The artist seeks contact with his intuitive sense of the gods, but in order to create his work, he cannot stay in this seductive and incorporeal realm. He must return to the material world in order to do his work. It’s the artists responsibility to balance mystical communication and the labor of creation.Patti Smith, Just Kids. (via lizardscorner)
If we don’t connect with our most basic self, we cannot handle our most complex moments. Be natural, wipe away the excess, and possess oneself in nature, first.
- Robin: Everyone else is off falling in love and acting stupid and goofy and sweet and insane, but not me. Why don't I want that more? I want to want that. Am I wired wrong or something?
- Ted: No. Look, you didn't want to be with me, so, clearly, you have abysmal taste in men. But you're wired just fine.
- Robin: Well, what if I'm just a a cold person? Tonight Mike was willing to look like a complete idiot for me, but I couldn't be Gretel. Why can't I be Gretel?
- Story of my life. Obsessed with freedom.
Scared and sacred are spelled with the same letters. Awful proceeds from the same root word as awesome. Terrify and terrific. Every negative experience holds the seed of transformation.― Alan Cohen (via psych-quotes)
Nina Simone - Falling In Love Again (Can’t Help It)
#NYC #Manhattan can’t come soon enough. That city is my lover - sends my blood rushing like no other with her dirty streets and overcrowdedness. Ugh, I love you, New York.
Kate Moss Calvin Klein Underwear Campaign
You,” he said, “are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls, Emilie Autumn (via emotional-algebra)
The Beatles - Something
I have a pirate heart. (via mystrangesilhouettes)
There will be stories etched on me
not on ink or in blood being spilt.
There will be road maps of how I am
who I am, like cracks in the road
written intricately within my very skin.
They will not be seen by feeble eyes,
but will only be sighted by those I carry
a piece of in my heart.
They will trail along my purple veins
and notice the parts of me that become of them.
They will touch my hands and
feel the wet throb of my pounding heart
call their name.
They will be burned by my love, and my selfish
arms and lips.
They will feel the warmth of my breath
upon their cold body and hide inside my
open arms—ready and eager.
There is a cozy home inside me, just waiting.
For loud ruckus of laughter and whispers
For summer cuddles and winter musings.
For earnest smiles and tear-stained letters.
There will be stories etched on me.
But they are not mine.
I might own them, but they are not mine to have.
They are the pieces that creates my identity.
The crack moldings of a colossal castle, that is me.
They will be the history of who I am.
And they will be the reasons why I have lived beautifully.
They are the
scars of my heart and mind.