alongtimealone:

Виктор Грязнов
177
catmota:

Doug West
91
"It’s funny. When you leave your home and wander really far, you always think, ‘I want to go home.’ But then you come home, and of course it’s not the same. You can’t live with it, you can’t live away from it. And it seems like from then on there’s always this yearning for some place that doesn’t exist. I felt that. Still do. I’m never completely at home anywhere."

Danzy Senna

(The most perfect quote I’ve ever read about traveling, this is how I perpetually feel.)

"

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

"
"Saddest Poem," Pablo Neruda (via commovente)

Juliet Jardin, “Surf” 2014, oil on canvas
779
"There is nothing more rare, nor more beautiful, than a woman being unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection. To me, that is the true essence of beauty."
― Steve Maraboli (via psych-quotes)
salemoregon:

family photo
17thplan:

Hot Air Rises III
949
"He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking."
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (via sunst0ne)
"I don’t broadcast every high & I don’t hide every low. I’m trying to live. I’m not trying to convince the world I have life."

Unknown

Oh my god

(via thelucidfox)