“Food doesn’t taste better or worse when documented by Instagram. Laughter is as genuine over Skype as it would be sharing a sofa. Pay attention. Take in nature, hold someone’s hand, read a book. But don’t ever apologize for snapping a photo of a sunrise after a hike, or blogging about the excitement of having a crush, or updating your goodreads account. All of these things are good and should be celebrated. Smile at strangers on the sidewalk and like your friends’ selfies. It’s all good for the human spirit.”
– @cogitoergoblog (via creatingaquietmind)
Before the availability of the tape recorder and during the 1950s, when vinyl was scarce, people in the Soviet Union began making records of banned Western music on discarded x-rays. With the help of a special device, banned bootlegged jazz and rock ‘n’ roll records were “pressed” on thick radiographs salvaged from hospital waste bins and then cut into discs of 23-25 centimeters in diameter. “They would cut the X-ray into a crude circle with manicure scissors and use a cigarette to burn a hole,” says author Anya von Bremzen. “You’d have Elvis on the lungs, Duke Ellington on Aunt Masha’s brain scan — forbidden Western music captured on the interiors of Soviet citizens.”
“One day I just woke up and realized that I can’t touch yesterday. So why the heck was I letting it touch me?”
– Steve Maraboli (via lace-and-cotton)
“If it’s selfless love you’re looking for, you’ve got the wrong goddess.”
– Margaret Atwood, from Sekhmet, the Lion-headed Goddess of War (via violentwavesofemotion)
This is absolutely beautiful! However, inspired by all the things about equality that keeps popping up on my dash, I have to ask, why there’s no white woman included. It seems like the maker have tried to cover as many races as possible, so then why not white?
shut up, there are millions of white only based posts like this, open ur eyes
are you serious omg
White people are weak we go years without representation but the second they don’t see themselves they get worried
“every time you
tell your daughter
you yell at her
out of love
you teach her to confuse
anger with kindness
which seems like a good idea
till she grows up to
trust men who hurt her
cause they look so much
– to fathers with daughters - rupi kaur (via rupikaur)
Men still have trouble recognizing that a woman can be complex, can have ambition, good looks, sexuality, erudition and common sense. A woman can have all those facets, and yet men, in literature and in drama, seem to need to simplify women, to polarize us as either the whore or the angel. - Natalie Dormer
she could walk over my body in 5 inch heels like I was a piece of a carpet and I’d probably thank her
sometimes i pause tv shows and never come back to them
sometimes i change songs before one ends
sometimes i leave books half-way through
but most of the time i think i about the day when papa was done
or the day when our story together finished
and that morning when all of the music just stopped
and i think
if i fill my life with enough beginnings
maybe there won’t be anymore endings
old writing 11/22/11 3:44am
She was once told that Norwegian Wood was the best wood—a joke she would always believe as the truth. And maybe it wouldn’t have been as funny or as charming if she wasn’t as innocent or naïve, but she was and it was, and part of her would always want to visit Norway to see the trees. But she had always wanted to see the trees, because she smelled of lilacs and gardenias and that was where she had always belonged.
She had one of those smiles that made her less attractive, yet colored her more lovely. And her face was odd, really, with awkward rounded lines that worked with such warm eyes. She would never be a model—not really—but she would always be loved, and I’m not sure what she knew and what she didn’t, but the latter was never spoken out.
Her laughter had such potential to be awkward, but the slight curve of lip and unnoticeable gap in her molars caused by short-lived cavities made it tender. It changed to the kind of laugh people made when they didn’t think you were funny, just that you, in your entirety, was born lovely.
It’s a weird trick of light, a mix of mirth and boundless understanding that made her something to look at—and you only knew it if you had seen her in between her satin lining. She was terribly ugly when she was dead, and maybe it was the outrageous make up I painted on her for the worms (perhaps maggots, too—I was never really sure)—but mostly it was because she was so blatantly different you couldn’t help but remember what she was like when she was alive. Although her screams will always bring her to life: they were never as wondrous as her slight laughter, just maybe—maybe more edible and tastier to the ear like the prickling of baked goods in an oven.
Beauty had clung to her fleeting soul, and it was unnerving to look at how it wished to follow the entity that no longer existed—like the remnants of a lover without a loving, a Romeo without an antidote and a house without a home. It waned and lingered: a pinkish tilt to a paling face, fleeing so quietly in a somber retreat it never saw past the wake.
Looking at her carves a pit of emptiness inside of me, but I can’t imagine sleeping in this bed without seeing her lifeless face touch the morning’s rise—the way light wishes to melt its warmth into her skin: golden rays beckoning to be let into a homeless cadaver, finally refused for the darker pits of heaven.
She’ll always be mine to save and the knife has never been so sharp.
“You have never loved me. You have only thought it pleasant to be in love with me.”
– Henrik Ibsen, A Doll’s House (via bokura)
“For a second, I felt a bottomless sadness. So completely alone. Like one of my stuffed animals at home that I was too old for now, that sat on the shelf in my closet, mashed against the back wall.”
– Augusten Burroughs, Running with Scissors (via a0mame)
I used to wonder what love was like: if it was strong and hard or soft and light—if it was safe in a simple surrender or if it was mean and underhanded like what mother had taught. I used to wonder what making it would be like: the difference in me after and if the pain would make me soar
and now I know love is nothing like these things as much as I want them to be because lately all my love has been
is this barrage of mistakes that i would repeat infinitely throughout my multitude of lives.
It’s this feeling in my heart these errors in actions these simple miscalculations
I was not a mistake. I do not make mistakes.
I was not a product of love or miscalculation just constant need.
I want you to make a mistake
I want to be
I want someone