Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying,
everything is absorbed through weather and the sea,
and the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue again like morning. Pablo Neruda, It is Born (via agildedpavlova)

(via greenturtleisland)

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The meaning of life is arrived at … by dark gropings, by feelings not wholly understood, by catching at hints and fumbling for explanations. Alfred Adler (via collapsingparacosms)

(via greenturtleisland)

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It’s hell writing and it’s hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written. Robert Hass (via greenturtleisland)

(Source: victoriousvocabulary, via greenturtleisland)

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That awkward moment when you want to say a lot but instead you bite your tongue, sitting in a stupor, trying to find an exact word that can express what you feel, what you mean. But it can’t. It’s just noise.

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A thousand years ago five minutes were
Equal to forty ounces of fine sand.
Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and
Infinite aftertime: above your head
They close like giant wings, and you are dead. Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire (via thethorninhisside)
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No one will be much or little except in someone else’s mind, so be careful of the minds you get into… Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (via invisiblestories)
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She was nervous about the future; it made her indelicate. She was one of the most unimportantly wicked women of her time — because she could not let her time alone, and yet could never be a part of it. She wanted to be the reason for everything and so was the cause of nothing. She had the fluency of tongue and action meted out by divine providence to those who cannot think for themselves. She was the master of the over-sweet phrase, the over-tight embrace. Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (via larmoyante)
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