All mind. No mouth.
Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?
Up, Margaret Atwood (via anarkies)
This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun, and animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men; go freely with the powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and mothers, of families: read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life: re-examine all you have been told at school or church, or in any books, and dismiss whatever insults your soul.
Walt Whitman (via purplebuddhaproject)
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.
"Wild Geese," Mary Oliver (via gilbertnorrell)
You are in every line I have ever read.
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations (via quoted-books)

who-let-the-daleks-out:

thenerdgirlcometh:

I actually believe artists and scientists think very similarly. Complex, abstract thought? They both have that down. It’s all about where that thinking takes you after that.

Words cannot describe how much I love this post.

Three o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy.
Anton Chekhov, About Love and Other Stories (via larmoyante)