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no.

Faced with the daily prospects of failure and self-loathing, a numb chrysalis starts to develop around you, and if you are not careful you wake up one morning to find yourself not awake, but in a semi-comatose state, baked into a hardened shell, breathless and mind-numbing. You have to poke your finger through the hardened crispy shell, and after you’ve pushed it through you have to wiggle it about until eventually the hole is big enough to smash a whole fist through.

— Tracey Emin - My Life in a Column - Friday 5 October 2007 (via thesourceofallpower)

(via dauui)


1:12 am     3,250 notes
September 2 2014

Stop Trying to Love Sad Women on Purpose

writingsforwinter:

After so many years of one-night stands and flings and breakups

and possibly even eventual divorces with happy women,

women full of joy who put their slippers in order by color

and always seemed to know exactly what to do with

the dirty tea cups, washing them instead…


10:37 pm     1,103 notes
July 25 2014

Once upon a time… 
in a kingdom far, far away… 
there lived a young girl… 
whose hair was made of gold. 
When the people 
in the village saw her, they said… 
"Oh, how beautiful she is." 

Once upon a time, 
there was a very pretty girl… 
who lived in a beautiful box 
and everybody loved her. 

"Once upon a time, 
there was a girl with golden hair… 
who went to live 
in a beautiful house.” 

But the people in the village 
were very poor… 
and every night, they crept 
into the house where the girl slept… 
and they cut off a piece 
of her golden hair… 
and they sold it for money. 
"She’ll never even notice," 
they said. 
And so, all the gold 
was gone from her head. 

"And the people said… 
'Oh, she's not beautiful at all.' 
And they took her from 
the beautiful house… 
and they drove her 
into the street. 
And she went away… 
and she never came back. 
And soon, 
people became hungry again… 
and they went back into 
the beautiful house… 
Iooking for gold, 
but there was no one there.” 


9:10 pm
June 9 2014

Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.

— Anne Lamott (via jerfreyy)

(via florida-sounds)


9:28 am     152,652 notes
June 3 2014

Sometimes I think for too long and my thoughts curdle and go sour inside until I can’t pour them onto a page. I’m unable fathom my current state into an elaborate architecture without finding myself here again, writing your name. If you think about people for too long you can turn them into poetry. I’m so tired of romanticising my sadness. Each time I try to turn you into sentences I find myself feeling as ugly as the words I’m writing. You are too beautiful of a human being to be tarnished by old, crumpled paper and a shaking hand with badly painted fingernails. I need a fucking thesaurus to find more words for you. 


11:25 am     1 note
May 28 2014


11:01 am
May 28 2014

13 things my uncle told me before he died:
not everyone has the blessing to understand sadness
when waiting at the bus stop, it’s okay to smoke cigarettes
never touch anyone else’s clothes at the laundromat
it’s okay to miss the people who were bullets to you
when your grandmother asks you how you are, be honest
never be afraid to say “no” even after you’ve said “yes”
if someone tells you graffiti isn’t art, prove them wrong
remember people by their eye color not their clothes
you’re allowed to like dark chocolate with tangerines
don’t lie that you don’t have a lighter when you really do
turn your phone off every once in a while and find the moon
if you want a tattoo, don’t let anyone tell you not to get it
if you ever find yourself at a graveyard, read the names

— poems from my uncles grave (via irynka)

(via nightimekiss)


10:08 am     230,223 notes
May 28 2014

I’ve translated you into caesuras, hyperboles, metaphors, none of which can embody your oxymoron. You are terribly beautiful. 


7:30 am
May 22 2014
Post tags: mine

But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.

— Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to Virginia Woolf dated January 21, 1926 (via larmoyante)

(via creaturesheavenly)


10:23 am     4,868 notes
May 13 2014

Are you scared? Or are you not ready? There is a difference.

— (via namelessjessi)

(Source: psych-facts, via timbllr)


10:19 am     28,428 notes
May 13 2014

s.t.