тишина

owl(s) awake in the dark

[omoso-deactivated20120616]

Thinking about something is like picking up a stone when taking a walk, either while skipping rocks on the beach, for example, or looking for a way to shatter the glass doors of a museum. When you think about something, it adds a bit of weight to your walk, and as you think about more and more things you are liable to feel heavier and heavier, until you are so burdened you cannot take any further steps, and can only sit and stare at the gentle movements of the ocean waves or security guards, thinking too hard bout too many things to do anything else.

Lemony Snicket (via omoso)

[curae-deactivated20130323]

березки by idinasvet27 on Flickr.

[atomos]

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

Diane Setterfield (via atomos)

[melleus-blog]

(by trach_l)

[melleus-blog]

I am weak (by L.A. Birdie Photography)

[decrepito-deactivated20160813]

You know when, sometimes you meet someone so beautiful. Then you actually talk to them and five minutes later, they’re as dull as a brick? Then there’s other people, and you meet them and you think, Not bad. They’re okay. And then you get to know them, and their face sort of becomes them. Like their personality is written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful.

Amelia Pond (via decrepito)

[crossminded-deactivated20120404]

[cartographe]

anna allen clothing: holiday 2011 (by gracefullady)

[nagging]

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

Anaïs Nin (via nagging)

[lazulies]

so fresh & so clean by zhukich on Flickr.

[nitors]

Books have always been my escape - where I go to bury my nose, hone my senses, or play the emotional tourist in a world of my own choosing… Words are my best expressive tool, my favorite shield, my point of entry…When I was growing up, books took me away from my life to a solitary place that didn’t feel lonely. They celebrated the outcasts, people who sat on the margins of society contemplating their interiors… Books were my cure for a romanticized unhappiness, for the anxiety of impending adulthood. They were all mine, private islands with secret passwords only the worthy could utter. If I could choose my favorite day, my favorite moment in some perfect dreamscape, I know exactly where I would be: stretched out in bed in the afternoon, knowing that the kids are taking a nap and I’ve got two more chapters left of some heartbreaking novel, the kind that messes you up for a week.

Jodie Foster (via nitors)

[palides-deactivated20130904]

(by you’re my monday)

[melleus-blog]

(by zachary roberts-kendall)

[melleus-blog]

Once, in my father’s bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Shadow of the Wind 

[melleus-blog]

(by Katherine Squier)

[melleus-blog]

Wilma (by inna karenina)

[losinghead-deactivated20130226]

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.

Jim Morrison (via aeterne)