All Elusive Piece of Mind.

i like birds too, they can fly away when things get too crazy.






You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you’re terrified somebody’s gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you’re already in that cage. You built it yourself.

It’s when you hold eye contact for that second too long or maybe the way you laugh. It sets off a flash and our memories take a picture of who we are at that point when we first know “This is love.”
And we clutch that picture to our hearts because we expect each other to always be the people in that picture. But people change. People aren’t pictures. And you can either take a new picture or throw the old one away.
Iain Thomas - I Wrote This For You (via ohlovequotes)

(Source: psych-facts)


I let alphabets cling to me
as I climb the thread of language
between myself and the world.
I muster crowds in my mouth:
suspended between language and the world,
between the world and the alphabets.

I let my head
listen to the myth,
to all sides praising each other.
And I shout at the winds from the top of a mountain.

Why does my tongue tell me to climb this far?
What is the distance between my voice and my longing?
What is there?
Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi (tr. Atef Alshaer and Sarah Maguire), from “A Body” (via weissewiese)

(Source: literarymiscellany)


You want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘Wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is obviously sad?’ You think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole.
Warsan Shire (via jumblefuq)


She burned too bright for this world.
Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights (via observando)


School ripped the passion I had for writing out of my soul and buried it in a pile of shit a million miles away. And that’s the thing - school is meant to make you flourish - it’s supposed to reach deep into your mind and fill your head with passion, knowledge, education. Yet I spend my nights with my overused notebook open, pages seeping with endless memories and turmoil suffered over the years, and I am afraid that if I write something incorrectly, I’ll get a bad grade. My mind has been corrupted by an infinite amount of stimulus and criteria, so much so that I can’t even write one, simple word. I can’t write about my own experiences, my own pain or my own happiness. School has fucked me so many times. I lack passion and the desire to live. I’ll never be the person to say that school handed me the best years of my life. It’s stolen my life.
// An Eager Year 12 Student.  (via wanduring)

(Source: jpzg)


I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.
Flannery O’Connor (via psych-facts)