May 11th, 2012

apoetreflects:

Knotted bodies
are the book of the soul:
with eyes closed,
with my touch and my tongue,
I write out on your body
the scripture of the world.
A knowledge still nameless:
the taste of this earth.

—Octavio Paz, lines from “Pillars” in The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz: 1957-1987, edited by Eliot Weinberger (New Directions, 1987)

∞07:50 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩29
I know that I am alive
between two parentheses.
Octavio Paz, from “Certainty”, in The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz: 1957-1987, edited by Eliot Weinberger (via apoetreflects)

∞07:48 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩605
Valentino Haute Couture Autumn/Winter 2010

Valentino Haute Couture Autumn/Winter 2010

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  ∞07:45 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩983
eeextraterrestrial: melancholy av alphonse mucha

eeextraterrestrial:

melancholy av alphonse mucha

∞07:44 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩155
eugeniefleur: “Wood nymph”, 1920s

eugeniefleur:

“Wood nymph”, 1920s

∞07:42 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩215
January 7th, 2012

(Source: fyeahbroadway)

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  ∞04:50 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩10218
Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.
White Oleander by Janet Fitch.  (via mllekeri)

∞09:53 am, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩151
January 6th, 2012

(Source: megstr)

∞12:29 pm, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩125559
…my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper… I am justifying my life, my keen emotion, my feeling, by turning it into print.
Sylvia Plath, Unabridged Journals

∞10:04 am, by writerofprose
Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
John Keats (via thesleepingfawn)

(Source: seabois)


∞09:58 am, reblogged  by writerofprose ∩998
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