It is not wise to find symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too full of terrors.

Oscar Wilde (via likeafieldmouse)

workman:

theimpossiblecool:
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”
Kurt Vonnegut.

workman:

theimpossiblecool:

“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”

Kurt Vonnegut.

sometimes it hurts a lot, and sometimes it hurts a little. sometimes you’re sitting in the middle of a library and you got enough sleep last night and all that really matters is the work you haven’t gotten done that’s due in an hour, and this feels pretty normal. like you made it, somehow. sometimes you’re riding a train home and something clicks inside of you and you’re set off like wildfires, you become alight with memories you’re too choked up to swallow. sometimes nothing happens inside of your brain because it’s filled with thoughts that are deadly gas leaks. those are not the good nights.

it’s scary because we’re all these little harmless bubbles, i guess. like we are full of stories and rhymes and there’s no reason to us. and sometimes one of us just kind of pops, and they’re gone for good. like you start having to say “yeah, i knew him,” instead of “yeah, i know him.” it’s scary. we’re so vulnerable.

and there’s no real way to know if someone’s alright like if they’re having one of those moments where stuff just feels human and good or if they’re having one of those bad days where the sky tastes like whiskey and they just want to drown themselves in anything willing to swallow them up. like you can look someone in the eyes and say “i’m doing fine” and really mean that if you had a shotgun and a bullet, you’d go through with it. like you can literally lie to someone about wanting to die - and someone can do the same to you.

i wonder about that a lot, you know? like how many people i haven’t noticed are ready to click themselves out of the picture. like how many people i didn’t help because i totally bought it when they sold the idea they were whole and doing well. i wonder if they go home and think nobody really cares enough to look deeply. i care about you, i just trust too easily and i want to believe that you’re not dying. i guess that’s just some coping mechanism, you know? humans can’t believe the ones we love want to go. we can’t live with the idea that they’ll slip under if we leave them alone, so we paint them with good swimming skills and not a drop of sorrow in their bones.

or maybe i’m just self-centered and awful. i don’t know.

10.13.2014 // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

Virginia Woolf, Orlando (via introspectivepoet)

(Source: goodreads.com)

Every person you look at,
you can see the universe in their eyes,
if you’re really looking.

George Carlin (via physicstoconsciousness)

(Source: travisjacob)

backroadshaiku:

bird bath

the quarter moon

everywhere

    ____

fleeting thoughts

in the dark end

of the sky

    ____

camp fire embers

pulsing

in the night breeze

The difficulties (which other people surely find incredible) I have in speaking to people arise from the fact that my thinking, or rather the content of my consciousness, is entirely nebulous, that I remain undisturbed by this, so far as it concerns only myself, and am even occasionally self-satisfied; yet conversation with people demands pointedness, solidity, and sustained coherence, qualities not to be found in me. No one will want to lie in clouds of mist with me, and even if someone did, I couldn’t expel the mist from my head; when two people come together it dissolves of itself and is nothing.

Franz Kafka (via fernsandmoss)

A Writer’s Tools

A writer’s tools might include an inkwell and papyrus scrolls or less expensive wax tablets and stylus. The tablets could also be bound and they could be erased with the flat end of the stylus. Papyrus was made of the pith of a water plant; ink was a mixture of soot, resin, wine dregs and cuttlefish.

Roman Terracotta Inkwell (1st or 2nd Century A.D.)

Roman/Egyptian Papyrus Letter (early 3rd Century A.D.)

Byzantine/Egyptian Wooden Tablet (500-700 A.D.)

Roman Bronze Stylus (1st or 2nd Century A.D.)

  (x)(x)(x)(x) The Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

(Source: last-of-the-romans)

victoriousvocabulary:

SOLISEQUIOUS
[adjective]
following the course of the sun; attracted to the sun, as in solisequious plants such as sunflowers.
Etymology: from Latin sol, “sun” + sequi, “to follow”.
[Heather Watts - Sun God]

victoriousvocabulary:

SOLISEQUIOUS

[adjective]

following the course of the sun; attracted to the sun, as in solisequious plants such as sunflowers.

Etymology: from Latin sol, “sun” + sequi, “to follow”.

[Heather Watts - Sun God]