life is beautiful.

// i'm emily and my soul is on its twenty-fourth trek around the sun. i like sunshine and thunderstorms and mountains and trees and anything that makes my heart sigh with joy. i live in the glorious pnw and i believe in constant adventuring. and wine. loads of wine. the end //

[grace--upon--grace]

[fluffygif]

Ocean waves by ryanpernofski

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Those Who Don’t Believe In Magic Will Never Find It,” by Mel Volkman

[livedinmyth-deactivated20170110]

The first person who saw your face was delighted by you. Isn’t that something? You managed to bring joy only by breathing. Your mother will occasionally peek through the cracks of your door when you are sleeping, even now, to make sure that she can see the movements of your chest. The boy who kissed you in the park last night isn’t in love with you, he won’t even stay, but he meant every second of those minutes. You’ll walk a city street that your feet have never touched before and you’ll be terrified of getting lost and that feeling is what’ll help you find the way home. You’ll give your money to a homeless man and he will hold your hand firmly between his and he will say ‘thank you so, so much’ and isn’t that something? There’s a piece of music that makes your heart feel like it’s bleeding. Listen to it. Listen to it again. When was the last time you paused to stare at night time? Did you know that there is at least one person in your life who will jump in front of a hail of bullets for you, without your asking. Your entire body is made of nerves. Feel things. Take walks in places you’ve never been. Take photographs of people not everyone considers beautiful. Find loveliness in them. Let go of the things that are killing you from the inside out. One day you’re going to be part of the sky, you’re going to be that beautiful and that necessary but not today. Not today.

Azra (5000letters)

[5000letters]

I sit in front of maps and measure with my fingertips the distance between us. In this space, I tell the ocean to make itself smaller, we argue. I tell it please, I am in love, and it allows me to palm it in my hand and hold it tightly there. I wish the roads away. I grab the forests by the handful and plant them elsewhere, plant them in our backyard ten years from now. Like this, I slowly make the spaces between us smaller until I can walk across them. I take the ground by its edges and pull it until it’s gathered like a rug beneath my feet. I bundle the sky under my arms and don’t mind that the clouds are raining on my feet. I can walk the inches to your door and knock the wood and see you standing there in all your shocked silence. The question of the sky and the ground and the oceans all piled up around me. I can say ‘hello, look, it’s me, I love you, I’ve brought the entire earth for you.’

Azra.T “The World’s Gift” (via 5000letters)

[heresay]

Being in love was like running barefoot along a street covered with broken bottles. It was foolhardy, and if you got through it without damage it was only by sheer luck. It was like taking off your clothes at lunchtime in a bank. It let people think they knew something about you that you didn’t know about them, it gave them power over you. It made you visible, soft, penetrable; it made you ludicrous.

Margaret Atwood, Bodily Harm (via heresay)

[5000letters]

When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.

Galway Kinnell (via 5000letters)

[lizsplaylist]

Visit Original Link

[worldgrowsold]

We just have too much lightning crammed into our hearts. Just want someone to put her ear to our chest and tell us how far away the storm is.

Dear Lemon Engine II by Lauren Zuniga (via worldgrowsold)

[daretoclimbthesky]

me, looking at the current state of the world, crying:I wish none of this had happened...

Gandalf, materialising in my conscience, smiling kindly: So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, besides the will of evil.

[luthienne]

…Am I living half alive? I am so tired…

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via luthienne)

[rewelcomed]

[borgeslabyrinth]

Visit Original Link

Like a river flows surely to the sea, some things are meant to be.

[rosettes]

Fuck

[mypsychology]

[tomjoyphotography]

Verticals // Glen Doll // Scotland

[latenightcornerstore]

Somewhere in Georgia, a girl wears her tender like a bear trap. She calls love a four-letter word— the way it tears and eats, but she dips her fingers in it, anyway: just waiting for all that soft to break her neck.   A thousand miles away from her, I am melting my heart into gold, so that it will be worth something when I give it to her. I pick out every flinch and fear that kept me from doing this sooner. I am ready for her. I am ready.   Come August, that girl will be in Texas: in my city, in my apartment, in my bed, (in my arms). But August feels like a lifetime from here— all that summer sprawled out between us instead of highways.   Every night, I tally up all the times a day I wanted to kiss that mouth (that mouth, that mouth), and I make a promise that, in two months, I will.

TWO MONTHS by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[inkskinned]

and girls were so pretty. there was the effortless girls who had the wide eyes, the freckles, the hair pulled back. who didn’t wear makeup and always wore a smile, who knew you needed help before you asked it; the sunshine and picnic girls, who you felt carried spring with them. and the mountaintop girls, strong bodies and fierce in their bones, drinking green tea and teaching you yoga, who watched you and made sure you ate well, who knew what it was to fight for a body that listened. and the soft heather girls who knew nature and spoke gently and would show you how to hear the light hitting a lake, who would listen no matter how long the story was and somehow know what to say. and the girls who were red moons, a dangerous flash of teeth and darkness, an excited wildness that came in black leather and spoke of nights you ache when you remember, who would look at you and pin you to a board for a moment, so that for once you felt important. and the summertime girls, wide smiles and makeup that never smudged, who could make you feel as if you lived inside a photograph, who brought the feeling of the fourth of july to every party, who convinced you to come to the party. and of course the rain girls, who didn’t need an explanation, but simply were, in a way that when you made eye contact with them you knew somehow about sorrow and also about the safety of staying home. 

and girls. girls in their sweatpants in the aisle of a supermarket looking lost. girls staring down their teacher, demanding the grade they deserve. girls with their hands on the wheel, with their hands passing lotion to another, with their hands in their hair. girls upside down on the couch and spine straight in business meetings and body curled around a book. girls who were upended libraries, who were railroads, who were a choir’s last note, who were carols, who were snow, who were a racing track, who glowed or who gave warmth or else sewed cold, who bit hard, who laughed loud, who fell asleep on trains, who rode bikes in rain.

and then there was you.