My name is Laura, and these are the important things…
* scarves
* canoes
* the sun
* singing at every opportunity
* socks that have giraffes on them
* sliding down stairs in my sleeping bag
* umbrellas
* peace
* the number 3
* snow
* pumpkins
* the words …
* “chuckle”
* “ambiguous”
* “enigmatic”
* “equidistant”
* the smell of grass
* and books
* wild flowers
* black and white photography
* parchment
* peaches
* mangos
* poetry
* music
* rain
* and above all else: love
A man walks down the street. It’s a street in a strange world, maybe it’s the third world, maybe it’s his first time around. He doesn’t speak a language, he holds no currency. He is a foreign man, he is surrounded by the sounds of scattlings and orphanages. He looks around and around and sees angels in the architecture. Spinning in infinity, he says, “Amen! Hallelujah!”
-“I Know What I Know” by Paul Simon
Interpret that as you will…. I think its pretty great.
I am floating in a deep chocolate ocean.
The colour of your eyes,
The tangy smell of oranges, shaving cream, and the spice of whatever Eurasia smells like.
The feel of your skin,
I am swimming in satin.
The smooth touch of your fingers on my crumpled paper dreams.
Scribble down what you say,
So I won’t forget them in my rush to reach the You behind the worlds of words.
You,
Me,
and my telephone wire.
I would wait for you.
Even if it’s the last thing that I do for you.
The sun goes down in your eyes,
I soak it up and realize that I’ll never leave your side.
— Still Waitin’ by Kina Grannis
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other waythan this: where ‘I’ does not exist, nor ‘you’,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.- Pablo Neruda
[Translated by Stephen Tapscott]
Reblogged from jennykay-deactivated20090701-de 7 months ago |
Sometimes I find that many people in today’s society overlook true beauty. The kind of beauty that you can’t sell, and no amount of make-up will ever replicate. It’s overlooked, and therefor lost.
Why can’t we be comfortable enough in public to appreciate these things?
Why do we fear judgement and snide comments when we enjoy things deeply?
Do we fear the vulnerability that the reality of beauty and love could give us?
If anything, deep appreciation of love, peace, and beautiful moments should make us stronger.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
This is how it works:
You’re young until you’re not.
You love until you don’t.
You try until you can’t.
You laugh until you cry.
You cry until you laugh,
and everyone must breath until their dying breath.
No, this is how it works:
You peer inside yourself.
You take the things you like,
and try to love the things you took.
And then you take that love you made,
and stick it into someone else’s heart pumping someone else’s blood.
— “On the Radio” by Regina Spektor
I pulled the seal off of my windows and opened them.
IT’S ALMOST SPRING, DAMNIT!!
It’s time we started acting like it…
…it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when all other things vanished-how strange it was!- a few sayings like this about cabbages.
— Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
