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artemisdreaming:
Kahlil Gibran - The Flow of Life

artemisdreaming:

Kahlil Gibran - The Flow of Life
Quote
"We need beauty. But what right did I have, I kept asking myself, in a world so full of hell? In his poem, “A Brief for the Defense,” Jack Gilbert attempted an answer. “We must risk delight,” he wrote. Life contains everything. Tear gas in Ferguson. Books read on the grass. Foley’s murder. Dancing in New Orleans, till sunrise blots the stars. We’re meat—fragile and finite. But joy is survival. […]

Power seeks to enclose beauty—to make it scarce, controlled. There is scant beauty in militarized zones or prisons. But beauty keeps breaking out anyway, like the roses on that Ferguson street.

The world is connected now. Where it breaks, we all break. But it is our world, to love as it burns around us. Jack Gilbert is right. “We must risk delight” in the summer of monsters. Beauty is survival, not distraction. Beauty is a way of fighting. Beauty is a reason to fight."

— Molly Crabapple We Must Risk Delight After a Summer Full of Monsters | VICE United States (via snitnation)

(via mollycrabapple)

Quote
"You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out."

— Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via larmoyante)

Photo
telapathetic:

ireland is my favourite place in the world

telapathetic:

ireland is my favourite place in the world

(Source: telapathetic, via franiel32)

Video

Bon Iver - Holocene

(Source: youtube.com)

Text

The Look

It’s not about the look of anyone else in Walmart as you walk through it with your sister on a busy and noisy Sunday afternoon, part of your renewed determination to get outside more and get in better health (physical and mental).

It’s not about the look from the security guard who you think sees you clutching your anti-anxiety medication suspiciously tight in your pocket.

It’s not about the four or five people you suddenly find pressing around you in one of the aisles, or the “I need to move, I need to move” you keep repeating helplessly out loud, and the speed with which you grab what you came for and bolt away.  It’s not about the man who looks at you as if you moved so quickly because of his race, or the tears you feel coming to your eyes because you can’t tell him that you’re not afraid of him, you’re afraid of everybody.

It’s not about the blank look after the fact of the little boy in the green shirt.  It’s not about the look of the teenager on her cell phone and whether or not the person on the other end is hearing about the bald old weirdo.  It’s not about the look of the tall man and wondering if he’s seeing the overhead lights glare off your head.  It’s not even about the look of the woman in the Ramones T-shirt you walk past, as you head back to the car feeling (and probably looking) thirty seconds away from a heart attack, unable to resist mumbling “I wanna be sedated” to her.

It’s only about the look you can give yourself in the mirror when you come back home knowing that you tried today and that you will still go back out and keep trying as long as it fucking takes.

Link

alexdarke:

There’s a ritual to our nights. He lays on his back, his ipad resting on his chest, as he flips through pages of what has happened during the day. I lay on my side, studying his features contrasted against the darkness by the white glare coming from the screen.

"If you roll over, I’ll scratch your back," he’ll offer, without glancing over.

Never one to pass up that opportunity, I roll over. His hand begins lightly trailing up and down my back. At first, it’s an entirely perfunctory touch. Completely automatic. Up and down with a slight side to side. As the minutes pass, he can’t seem to help it and the touch becomes more light, vaguely wispy, and slightly exploratory. Tracing the curve of my lower back. Exploring the angles of my shoulder blades. I don’t have to roll over to see that he’s never looked away from the ipad, but the touch has changed. The intimacy of it has changed to a degree that I can almost feel what he is thinking, reading those various media, as that hand traces lightly up and down my back. The changes to the tempo or strength give hints, ripples of clues in the contact of his skin to mine. It’s that touch that sends me off to sleep most nights.

There’s a meme going around the internet that seems to make it’s way back to my line of sight around once a year. It asks you what you would say to your younger self if you were given the opportunity. Last night, as I dozed off, my husband’s hand tracing light circles on my back, I thought to myself what I’d say, to the kid I was once, just as I tipped over the edge into dreams:

"One day, you’re going to find someone who touches you and it feels like the warmth of the sun on your skin on those endless summer days you are living through…and that’s how you’ll know. One day."

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Let’s go exploring.

Let’s go exploring.

(via enervatedgrace)

Photo
luzfosca:

Ralph Crane
A boy’s escape, 1947
source

luzfosca:

Ralph Crane

A boy’s escape, 1947

source

Quote
"If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them."

anonymous reader on The Dish (via mysweetetc)