MY INSPIRATION BOARD

Think of this page as a journal.  Remie Tori Plehan; woman, wonder, wreck. All three at once. Self-confessed materialist and wannabe fashion/muso/media mogul. Melbourne, AU.

[letsnoteforafuture-deactivated2]

[streetstyleplatform]

[thelovejournals]

There’s a trick to the ‘graceful exit.’ It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, or a relationship is over — and let it go. It means leaving what’s over without denying its validity or its past importance to our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit line is an entry, that we are moving up, rather than out.

Ellen Goodman (via thelovejournals)

[minuty]

“I am especially fond of you.”

William Paul Young, The Shack (via minuty)

[dumbcutepets]

“Even on your ugliest days, you still match someone’s type. Even on your best looking days, there are people who won’t look twice.

unknown (via atmosphre)

[thenordroom]

[aureumn]

Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious. And however difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at. It matters that you don’t just give up.

Stephen Hawking (via gef-n)

[8cosyintherocket8]

THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL (2014) dir. Wes Anderson

[vicforprez]

[soulmeitu]

his name is Pickle

[wordsnquotes]

Give. Even when you know you can get nothing back.

Yasmin Mogahed   (via wordsnquotes)

[thelovejournals]

A relationship should not be measured in months or years. It’s the calibre of the memories that matter. Their impact, their permanence, and the degree to which they change you. I’ve had relationships lasting years I can now scarcely recollect, and hours with others that feel like infinities.

Beau Taplin, “The Measurement”  (via thelovejournals)

[blythebaird]

POCKET-SIZED FEMINISM The only other girl at the party is ranting about feminism. The audience: a sea of rape jokes and snapbacks and styrofoam cups and me. They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain clogged with too many opinions. I shoot her an empathetic glance and say nothing. This house is for wallpaper women. What good is wallpaper that speaks? I want to stand up, but if I do, whose coffee table silence will these boys rest their feet on? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if someone takes my spot? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if everyone notices I’ve been sitting this whole time? I am guilty of keeping my feminism in my pocket until it is convenient not to, like at poetry slams or my women’s studies class. There are days I want people to like me more than I want to change the world. There are days I forget we had to invent nail polish to change color in drugged drinks and apps to virtually walk us home at night and mace disguised as lipstick. Once, I told a boy I was powerful and he told me to mind my own business. Once, a boy accused me of practicing misandry. You think you can take over the world? And I said No, I just want to see it. I just need to know it is there for someone. Once, my dad informed me sexism is dead and reminded me to always carry pepper spray in the same breath. We accept this state of constant fear as just another part of being a girl. We text each other when we get home safe and it does not occur to us that our guy friends do not have to do the same. You could saw a woman in half and it would be called a magic trick. That’s why you invited us here, isn’t it? Because there is no show without a beautiful assistant? We are surrounded by boys who hang up our naked posters and fantasize about choking us and watch movies we get murdered in. We are the daughters of men who warned us about the news and the missing girls on the milk carton and the sharp edge of the world. They begged us to be careful. To be safe. Then told our brothers to go out and play.

POCKET-SIZED FEMINISM, by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

[existential-celestial]

but we carry the weight           wearily, and so must rest in the arms of love           at last, must rest in the arms           of love.

Allen Ginsberg, Song (San Jose, 1954)

[nothingwithoutwords]

whoever says love makes you weak has never pulled out their heart to give to someone else. you must be strong to be in love– to lend a piece of yourself to someone who needs it more than you do, (and never expect it back)

by shelby leigh (via nothingwithoutwords)

[ghostlywriterr]

Saint Petersburg, Russia.

[vintagepales]

Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. St. Petersburg.