Install this theme
At one magical instant in your early childhood, the page of a book—that string of confused, alien ciphers—shivered into meaning. Words spoke to you, gave up their secrets; at that moment, whole universes opened. You became, irrevocably, a reader.
Alberto Manguel (via thelifeofabookjunky)
the most beautiful of afternoons. #summer #jeanvanier #teabrewedwithlove

the most beautiful of afternoons. #summer #jeanvanier #teabrewedwithlove

the morning after

i sit up disheveled in clinging honeysuckle and jasmine to the

rattle of a streetcar in the back of my throat

dazedly making way through hair strands cast

on the ground claiming oracles that read:

laughter is warm sheets recording contours of my body -

ti…

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mythologyofblue:

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person.

-Czesław Miłosz, Ars Poetica”

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love.
Anna Akhmatova, from “The Akhmatova Journals” (via violentwavesofemotion)
Reading is the way out of ignorance.
Ben Carson (via nathanielstuart)

so-treu:

this is the chillest soul i’ve seen in awhile.

Writers of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your brains.
A woman-of-color who writes poetry or paints or dances or makes movies knows there is no escape from race or gender when she is writing or painting. She can’t take off her color and sex and leave them at the door or her study or studio. Nor can she leave behind her history. Art is about identity, among other things, and her creativity is political.
Why hold on to memories like open blades?
They will only cut your palms.
Clementine von Radics, Love Letters From The Photographs In the Shoe Box Under My Bed (via adderalldust)
The pictures are not made to disturb people’s consciences but rather to disturb their consciousness. The pictures do not ask you to “help” these people, but something much more difficult; to be briefly and intensely aware of their existence, an existence as real and significant as your own.
Danny Lyonfrom the statement of his first solo exhibition in 1966. (via fotojournalismus)
The general population doesn’t know what’s happening, and it doesn’t even know that it doesn’t know.
Noam Chomsky (via loveyourchaos)
I wish I wrote the way I thought
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should
Benedict Smith“I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought”  (via growing-orbits)
the power we gave ourselves

No I never thought we would be invincible, yet

we stitched promises onto loosening seams of fabricated

li(v)es.

‘Woven’ we said.

The power we gave ourselves.

But there was never a promise of a spectacular end,

only that it would end. And so it has.

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babyheroin:

“Do not fall in love with people like me
we will take you to
museums and parks
and monuments
and kiss you in every beautiful
place so that you can
never go back to them
without tasting us
like blood in your mouth”