شِي مُطَمْئِن

[chungmoorokid]

Seoul, South Korea, 2017

[hafsaatique]

I She named him Rohan for the colour of the fields when he was born. He met her on the bridge between late Spring afternoon and early evening, when the sun hung low over the fields; everything burnt in shades of gold and russet, charred and relentless. It was her favourite time of day: when the smell of dried wheat would lift into the kitchen on a dwindling afternoon breeze, when she could reach her hand out of the window and be gold.

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[rjkoehler]

Wandering around Yeonnam-dong (from top to bottom): Himeji, which does a mean Japanese curry; Salon de Ceylon, a favorite cafe of mine near the entrance of Dongin Market; sourdough bagels at SF Bagels; and borscht at Buffet Valya.

[rjkoehler]

Just another snowy day in Bukchon Hanok Village…

[rjkoehler]

Happiness is a rainy day in Ikseon-dong.

[aabbiidd]

“Kitni ajeeb hai nekiyon ki justuju Ghalib, namaz bhe jaldi mein parhte hein phir se gunah karne ke liye.” -Ghalib Shahi Masjid. Chiniot, Pakistan. (Instagram: aabbiidd)

[loneuchiha-deactivated20170413]

These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb

Najwa Zebian (via loneuchiha)

[ohantom]

“i must have flowers, always, and always”

[thelovejournals]

Will you tolerate the strangeness inside of me, the quirks of my soul?

Tyler Knott Gregson (via thelovejournals)

[lifeinpoetry]

When you open your mouth, there will be only air. Tighten your throat. Sound, inexplicably, like something lost.

Donika Kelly, from “Catalogue,” Bestiary: Poems (via lifeinpoetry)

[lifeinpoetry]

I am a forest, a field. I crumble and shift. I wake, my breath deep inside the earth.

Donika Kelly, from “Handsome is,” Bestiary: Poems (via lifeinpoetry)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I tell you, it is a Suffering, to have a sea - no care how Blue - between your Soul, and you.

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Samuel Bowles featured in The Letters of Emily Dickinson (via soracities)

[watchoutforintellect]

I get a little frightened when I think of life slipping through my fingers like water…

Sylvia Plath, from a letter to her mother featured in Letters Home (via watchoutforintellect)

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

Colors are the screams of the dark.

Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions: Volume I (via soracities)

[letheane-deactivated20200121]

Often when I imagine you your wholeness cascades into many shapes. You run like a herd of luminous deer and I am dark, I am forest.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from ‘The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God’ (via sempiternele)

[sange-saboor]

ساکنان دریا بعد از مدتی صدای امواج دریا را نمی شنوند چه تلخ است قصه ی عـــــــــــــادت After a while, the residents of the sea do not hear the sound of the waves. How bitter it is, the story of routine.

(via tevar)

[sange-saboor]

ساکنان دریا بعد از مدتی صدای امواج دریا را نمی شنوند چه تلخ است قصه ی عـــــــــــــادت After a while, the residents of the sea do not hear the sound of the waves. How bitter it is, the story of routine.

(via tevar)