[summer-moons]

Lightning bugs in the trees ✨

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from “From the Book of Time”, Devotions

[podencos]

You can’t just go anywhere and scream anymore

[podencos]

Everywhere is built up and occupied and peopled to the hilt. You should be able to let out a sonorous, aggrieved shriek and not worry anyone abt it. This is why we need more green spaces

[greeksblog]

|Life in the forest|

[voirlvmer]

“How long can the human heart live / out there on the boats / when no one comes / when one is alone / and one stays alone because no one comes”

— Anis Mojgani, from In the Pockets of Small Gods

[heavensghost]

What if I don’t have big dreams.? Like what if I just want to be happy?? What then??

[lunamonchtuna]

— Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (via lunamonchtuna)

[seaoflove]

— anne carson, from the glass essay

[faqoloqy]

If you’re not amazed by the stars on a clear night then we won’t work.

[gnossienne]

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

[selfuntitled]

Dead Poets Society (1989)

“I’m trapped.”

[dkatya]

Somewhere in northern Italy

[luthienne]

Rebecca Solnit, from “The Faraway Nearby”

[teacomets]

“When you’re an artist, it’s because there’s something inside you that you can’t keep from spilling out. Maybe it comes in the form of sentences, or a grand jeté, or a stroke of a paintbrush. The end result can be a million different things. But the seed, it’s always the same. It’s the emotion there isn’t a word for. The feeling that’s too big for your body. To show someone your soul, you have to bleed. People who are comfortable—people who are content—they don’t create art.”

— Jodi Picoult, from The Book of Two Ways (Ballantine, 2020)

[palladiumfragments]

About a hundred ships are sailing away before me, their masts billowing in the wind as if beckoning me to catch up. Each will take me to a wonderful future, each promising a destination lovelier than where I am now. One an English Professor very much like John Keating, one a traveler who takes good photos and writes about the places she had been, one a published writer living in a cottage near the mountains and the sea, one living in Switzerland with plants and dogs, one married and a mother to two kids, one who owns a quaint bookshop café in a remote but picturesque countryside, even chances for broken dreams, and many more promises I couldn’t quite make out; each ship sending glimpses of stopovers, mistakes, places I’ll never see, and lives I’ll never get to live― a cruel reminder than I am stuck in one body while I long ardently and achingly for more.

Every single moment of everyday I stand on this shore and the same ships are there, ever so slow but still advancing further away from me. And here I am who refuses to choose. Life is a current and I am a child of the waves. At the end of the day, no matter how far I venture, my wild will always come back to the gentleness of the shores. I stay while the others let go. There are times I can hear the calls of the grown-ups downstream telling me that everything will be all right, that I should let myself be taken away, because there is no growth in staying. But this stubborn heart of a dreamer has a different idea of growth. I want to plant myself in this place and let my roots pierce the deepest earth, letting their thick bodies crawl back in the past and alongside with the present. That way I wouldn’t cling to the superficial, that way I could drench myself with the beauty of what we were, that way I can move on without leaving behind the yesterdays I found comfort in. I hate how the world spins these days. I have always believed that I’m an old soul born in the wrong era. But I am here without a choice but to live nonetheless, and ignore the fact that that is precisely the core of my undying internal struggle.

In the shore I stand unmoving, my shadow as faint as the last breath of a dying star, the heat of the sun slowly corroding my skin into sands, and the salty breeze carries them away to my little graves. And it pains me deeply because I know. I know that sooner or later I have to board one of the ships, abandoning the others behind.

The little girl in me knows the world is too cruel for dreamers.

― autumn artemis│An Old Soul, Her Dreams, and Her Tragedy

photo from: pinterest

[hospital-wh0re]

siken quotes i like to keep in my pocket

‘so maybe i wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation’

‘take a body, maybe / your own, dump it gently. all your dead / unfinished selves and dump them gently’

‘i think i’d rather keep the bullet this time. it’s mine, you can’t have it, see, im not giving it up’

‘when you bang your head on the wall you have to remember / you’re on both sides of it already but go ahead, / yell at yourself’

‘a man takes his sadness down the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river’

‘tonight you’re thinking of cities under crowns / of snow and im staring at you like ‘im looking through the window, counting birds’

‘i had to make up all the words myself. the way / they taste, the way they sound in the air’

‘please keep him safe. / let him lay his head on my chest and we will be / like sailors, swimming in the sound of / it, dashed / to pieces’

‘i’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me’

‘i ran and i knew you wouldn’t catch me. / you are a fever i am learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel’

‘i clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. id rather quit. id rather be sad. it’s too much work.’

‘someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure. im sure you remember, i was on the phone with you, sweetheart’

‘and the tug of a simple / profound sadness when it sounds so far away’

‘here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed’

feel free to reblog with more!

[scarletdressedhearts]

Siken quotes I saved in my notes

I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't want them, so I take them back and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists.

I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

His hands keep turning into birds, and his hands keep flying away from him. Eventually the birds must land.

We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with.

Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about.

We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.

You were burned, you were about to burn, you're still on fire.

The light is no mystery, the mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.

[letheane-deactivated20200121]

“You look at trees and called them ‘trees,’ and probably you do not think twice about the word. You call a star a ‘star,’ and think nothing more of it. But you must remember that these words, 'tree,’ 'star,’ were (in their original forms) names given to these objects by people with very different views from yours. To you, a tree is simply a vegetable organism, and a star simply a ball of inanimate matter moving along a mathematical course. But the first men to talk of 'trees’ and 'stars’ saw things very differently. To them, the world was alive with mythological beings. They saw the stars as living silver, bursting into flame in answer to the eternal music. They saw the sky as a jeweled tent, and the earth as the womb whence all living things have come. To them, the whole of creation was 'myth-woven and elf patterned’.”

— J.R.R. Tolkien, from ‘Mythopoeia’