"At that moment I was sure. That I belonged in my skin. That my organs were mine and my eyes were mine and my ears, which could only hear the silence of this night and my faint breathing, were mine, and I loved them and what they could do."
— Dave Eggers  (via cite-belle)

"Why can’t we love the right people? What is so wrong with us that we rush into situations to which we are manifestly unsuited, which will hurt us and others? Why are we given emotions which we cannot control and which move in exact contradiction to what we really want? We are walking conflicts, internal battles on legs."
— Marian Keyes  (via cite-belle)

"At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow."
— Gustave Flaubert (via cite-belle)

planet-earthh:

Mt. Ashland Sunset by Nick Kanta on Flickr.

(via sil-vertongue)

cityandcolorss:

Purple Sunset on Isle of Skye (by Alexander Spanke)

(via sil-vertongue)

"The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence. I knew perfectly well the cars were making a noise, and the people in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings were making a noise, and the river was making a noise, but I couldn’t hear a thing. The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all, for the good it did me."
— Sylvia Plath (via virgineunuchother)

(via acuorre)

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and unspeakable love."
— Washington Irving (via murdertree)

(Source: vanished, via automatiques)

"Her smile was kind, not so much her smile as the lips themselves. They were vital, separate lips, which seemed about to flutter from her face like a lark into the sky. They were made, as all lips are, for kissing, yet they had more important work to do: to sing of brightness and beauty."
— Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Cancer Ward (via hateshiploveship)

(via acuorre)

whitewinds:

Tricolor by Seth Patterson on Flickr.

(via 14birds)

(Source: paintedskiesandrainbowseas, via 14birds)