Catalogue this.

Lydiane / Kuching

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

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Florence and the Machine | Jenny Of Oldstones (Live Version)

“I…I would like to dedicate this song…to Arya Stark. Who saved us all.”

And she never wanted to leave never wanted to leave never wanted to leave never wanted to leave

[teapalm]

a walk around sunshine meadows. 

[heliophobus]

[Saved as a draft on July 5, 2015 at 6:39 p.m.]

A little sunburned from the thirty-minute drive home, hair a mess, bum numb from sitting in front of the computer for more than eight hours a day. That’s how I would describe the end of each weekday to a stranger. I’ve learned so much from the many drives to-and-fro alone. I’ve learned to be impatient for home, for the weekends. I’ve learned to do the opposite--by driving on the slow lane. Sometimes I record myself singing. I make it a habit to wave at children--I half-regretted doing so only once: The traffic was moving at a snail-like pace, and that was the longest fifteen-minute waving session in my life. 

[euphoriette]

Dear old world’, she murmured, ‘you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.

L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

[just-be-magnificent]

Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight.

[rockandrollchick29]

[earlingxtad]

W I N T E R has finally come.

[mypenleaksiridescence]

[heliophobus]

"STAY AWAY FROM PEOPLE WHO MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE YOU'RE HARD TO LOVE"

[danyllura]

Gilly just solved Westeros biggest mystery and all she gets is a grumpy boyfriend and a road trip

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

After tears, the chest is less sore, as if some goddess of humanness within us has caressed us with a gush of tenderness. I guess that’s how people go on, without knowing how.

Sharon Olds, from Stag’s Leap: Poems; “Known to be Left”

[bittens]

Untitled by 35mmOfMe on Flickr.

[lifeinpoetry]

Let me be holy and warm. Let me be the exhale. The best wine. The wish on every eyelash.

Stevie Edwards, excerpt from Offering in Humanly

[grace--upon--grace]

Joe St.Pierre

[mournfulroses]

The sun flared and died beyond my horizons. The earth rotated unnoted in my notebooks.

Wislawa Szymborska, from Poems: New & Collected; “May 16, 1973,”

[heliophobus]

Hi Lydiane! I remember you posted an explanation about what "Heliophobus" means, but I can't seem to find it. Mind posting it again? I loved its meaning. :)

Hi. I think I did, but the funny thing about growing older and leaving your younger self firmly in the past, anon, is that I couldn’t exactly remember where I kept/archived that particular post. I am so, so sorry.

I discovered the word “heliophobus” by chance. The word, very small and so insignificant, was nestling in one of those heavy books – the Library of Congress Subject Headings – in the cataloguing lab. It merely means “shade plant”. I was never fond of sunny days, hence the affinity. “Farthest from the sun, closest to the … ground.“ I believe those were the words I have used.

[coffeepeople]

How wild is it that every version of you probably exists still, somewhere, in someone’s memory? The messy you, crying on the floor exists still in your mind. The happy, sun-soaked you, exists in your best friend’s memory. No part of you has died, all parts of us exist always, simultaneously and hidden. 

[disaster-lesbianbeau-deactivate]

energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed.

in the same way, the you that you were last year, the you who was happy and kind and gentle and bright is still out there somewhere, like the light we see from a star even after it’s died. and it’s good to sit outside and look at that star, pick it out of a constellation and say yes, there are constants in the universe, yes, we find ways to connect back to ourselves even from millions of miles away, yes, the things i thought i lost are still out there, not destroyed, but transformed into something else.

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

I need so little: a bottle of ink, a speck of sun on the floor—and you; but the latter is not all that little, and fate, God, the seraphs know this perfectly well—and withhold and withhold …

Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Véra, ed. and transl. Olga Voronina and Brian Boyd (Alfred A. Knopf, 2014)