Serendipity

Catalan, 25 years old, I love music, tattoos, piercings, food, summer, sports, almost anything that's different or exotic... "I'm just another Bernard Marx who wishes to be a Helmholtz Watson"

[freakoutgirl]

not to sound like a victorian woman suffering from hysteria but i do think going to the sea would fix me

[maresia-vibes]

[bryjins]

[wedge-of-poetry]

To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now and again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks - all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.

Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

[certasluas]

[thepersonalquotes]

[lezcouples]

[landscape-lunacy]

Glehn’s Castle, Tallinn, Estonia - by Razdva Photography

[canvia]

[xslowly]

[thegoodvybe]

[be-artistic-deactivated20230306]

[sashacoki]

[fuckyeah--fitlesbian]

Follow me on instagram for more fitness inspiration

[thegoodvybe]

[xexpectationsx]

[reading-wilde]

January 21 Milan I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn't even feel it. And yet I believe you'll be sensible of a little gap. But you'd clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan't make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this—But oh my dear, I can't be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don't love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don't really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, 1926

[lesbians-jpg]