To Taste The Gentle Moon,

happiness is:

the smell of rain

seeing flowers grow

being excited about something

ice cream on a hot day

being in bed

listening to good songs

smelling nice

giving and receiving compliments

the kindness of strangers

being with friends

reading a good book

being proud of every small victory

buying new treats for yourself

the smell of pastries in a bakery

blue skies and pretty views

Source.

Arctic Ocean, Norway, 2006. Photos by Gueorgui Pinkhassov.

i hardened under the last loss. it took something human out of me. i used to be so deeply emotional i’d crumble on demand. but now the water has made its exit. of course i care about the ones around me. i’m just struggling to show it. a wall is getting in the way. i used to dream of being so strong nothing could shake me. now. i am. so strong. that nothing shakes me. and all i dream is to soften.

- Rupi Kaur, The Sun and Her Flowers

Magic is essentially the higher understanding of nature.

Unknown (via landscape-photo-graphy)

“June was white. I see the fields white with daisies, and white with dresses; and tennis courts marked with white. Then there was wind and violent thunder. There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, “Consume me". That was at midsummer.”

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via berthemorisot)

Death and Life c. 1908 l Gustav Klimt

Smoke Like Phantoms

Smoke like souls

Crooked, gnarling ghosts that float right through you.

They are free when they are taken by the wind.

Dissipated, faded into empty air.

Until that’s all that’s left.

Empty space.

Empty?

It must still be full of ghosts.

They must be somewhere.

All the ghosts in this space alone,

How many in this house?

How many in the garden?

The forgotten patrons of this land,

An unimaginable multitude of memories.

Does anyone keep these memories still?

I want to believe that this place gave joy.

I have felt joy here.

I have seen such beauty in this land, but

It has also witnessed my pain.

It has watched my adolescence unfold.

Whoever owns this house next will never know.

Does it remain, in the ghosts

Of the smoke

That stains these walls?

    - S.T / moving out

I suffered, I was there.

Walt Whitman, from The Complete Poems; “A Song of Myself,” (via violentwavesofemotion)