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It's not the time to sleep now. Wake up. Wake up.

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I loved you to the point of ruin.
I loved you until my lungs were filled with ash.

Tina Tran, Until I started choking on our memories (via absentions)

(Source: , via lostintrees)


10:43 pm     15,555 notes
June 16 2014

Today I am fragile
pale
twitching
insane and full of purpose.

— from “Gravity” - Maura O’Connor (via blutetragen)

(via swanfucker)


1:01 pm     133 notes
June 16 2014

99lions:

Ari BixhornLooking Up

Ari took these photos of trees at Sintra Mountains, Portugal. The colours make it seem as if he’s taking these shots from the bottom of an ocean floor. 

(via mirroir)


1:03 pm     8,228 notes
June 15 2014

foxmouth:

Norway; 2014 | by Atle Rønningen

(via humaneramblings)


9:43 pm     40,442 notes
June 13 2014

(Source: WOLVERXNE, via deforest)


9:20 pm      13,263 notes
June 13 2014

 

1:44 pm      153,506 notes
June 10 2014

How do I make myself full again? she asked. You turn to the moon,
and you let it devour you, he answered.

Fragment 16 (via heathenwoods)

(Source: writingsforwinter, via swanfucker)


9:52 am     3,959 notes
June 9 2014

(via deforest)


9:34 pm      16,742 notes
June 8 2014

The night I lost you
someone pointed me towards
the Five Stages of Grief
Go that way, they said,
it’s easy, like learning to climb
stairs after the amputation.
And so I climbed.
Denial was first.
I sat down at breakfast
carefully setting the table
for two. I passed you the toast—-
you sat there. I passed
you the paper—-you hid
behind it.
Anger seemed so familiar.
I burned the toast, snatched
the paper and read the headlines myself.
But they mentioned your departure,
and so I moved on to
Bargaining. What could I exchange
for you? The silence
after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression
came puffing up, a poor relation
its suitcase tied together
with string. In the suitcase
were bandages for the eyes
and bottles sleep. I slid
all the way down the stairs
feeling nothing.
And all the time Hope
flashed on and off
in detective neon.
Hope was a signpost pointing
straight in the air.
Hope was my uncle’s middle name,
he died of it.
After a year I am still climbing, though my feet slip
on your stone face.
The treeline
has long since disappeared;
green is a color
I have forgotten.
But now I see what I am climbing
towards: Acceptance
written in capital letters,
a special headline:
Acceptance
its name is in lights.
I struggle on,
waving and shouting.
Below, my whole life spreads its surf,
all the landscapes I’ve ever known
or dreamed of. Below
a fish jumps: the pulse
in your neck.
Acceptance. I finally
reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircse.
I have lost you.

— Linda Pastan, The Five Stages of Grief (via fypoetry)


10:18 pm     305 notes
June 7 2014

You don’t ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It’s all about survival; it’s all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in…

— Nick Hornby, How to Be Good  (via mirroir)

(Source: observando, via mirroir)


8:13 pm     3,198 notes
June 3 2014

s.t.