Like A Thief
IN The Night

Anna; XVIII, ENFP

"And we swagger because we do not know how to part with our rage, which we cherish and press cutting close, but we learn to swagger — or rather, we’re swaggered, briefly, while the wind blows and things burn and our hands are full — because we know it darkly all the same."

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
by each let this be heard.
Some do it with a bitter look,
some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
the brave man with a sword.”
- Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
“It was a fine autumn evening, still warm in town and already damp over the Seine. Night was falling; the sky, still bright in the west, was darkening; the street lamps were glowing dimly. I was walking up the quays of the Left Bank toward the Pont des Arts. The river was gleaming between the stalls of the secondhand booksellers. There were but few people on the quays; I was treading on the dusty yellow leaves that still recalled summer. Gradually the sky was filling with stars that could be seen for a moment after leaving one street lamp and heading toward another. I enjoyed the return of silence, the evening’s mildness, the emptiness of Paris. I then felt it — I was happy.”
- Albert Camus, The Fall

hafsaatique:

february is a slow, aching month. mornings are lighter but it still feels like the air is resistant and sullen, like the bored, abandoned sister of december and the distant cousin of spring. she stands on street corners smoking cigarettes at six in the evening and smiles when it rains, blowing damp smoke rings into the darkness.  i am in a very low mental place lately and i want to blame it on pressing skies and rain and cold and endless nights, but it feels more like something darker and deep rooted and restless. i feel heavy and cold and lonely and i spend most my evenings stood waiting at bus stops, unearthing dead weeds under my eyes only to find ten more sprouting in the morning. days drag but night flits past so quickly, like burnt shadows of sodden leaves still falling, like a lighter flicked on and off. this is the darkest time of year, when the final days of winter stretch teasing and unyielding; somewhere, february stands on her street corner and smokes cigarette after cigarette, laughing.

The Lord of the Rings + Jewellery

o-dysseys:

LITERATURE MEME | 9 poems - (5) mad girl’s love song by sylvia plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan’s men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you’d return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

o-dysseys:

LITERATURE MEME | 9 poems - (5) mad girl’s love song by sylvia plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

“And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.”
- Unknown (via honeychurch)
default album art


555 Plays

professorfangirl:

Ben Whishaw reads “Asleep,” perhaps the most beautiful of WWI poet Wilfred Owen’s works.

Asleep

Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.

There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
Of the aborted life within him leaping,
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.

And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
From the intruding lead, like ants on track.

Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
High-pillowed on calm pillows of God’s making,
Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
And these winds’ scimitars,
-Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
Confuses more and more with the low mould,
His hair being one with the grey grass
Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!


Luke Evans for LA Times Magazine

Luke Evans for LA Times Magazine

hemingerald:

a curiosity I learned by accident when I was eight years old: a nymphomaniac is not the same as a person addicted to sex, how the term is usually used, but it’s the designation for someone who finds sex very frustrating (for some physical or psychological issue) and then tends to engage in a lot more sexual activity trying to achieve sexual satisfaction. so because of this tendency, people with this behaviour ended up being associated with sex addiction

ain’t that nice

ellipsism

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out, that you’ll dutifully pass on the joke of being alive without ever learning the punchline—the name of the beneficiary of all human struggle, the sum of the final payout of every investment ever made in the future—which may not suit your sense of humor anyway and will probably involve how many people it takes to change a lightbulb.