Sunset in the ethereal waves:
I cannot tell if the day
is ending, or the world, or if
the secret of secrets is inside me again.
Anna Akhmatova (via fernsandmoss)
Before you left, you held my hand
gently, briefly, and I could feel
everything I love about you
in your hand. I could feel all of you.
Iviva Olenick (via armchairoxfordscholar)
Perhaps we’re not magic anymore. Perhaps we’re just comfortable. We just know our way around one another. We know which wounds to cauterize and which to let bleed.
Donna-Marie Riley (via five—a—day)
I hate it fading away. I hate it echoing away. I hate it leaving me. I hate losing it. I hate somebody else possessing it. I want it to be mine all the time. It’s such a beautiful sound. Don’t you think?
Harold Pinter, Ashes to Ashes (via justincaselifeonlyhappensonce)
Art is not a gene or a specific talent. Art is an attitude, culturally driven and available to anyone who chooses to adopt it. Art isn’t something sold in a gallery or performed on a stage. Art is the unique work of a human being, work that touches another. Most painters, it turns out, aren’t artists at all—they are safety-seeking copycats.
Seth Godin (via ontheedgeofdarkness)
Neuropsychology can help to explain poetry, to demystify the impulse. There has been work done on why poetry can send shivers down our spine. The poem activates the same parts of the brain that react when a child is separated from its mother. A deep sense of separation and longing.
How do we forgive ourselves for all of the things we did not become?
"14 Lines from Love Letters or Suicide Notes" by David ‘Doc’ Luben (via ding-ang-bato)
Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?