmalbaf, 1996)

[moodsandmatters]

brunie.co

brunie.co

[unreadable]

[moodsandmatters]

brunie.co

brunie.co

[quotemadness]

“Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next.”

— Gilda Radner

[sunnieh]

[inspiredsunnie]

[suxelee]

Spoiler: it absolutely does workout for you, and even better than you anticipated.

[quotemadness]

Find things beautiful as much as you can, most people find too little beautiful.

Vincent Van Gogh (via quotemadness)

[quotemadness]

Let someone love you just the way you are - as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. To believe you must hide of all the parts of you that are broken, out of fear that someone else is incapable of loving what is less than perfect, is to believe that sunlight is incapable of entering a broken window and illuminating a dark room.

Marc Hack (via quotemadness)

[invisionedaspiration]

[idabjoerk]

[llleighsmith]

just some things i was thinking about this afternoon

[metamorphesque]

—  Banana Yoshimoto, “Kitchen”

[metamorphesque]

What the Living Do, Marie Howe

[cloudbeam]

Written for her brother, John Howe, who died of complications of AIDS

[itsgonnabeanofrommedawg]

full poem:

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless: I am living. I remember you.

[allthingseurope]