Surely every one realizes, at some point along the way, that he is capable of living a far better life than the one he has chosen.
- Henry Miller, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch  (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(Source: psych-facts, via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

If you know yourself, you’ll not be harmed by what is said about you.
- Arab proverb (via cedarmoons)

(Source: daughterofzami, via capybaracosette)

purplelotusspiritualhealing:

#self #soul #spirit #spiritual #spirituality #spiritualaffirmation #spiritualhealing #higherself #healing #divine #divineself #awakening #awareness #spiritualawakening #spiritualawareness #affirmation #shanti #om #namaste
godmoves:

I like this.
Anxiety does suck - I know that. But we can kick it in the butt. Remember that you need to nurture and tend to yourself. 
I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you.
- Cassandra Clare (via psych-facts)

(via psych-facts)

HOW TO COOK THE CORRECT AMOUNT OF PASTA:

sarcastic-sanity:

1. Pour out how much you think you need.

2. Wrong.

(via jonthatguy)

majestictunes:

fell in love with a girl || the white stripes

can’t think of anything to do
my left brain knows that all love is fleeting
she’s just looking for something new
and i said it once before but it bears repeating

(via mor-phing)

I. Two poets fall in love, and that’s when it gets ugly.

II. We go to dinner. You order the wine, red and burning, and it goes down like blood. We start with Shakespeare, move to Plath. You use alliteration to tell me that I’m ripping out your lungs with my metaphors, and I counteract with a hyperbole, say you’ve clogged my arteries with your similes. Don’t touch me with your dictionary, I want to say. Touch me with your hands.

III. The appetizers arrive. Bread as soft and brown as the flesh of your neck. Move to Emerson. Ask about God. Was Jesus this soft and brown? My Bible never told me about the strength in your apricot arms, your chestnut knuckles, this most divine truth resting under your skin. Move to Whitman. I envy the grass that licks your neck when you tumble down hills and watch the clouds. Touch me with your hands.

IV. The main course is a fawn’s heart seasoned with autumns and breaking. I eat more than you do. Move to Rilke. Write letters. When I tell you about the words, you say that you will die for ink and paper: I want you to break my neck. Move to Allen. Kiss the sunlight. Ask to live. Touch me with your hands.

V. Dessert is your mouth at three a.m., pulled over to the side of an empty, dark highway. Tell me you love me and it goes down like blood. Kiss my hip and it feels like dying. Don’t touch me with your dictionary. Touch me with your hands.

- Two Poets Fall In Love, And That’s When It Gets Ugly | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

(via wethinkwedream)