The Darkest Mind

My name is Ricki. Indie Music. Ska Music. Coffee. Writing. Reading. Dog Sledding. Nickelback.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Janet Fitch, from “White Oleander,” originally published c. July 1999

[huariqueje]

Bedroom with sunlight    -   Serge de Vries

Dutch,b.1968-

Oil on panel , 18 x 24 cm.

[neckkiss]

The Lover (1992)

[perrfectly]

“All you did was smile at me and i was yours forever.”

— B.D (hatin)

[1010ll]

[thebookquotes]

I am someone who thinks and feels much – more than is reasonable. And that is all.

— Virginia Woolf, from Moments Of Being: Unpublished Writings

[neckkiss]

via weheartit

[neckkiss]

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

[historyofartdaily]

Claude Monet, Women in the garden, 1866, oil on canvas, Musée d'Orsay, Paris

[rubenista]

Frédéric Bazille, Pêcheur à l'épervier (Fisherman with a Net), 1868

[neckkiss]

Original Sin (2001)

[neckkiss]

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

[perrfectly]

“Make it a habit to think positive.”

— Anonymous (via neckkiss)

[neckkiss]

neither..

[latinademais]

I saw my life unfold before me like a fig tree from a tale I had read. From the end of each branch, a fat purple fig waved and seduced me with a wonderful future. One fig meant a husband and a happy home with children, another was a famous poet, another a teacher, another was Esther Greenwood, the surprising publisher, another was Europe, Africa and South America, another Constantin and Socrates and Attila, a bunch of lovers with weird names and original professions, another was yet an Olympic champion, and above all those figs were many others I couldn’t understand. I found myself sitting under that fig tree, starving, just because I couldn’t decide which fig to choose. I wanted them all, and choosing one meant losing the rest. Unable to make up my mind, the figs were beginning to wilt and rot, and one by one they fell to the ground at my feet.

— The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

[larmoyante]

“I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I’d cry for a week.”

— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

[litcrarum]

Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America