I'm 25. I believe in equilibrium. I believe in pursuing happiness, and I believe in all things weird.



I buried myself in the backyard yesterday. The worms whispered things that I did not want to know. So I am back on the surface, scrubbing dirt from under my nails.


“Brando was talking about his dream of the snail making its way across a razorblade… and surviving.”


“Brando was talking about his dream of the snail making its way across a razorblade… and surviving.”


We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes.

Madeline L’Engle, from The Rock that is Higher: Story as Truth  (via mirroir)

(Source: elvedon)

I go through phases. Somedays I feel like the person I’m supposed to be, and then somedays, I turn into no one at all. There is both me and my silhouette. I hope that on the days you find me and all I am are darkened lines, you still are willing to be near me.

Mary Kate Teske (via mirroir)

(Source: wordsthat-speak)

I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know that there’s nothing but light when I see you.

Don’t worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.

As a child, I was often and intensely bored. This evidently began very early, it has continued my whole life, in gusts (increasingly rare, it is true, thanks to work and to friends), and it has always been noticeable to others. A panic boredom, to the point of distress: like the kind I feel in panel discussions, lectures, parties among strangers, group amusements: whereever boredom can be seen. Might boredom be my form of hysteria?

roland barthes by roland barthes (via cesaire)

In an age where there is much talk about ‘being yourself’ I reserve to myself the right to forget about being mysef, since in any case there is very little chance of my being anybody else. Rather it seems to me that, when one is too intent on ‘being himself,’ he runs the risk of impersonating a shadow.

Thomas Merton (via humanflower)

(Source: ladyjungle)

Love was something I would not have to worry about - the whole mystery of love, heartbreak songs, and family legends. Women who pined, men who went mad, people who forgot who they were and shamed themselves with need, wanting only to be loved by the one they loved. Love was a mystery. Love was a calamity. Love was a curse that had somehow skipped me, which was no doubt why I was so good at multiple-choice tests and memorizing poetry. Sex was a country I been dragged into as an unwilling girl - sex, and the madness of the body. For all that it could terrify and confuse me, sex was something I had assimilated. Sex was a game or a weapon or an addiction. Sex was familiar. But love - love was another country.