For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them...– Hermann Hesse (via atomos) It’s like this.
Life begets life. Energy creates energy. It is by spending oneself that one...– Sarah Bernhardt | via (via kari-shma)
So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a...– J.K. Rowling (via arreter)
Have you ever considered any real freedoms? Freedom from the opinions of...– Colonel Walter E. Kurtz (Apocalypse Now)
halfadams: Steve Connell can do no wrong in my eyes. Take a few hours and YouTube the name and thank me later.
No Matter What You Think...
thatchris: You are not broken beyond repair. True, you’re badly bent. But so am I. And I love your twisted little angles and scars It proves you’ve lived a little, know what pain is like And know how to treat people as a result Besides Everybody likes a little kink Every now and then.
Be ground. Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up where you are. You’ve been...– Rumi (via shaktilover)
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t...– Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum (via parkstepp)
: if there can be a forgiven soft sighthere can be... →
wrightwilliams: if there can be a forgiven soft sigh there can be a small light a cautious beam a drifting breeze of empathy. if there can be a forgiven mistake a grasped idea a what-would-you a broken taillight there can be a good night, a good bye, a good morning a happy eye. if for one of the many,
Love, Damage: A Mirrored Life →
skunkpapers: Shards of her sharp, broken life come flying at him at unexpected moments. It is more surprise than pain when Ernst finds one embedded in his flesh. He knows the routine, don’t grab it—that will gash your hand—but find a tea towel to wrap, or pair of pliers to grip and gently pull it out. Except…
It doesn’t matter what people tell you. It doesn’t matter what they might say....– Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic (via stillmonnielicious)
atomos: It’s Hard To Get Around The Wind by Alex...
Re-distribution of the wealth doesn't sound so...
Since then I've been so good at vanishing: Once on... →
oldsoulnewworld: Once on a yellow peice of paper with green lines he wrote a poem and he called it “chops” because that was the name of his dog and thats what it was all about his teacher gave him an A and a gold star and his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts. that was the year Father…