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About: follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.

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“If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.”Gabriel García Márquez  (via kittenpawed)

(Source: apoetreflects, via kittenpawed)

“There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.”Jean-Paul Sartre (via thatlitsite)

(via vocal-chord)

“Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that’s how we’ve got to live.” —Haruki Murakami - Hear the Wind Sing (via murakamistuff)

(via stillmeaningless)

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance.
To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.”
—Arundhati Roy (via arabellesicardi)

(via commovente)

(Source: l-amouur, via grace-full)

“You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.” —Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (via larmoyante)

Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

(Source: ne0ntigress, via chromatolysis)

“Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s an absence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.” —Mark Strand, from The Art Of Poetry (via notebookings)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via wiltedbones)

(Source: aformofhealing, via wiltedbones)

(Source: hospital--for--soul, via grace-full)

“He is ugly and sad… but he is all love.”Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez (via allmymetaphors)


One day, there was an atomic bomb beneath my lawn in a shape vaguely like yours, and digging carefully, I realized to love something is to think you could explode. 

—Lisa Marie Basile, from “Benjamin” in triste: mourning stories

“I step outside for a smoke & it’s obvious the world
is ending. Someone let the poets out & they’re
eating all of the birds.”
—Gregory Sherl, “Science Fiction,” published in Split Lip Magazine  (via radiumangel)

(Source: bostonpoetryslam, via younghabitats)


Louisa May Alcott, Little Women


Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

“A house full of scraps of poems, unused ideas. A nest of thoughts, the wood chips from an industrious carpenter of the word. Their abundance, like froth, around my existence, excess, boiling over. I don’t know why I sentenced this or that poem to non-being, to silence; why I wrote down this, but not that thought. All froth.” —Anna Kamienska, from Industrious Amazement: A Notebook (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via wiltedbones)