Start a War @hannahep - Tumblr Blog

We may have been

flawless then—

but look at us now.

Look how we shine.

Look at the map we've

made in these fractures—

in all the places where

the world got its hands

on us.

- Jenny Noble Anderson, But Still She Flies: Poems and Paintings

flowerytale

Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks 1964-1980

xanaxfarts

Fruit-Shaped Bus Stops (1990) Location: Nagasaki, Japan

lucidloving

Kurt Vonnegut // Lang Leav // Erica Jong, Becoming Light: Poems New & Selected // @dvoyd // Matt Haig, The Midnight Library // @ojibwa // magazine clipping, on Bronnie Ware's The Top Five Regrets of the Dying // r.h. // F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Basil and Josephine Stories

[Requested by @alwaysanangel-neveragod]

metamorphesque

― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

stardustemotions-deactivated202

i'm a simple girl: i see sunlight on the water, i find god.

wedarkacademia

Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Manon, Ballerina

wedarkacademia

You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.

~ James Baldwin

image credit- coffeesoakedpages

metamorphesque

"In villages God does not live..", Joseph Brodsky (tr George L. Kline)

derangedrhythms

Paralysis again. How I waste my days. I feel a terrific blocking and chilling go through me like anaesthesia.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath ⁠— 4th November 1959

derangedrhythms

This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this, and I do not. Everything is unique—and insignificant.

E. M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born, tr. Richard Howard