I wish I could throw off the thoughts which poison my happiness. And yet I take a kind of pleasure in indulging them.

- Frederic Chopin (via esaedders)

(Source: onlinecounsellingcollege, via mudwerks)



- A unique Portuguese word that has no immediate translation in English. Saudade describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. (via wasbella102)
Day Two

Charles Sheeler, Blue Ridge Mountains, 1937
It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling…

- Aldous Huxley

Pura Lempuyang Door, lovely art
There is a place to stand
where you can see so many lights
you forget you are one of them.

- Naomi Shihab Nye, from “Spruce Street, Berkeley” (via litverve)

Wild fields of Siam Tulips in the Pa Hin Ngam National Park / Thailand (by kampee_p).

“It’s the idea that people living close to nature tend to be noble. It’s seeing all those sunsets that does it. You can’t watch a sunset and then go off and set fire to your neighbor’s tepee. Living close to nature is wonderful for your mental health.” ― Daniel Quinn, Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit
Why is it we want so badly to memorize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It’s all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any we can get?

At the very least we want a witness. We can’t stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

- The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood (via stannisbaratheon)

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, L’Aurore, 1881