"Whatsoever that be within us that feels, thinks, desires,and animates, is something celestial, divine, and,consequently, imperishable."

Aristotle (via mycolorbook)

"She knew herself, how she had slowly, over years, become a cat, a wolf, a snake, anything but a girl. How she had wrung out her girlhood like death."

Catherynne M. Valente (via ontheedgeofdarkness)

(Source: gendrie, via ontheedgeofdarkness)

"love, she says, love,
but I do not write back,
I do not understand myself"

Charles Bukowski, from The People Look Like Flowers At Last (via c-ovet)

(Source: victoriajoan, via c-ovet)

"Master of the universe but not of myself, I am the only rebel against my absolute power"

Pierre Corneille (via mycolorbook)

"We are not meant to stay wounded. We are supposed to move through our tragedies and challenges and to help each other move through the many painful episodes of our lives. By remaining stuck in the power of our wounds, we block our own transformation. We overlook the greater gifts inherent in our wounds — the strength to overcome them and the lessons that we are meant to receive through them. Wounds are the means through which we enter the hearts of other people. They are meant to teach us to become compassionate and wise."

Caroline Myss (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

(via onlinecounsellingcollege)

"Make love to me in Spanish.
Not with that other tongue.
I want you juntito a mí,
tender like the language
crooned to babies.
I want to be that
lullabied, mi bien
querido
, that loved.

I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists,
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.

Say my name. Say it.
The way it’s supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you."

Sandra Cisneros, “Dulzura,” Loose Woman: Poems (via petrichour)

(Source: lifeinpoetry, via petrichour)

metaphorformetaphor:

And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness
deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

T.S. Eliot, from section III of “East Coker,” in Four QuartetsThe Complete Poems & Plays of T.S.Eliot. (Faber & Faber Poetry, 2004)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)