I didn’t say I liked it. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference.
Oscar Wilde, adapted from The Picture of Dorian Gray  (via thatkindofwoman)
Always say “yes” to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to what already is?
Eckhart Tolle (via thecalminside)
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
Rainer Maria Rilke, I Am Too Alone  (via llleighsmith)
The Black Art


by Anne Sexton

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much good and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

Discontent is the first necessity of progress.
Thomas Edison (via darksilenceinsuburbia)
Let’s make better mistakes tomorrow.
(via insoportablementeyo)
Decide you want it more than you are afraid of it.
Bill Cosby  (via thatkindofwoman)
A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life.
Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf  (via thatkindofwoman)
I change too quickly: my today refutes my yesterday. When I ascend I often jump over steps, and no step forgives me that.
Friedrich Nietzsche,Thus Spoke Zarathustra  (via likeafieldmouse)
The more I threw away, the more I found.
Don DeLillo, White Noise (via darksilenceinsuburbia)