“There are some people who could hear you speak a thousand words, and still not understand you. And there are others who will understand — without you even speaking a word.”
Yasmin Mogahed (via -beautiful)
Settle down in your room at a moment when you have nothing else to do. Say “I am now with myself,” and just sit with yourself. After an amazingly short time you will most likely feel bored.
This teaches us one very useful thing. It gives us insight into the fact that if after ten minutes of being alone with ourselves we feel like that, it is no wonder that others should feel equally bored! Why is this so? It is so because we have so little to offer to our own selves as food for thought, for emotion and for life.
If you watch your life carefully you will discover quite soon that we hardly ever live from within outwards; instead we respond to incitement, to excitement. In other words, we live by reflection, by reaction…We are completely empty, we do not act from within ourselves but accept as our life a life which is actually fed in from the outside; we are used to things happening which compel us to do other things.
How seldom can we live simply by means of the depth and the richness we assume that there is within ourselves.
“A writer, I think, is someone who pays attention to the world. That means trying to understand, take in, connect with, what wickedness human beings are capable of; and not be corrupted — made cynical, superficial — by this understanding.”
The Arte Sella, looks to be one of the most magical, fairytale woodlands in the world. Since 1986 this astounding destination in the Sella Valley in Italy has been dotting the landscape with the amazing works of over 200 contemporary artists from all over the world. A future holiday destination for sure!
“If you’re twenty-two, physically fit, hungry to learn and be better, I urge you to travel —as far and as widely as possible. Sleep on floors if you have to. Find out how other people live and eat and cook. Learn from them wherever you go.”
“Nobody actually looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true for everybody.”
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (via bookmania)
“When life is over it is like a flicker of bright film, an instant on the screen, all of its prejudices and passions condensed and illumined for an instant on space, and before you could cry out, “There was a happy day, there a bad one, there an evil face, there a good one,” the film burned to a cinder, the screen went dark.”
You were a dialect I was once so fluent in.
You were the first word that I ever wanted to write.
A hundred years from now, someone will find us.
You, sitting like a stone on my chest;
my bones broken in half to make way for the weight
of all that you’ve left behind.
Write this down: I love you—
now leave me alone; and in between
a bunch of us touched
and were touched, pried open,
and opened more, found
the world in the crude
the Amen in the wound.
“I’ve got secrets I’m about to leave in the river
And it makes me feel homeless to stand here
Having to think them through.
Silence yourself, says the tree line—
You are miniature, absorbing
Time on your way to the end of the tunnel.
You are about to enter an orange plain
And the sound in your head will be
A car starting in the rain. You will fill yourself
With pockets. You will file your nails
Until the heart of your ghost fills with glowing juice.
Finally you feel fully washed of your self,
Blown into several pieces of sky, transparent
But also a bloblike raindrop.
For the rest of the day you will glue
Blue and green squares to the tree trunks.
Every rotting leaf is a form of speculation
You have inherited from the raindrop.
When the shadow splatters, the thing itself splatters.
All of us become the river.”
“Leave. Be like the clouds.
Be like the water. Stand for the thing
that will and will not change
for reasons we will accept and still think bad—
be like words, like vague words
belonging to the whiteout of endless work.”
No I don’t post stupid love quotes at 3am in the morning. Instead, I pour out the wretched throbbing of my being like ink spilled on a page, whispering what little life is left in my breath back into the withered red trunk deemed my soul. I am not the one who gives life, I only received, and yet it feels as if my breath has been stolen away. I can not catch it, I can not catch up to it, it has run away. It is gone.