Certain Not By Sight

[tylerknott]

Typewriter Series #1677 by Tyler Knott Gregson

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[acemedog]

“C.S. Lewis says that fiction is able to sneak past the watchful dragons of religion. It becomes more powerful to speak in poetry, that the song goes straight to the heart, whereas the numbers and the math of it, will never be able to reach that.” - Jon Foreman

[scribblingwithstardust-deactiva]

You are all the things I used to dream about. (honeybees, spelling starlight, and faraway destinations. like sun kissed skylines, and gentle afternoons, floating upside down on vanilla soft serve.) Until I knew they were real. (your slanted handwriting, carved in a peach tree, a blossom tucked in my hair. The other pressed in a book. Another mailed two cities over in a crumpled white envelope with no return address.)

Love, Em // This is Maybe A Love Letter (via scribblingwithstardust)

[sahrana]

There are some people you’ll never see again. At least, not in the same way.

I Wrote This For You, Iain S. Thomas (via sahrana)

[blossomfully]

But, but. Sometimes you still wonder how it would have felt to hold his hand, to trace the curve of his spine. Sometimes you still hold his secrets in the gaps between your lower ribs, like tiny stars waiting to erupt. On nights like these you find yourself missing something you never even had. “We could have loved each other,” you say into the emptiness. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” the emptiness replies. “Why torture yourself this way?

Sue Zhao (via blossomfully)

[larmoyante]

Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

E.E Cummings (via larmoyante)

[certainnotbysight]

I want to get to the point where I know the individual colors in your hair.  So that your brown becomes a beautiful mix of copper, ash, chestnut, honey, and coffee. Will you let me get that close?

[larmoyante]

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.

Henri J.M. Nouwen, Out of Solitude: Three Meditations on the Christian Life (via larmoyante)

[larmoyante]

The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.

Cornelia Funke, Inkheart (via larmoyante)

[abdu117-deactivated20170830]

in a room full of art I’d still stare at you

(via quotes117)

[larmoyante]

Our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry

Rupi Kaur (via larmoyante)

[blossomfully]

It was beautiful though, wasn’t it? Imagination almost always is.

Sue Zhao // Ten Word Story (via blossomfully)

[unreactive]

[lovequotesandcoffee]

If you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen again.

C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (via lovequotesandcoffee)

[larmoyante]

The first boy I fell in love with didn’t know I loved him, but he managed to break my heart anyway.

Holly Black (via larmoyante)

[larkspuraster]

I crave the side of you that you don’t show to anyone else.

(via acceptvnce)

[scribblingwithstardust-deactiva]

I’m always wandering into dusty bookstores. Running my fingers along the spines of a hundred unread titles. Someone else’s mid-afternoon thoughts. And I’m such a daydreamer. I keep thinking we’re in one of them. It’s mostly wishfulness. But there are a lot of stories–really lovely ones. I’ve found a handful about hope.

A scribbler // Bookstores (via scribblingwithstardust)