naive to the torment of devotion

if i can make all the darkness inside of me beautiful then maybe my bones won't creak in longing

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

—Ernest Hemingway

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion

—T. S. Elliot - The Hollow Men (via detective-timelord-sorceress)

I’m not going to be the girl you marry, but I’ll be the girl you’ll be thinking of 20 years from now while you engage in polite sex with your boring wife who fakes her orgasm to make you feel better about your receding hairline.

—e.b. (via spacky)

(Source: angelicpanic, via daisymerollinjoints)

she was tired of being tired

—a six word story ( prab )

(Source: dukh, via jexeca)

Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again — and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.

—Joshua Espinoza (via devendrabanhart)

(Source: doubtsbestally, via audreyplaza)

The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.

—Ernest Hemingway  (via thestylishgypsy)

(Source: art-wizard, via silvergirlsailing)

We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky 

For my Muse, Stephania.

(via thestylishgypsy)

(Source: volaream, via thestylishgypsy)