"We are living in a culture entirely hypnotized by the illusion of time, in which the so-called present moment is felt as nothing but an infinitesimal hairline between an all-powerfully causative past and an absorbingly important future. We have no present. Our consciousness is almost completely preoccupied with memory and expectation. We do not realize that there never was, is, nor will be any other experience than present experience. We are therefore out of touch with reality. We confuse the world as talked about, described, and measured with the world which actually is. We are sick with a fascination for the useful tools of names and numbers, of symbols, signs, conceptions and ideas."

Alan Watts

(via wordsnquotes)

"Do all the good you can, to as many people as you can, as often as you can."

"Everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but all the happiness and growth occurs while you’re climbing it."

Andy Rooney 
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(Source: worshipgifs, via k-alon)


n. a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand. (via setbabiesonfire)

(Source: nyctaeus, via infinite-harmoony)


(Guilty) of the naked pictures on your phone I sent you
when we were still together, and when we weren’t,
and the time I threw a shoe at you and yelled
‘I hate you’ when all I really wanted to do
was glue your mouth to mine. Have the doctors say
‘What on earth were they thinking’ and we
could have told them over and over, we weren’t.
We weren’t thinking at all and that’s okay.

Guilty of the bloody nose I had
this morning because even the blood inside me
is running after you.
Of the flowers that have drooped open
like surrender on the windowsill because they
are children doing what they see, because that’s
how I loved you, because that’s how I missed you.

Guilty of still catching myself wearing your shirt
to sleep sometimes. Going to grab something
of mine and ending up grabbing yours
and then realizing it is mine, probably more mine
than any of my own things. As mine
as my own skin, as mine as yours is yours.
I try to peel you off of me and I am all bones

Guilty of still loving you. Of the broken fingers
from holding onto your memory
like it’s the only one I have. You, the lump
nestled in my throat.
You, the hero that shows up in my dreams
and saves me. You, the monster that shows up
in my dreams and kisses me goodnight.


"You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone."

Sierra DeMulder, excerpt from “Unrequited Love Poem” (via myheartgoesbumbumbum)

(Source: larmoyante, via drizzlelullaby)


i’m not like other girls. actually, i’m nothing like other girls. and that girl u saw get on the bus earlier isn’t like other girls either. it’s surprising, really. it’s almost as if everybody is different from each other. holy shit

(via elenayogini)


"Only that of someone whose liver is
a lily, whose lover was a likeness
in this light—come here, I’ll show you—
everybody has a likeness,
not so much a light.”

Like music and arithmetics, these new poems by Hannah Sanghee Park are calculations, “a counter of syllables, stresses, polyphonies and harmonies; of symmetries and asymmetries; of the warp and woof of language…”


"Don’t loaf and invite inspiration; light out after it with a club."

Jack London


everything personal♡

(Source: observando, via k3nzzzz)