[liquidlightandrunningtrees]

I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.

Virginia Woolf, The Pargiters

[vethox]

[plathisms-blog]

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

Sylvia Plath, The Moon and the Yew Tree

[acehotel]

[moonsoil]

1993 guerrilla marquee by Jenny Holzer who fought the good fight on 42nd street ‘fore they tore it down.

[andothercharms]

Never did anyone look so sad. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed; a tear fell; the waters swayed this way and that, received it, were at rest. Never did anyone look so sad.

Virginia Woolf

[dumblittlebaby-deactivated20160]

[wordsnquotes]

I want deeper connections with the people around me. I need to reach out more. Because not everyone leaves. Sometimes if you reach out, the person you’re trying to reach will be right there waiting.

Susane Colasanti, So Much Closer

[brujjiti]

[moonsoil]

“I must have flowers, always and always.” -Claude Monet

[lifeinpoetry]

Here is the handful of shadow I have brought back to you: this decay, this hope, this mouthful of dirt, this poetry.

Margaret Atwood, Mushrooms (excerpt)

[thusreluctant]

[moonsoil]

On the Waves of Love by Edvard Munch

[problemheart]

[chasetorbergson]

The way to hunt is for as long as you live against as long as there is such and such an animal; just as the way to paint is as long as there is you and colors and canvas, and to write as long as you can live and there is pencil and paper or ink or any machine to do it with, or anything you care to write about, and you feel a fool, and you are a fool, to do it any other way.

Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa

[two-swede-sisters]

Visit Original Link

[moonsoil]

Live at Berns Hotel in Stockholm, Sweden, 06/18/2014

[subwaytiles]

[moonsoil]

Henri Matisse, different perspectives on the Romanian blouse

[moonsoil]

“The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky

or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and

valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves old names and promiscuity between

devil-may-care men who have taken to railroading out of sheer lust of adventure—

and young slatterns, bathed in filth from Monday to Saturday

to be tricked out that night with gauds from imaginations which have no

peasant traditions to give them character but flutter and flaunt

sheer rags-succumbing without emotion save numbed terror

under some hedge of choke-cherry or viburnum- which they cannot express—

Unless it be that marriage perhaps with a dash of Indian blood

will throw up a girl so desolate so hemmed round with disease or murder

that she’ll be rescued by an agent— reared by the state and

sent out at fifteen to work in some hard-pressed house in the suburbs—

some doctor’s family, some Elsie— voluptuous water expressing with broken

brain the truth about us— her great ungainly hips and flopping breasts

addressed to cheap jewelry and rich young men with fine eyes

as if the earth under our feet were an excrement of some sky

and we degraded prisoners destined to hunger until we eat filth

while the imagination strains after deer going by fields of goldenrod in

the stifling heat of September Somehow it seems to destroy us

It is only in isolate flecks that something is given off

No one to witness and adjust, no one to drive the car”

— To Elsie, William Carlos Williams

[visual-me]

[purplebuddhaproject]

Let people feel the weight of who you are and let them deal with it.

John Eldridge