I am eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, meets back to the future part II. Perpetual nostalgic moon goddess. Thinker with a writing problem. Reminisces. Does not understand currency, time zones or idiots. Quoter. Introvert. Sarcastic. Libran. Writes lists. Has cycles. Disbelieves sometimes. Smoker. Rarely finishes anything. Nameless. Faceless. Critical. Abuses words. Procrastinator. Dry humor with a hint of sarcasm. Rhythmic, serial fidgeter. Has no aim but enough goals. Recovering fiend of all sorts. Creaky knuckles. Watches. Sometimes silent for far too long. Aged hands. Misinterprets subtlety as lying. Usually found cross-legged with an eyebrow raised and a pen in hand. Writes down dreams. Fluctuates. Bluntly tactful. Meditates. Recycles. Rarely answers the phone. Cannot balance. Smiles instinctively. Aggressively defensive. Incorrect but comfortable posture. Indecipherable handwriting. Brittle. Capable. Moves instead of dances. Nomad. Squints. Fascinated. Studies words, astrology, people, symbols, eyes, tarot. Has a strange laugh. Unable to think of anything else that might be relevant. Carefully irresponsible. Wanders. Elaborates. Chews bottom lip. Very opinionated. Wastes time worrying about wasting time. Doesn't often know how to stop. Willing to try.. “Colors” My skin is kind of sort of brownish, pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, but I’m told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, but it’s silver when it’s wet. And all of the colors I am inside have not been invented yet. - Shel Silverstein

iiwanow:

Adam Lupton’s paintings show the passing of time as a disorienting blur.

When men say that they “love to see the woman underneath the makeup,” they’re not saying they want to see your leg stubble and greasy bangs—they’re saying they want you to be better at hiding your maintenance routine. Because the maintenance spoils the fantasy.

— Lindy West (via harlotbeauty)

I take myself out to dinner and do not look at my phone once. I do not call a friend up and ask them to join me. I listen attentively to the conversation in my head. I walk with myself to the library. Read novels, magazines, dusty collections of poetry. Browse zines online and buy a stack of ones that catch my interest. I close my eyes in bed and put my hands in-between my thighs. Know when to go faster, when to slow down, when to speed it up. I moan without shame. I make myself coffee, sip it languorously on my balcony, let my bare shoulders be warmed by the sun and ignore my neighbor’s sideways looks. I put on lipstick on the days I am not leaving the house. Walk around confidently, wearing only underwear and carelessness. Shake my limbs to the busting beat of a song and do not worry about my arms going one way and my legs another. I bite down hard on “monogamy.” Swish it around in my mouth, run my tongue over its bumps and curves, and then spit it out. I bleed on scraps of paper. Let my thoughts out. Listen to them more intently than any person could. I see all parts of me and do not blush. I do not look away. I do not try to run. I stare deeper. Force myself to keep eye contact. Accept all that is inside of me. Make my apologies. I bend my hands in forgiveness. I rise, dripping in the blood of past and future guilt and say, it is okay. All of you. All of me. It is okay.

In A Committed Relationship With Myself | Lora Mathis (via littlejaw)

Often, when we have a crush, when we lust for a person, we see only a small percentage of who they really are. The rest we make up for ourselves. Rather than listen, or learn, we smother them in who we imagine them to be, what we desire for ourselves, we create little fantasies of people and let them grow in our hearts. And this is where the relationship fails. In time, the fiction we scribble onto a person falls away, the lies we tell ourselves unravel and soon the person standing in front of you is almost unrecognisable, you are now complete strangers in your own love. And what a terrible shame it is. My advice: pay attention to the small details of people, you will learn that the universe is far more spectacular an author than we could ever hope to be.

Beau Taplin || The fiction of people.  (via theseoverusedwords)

I am too hot and burned by my own thoughts; often it nearly takes my breath away.

 Friedrich Nietzsche, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra  (via mirroir)
tulipnight:

Maroon Bells by gregw66 on Flickr.
vintagemickeymouse:

Fantasia, The Pastoral Symphony (1940)
unrar:

An elder of the Mutitjulu people draws the Dreaming in the red earth of the outback, Uluru, Northern Territory. Photograph: Jewels Lynch 

I want to build my own house, high in the mountains, so high that i’m frequently in and above the clouds.
I want to artistically plant different types of trees in my canvas of garden, flowers, fruit and veggies too.
I want to wake up early every morning to the music of birds, salute the morning sun and swallow the fresh mountain air.
I want to walk the forest, talk to plants, monkeys, birds, insects and trees.
I want to bathe in rivers, clouds and dirt.
I want to draw, sing, dance, read and explore all day - every day.
I want to escape from the constraints of time and clothes.
I want my love to be there with me, lost in nature, love and existence.
I want to grow old with the familiar trees.
I want my body to wither like the autumn leaves and seep into dirt.
I want my existence to leave nothing but the vibrations of love and curiosity that will bounce off nature for as long as trees stand.
I must escape this concrete jungle.
I want to be free.
I want to be free.
I want to be free.
I want to be free.
I need to be free.

But how can I escape when there’s so much to change..
Do I delve in nature’s beauty while it’s still there, or gamble my love and passion with man’s greed?