When you’re young, thunderstorms seem scary. Like the sky is angry at you. But now that I’m older, something about its roar soothes me; it’s comforting to know that even nature needs to scream sometimes.

(via c0ntemplations)

Oh, but I’ve always loved the lullaby of thunderstorms.

(via daughter-of-odin)

Refuse all cooperation with the heart’s death.

Mary Oliver (via andrewgibby)

Beauty privilege is very real. None of us are imagining it, and if we aren’t born genetic lottery winners, our only option is to compensate with style, grace, and charm. Of course, none of that shit comes cheap. That’s kind of the whole point. It’s all meant to be aspirational and exclusionary. We’re supposed to feel depressed by our skin, agitated by our bodies, and anxious about our invisibility. That’s the insidious subtlety of social control. The worst part is that we know in our rational minds that it’s all bullshit, and yet we’re still plagued with self-loathing when we can’t live up to unattainable beauty standards. No matter how much self-acceptance we achieve, we can still look in the mirror and instantly catalog all the things about ourselves that we don’t think measure up. It’s maddening. It makes us feel like hypocrites even though it’s not our hypocrisy.

Forest, I fear you! in my ruined heart
your roaring wakens the same agony
as in cathedrals when the organ moans
and from the depths I hear that I am damned.

Charles Baudelaire, from “Obsession” (via wellconstructedsentences)

Forest, I fear you! in my ruined heart
your roaring wakens the same agony
as in cathedrals when the organ moans
and from the depths I hear that I am damned.

Charles Baudelaire, from “Obsession” (via wellconstructedsentences)

The ancient world was settled so sparsely that nature was not yet eclipsed by man. Nature hit you in the eye so plainly and grabbed you so fiercely and so tangibly by the scruff of the neck that perhaps it really was still full of gods.

Boris Pasternak, “Doctor Zhivago”  (via thedeerandtheoak)

(Source: tierradentro)

Just living is not enough," said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.

Hans Christian Andersen, The Butterfly, (1861)

God help us—for art is long, and life so short.

Goethe, Faust  (via mirroir)

(Source: sisyphean-revolt)