I'm an endangered species
fact.

So i’m talking to a friend, texting rather, about why I stopped writing and I go on to say, “And that’s why I stopped writing- the fog got too heavy and it just felt like I was swimming and flailing, and utterly failing, yet doing everything just to keep my head above water anytime I sat down to ‘enter the void.’ So now, I just don’t go there because I don’t know what’s waiting for me once I submerge.”

#wordvomit. Although, the truth comes out in the most devious ways..

don’t hesitate.

…And when you wake up Sunday afternoon, you’ll feel saved, or so they say, but, what if it takes more then just waking up to do so? I can’t remember the last time I woke up, sure of anything, besides whose bed I was laying in. I’ve spent the last year of my life drawing doodles in a notebook, full of imagination and wishful thinking, then compromising my dreams and traveling to three-quarters of the world to see, experience and grapple at the idea that my life is more then just a sketch- that the things, I see, smell and taste should mean more to me then just a check-mark next to a box on my bucket list. Ladies and Gents, welcome to 1st world problems. 

I’ve been toying with the idea that on my next journey instead of wandering around lost and looking for something of value, anything; I’m just going to wander until *something* finds me. I want to film life as *it* comes looking for me, through it’s eyes, not mine. I’m going to kick back and relax, give my OCD prone anxiety the finger, throw-out my maps, my carefully planned to-do lists and agenda in exchange for the ultimate ride. The ultimate experience. The one without hesitation. So I’m done. The passenger’s seat is calling my name as I pass the keys off to the universe and hope that what comes hunting me won’t be the demise of me but the birth of something truly enchanting. I want to be found… and taken.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Ant hill by Féebrile
Ant hill by Féebrile

delicate-sex-and-love:

*

Love is an abstract noun, something nebulous. And yet love turns out to be the only part of us that is solid, as the world turns upside down and the screen goes black.

delicate-sex-and-love:

*

Love is an abstract noun, something nebulous. And yet love turns out to be the only part of us that is solid, as the world turns upside down and the screen goes black.

… Look at my glasses. I can’t even see that there are any stars in the sky without them, but it’s not the glasses that are doing the seeing, it’s me, Madeleine. I don’t think Father’s eyes are seeing now, but *he* is. And maybe his brain isn’t thinking, but a brain’s just something to think through, the way my glasses are something to see through.”

… Look at my glasses. I can’t even see that there are any stars in the sky without them, but it’s not the glasses that are doing the seeing, it’s me, Madeleine. I don’t think Father’s eyes are seeing now, but *he* is. And maybe his brain isn’t thinking, but a brain’s just something to think through, the way my glasses are something to see through.”

nols-edu:

ross by xchrisxtinax on Flickr.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: there’s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,The insolence of office and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscover’d country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remember’d!” ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

nols-edu:

ross by xchrisxtinax on Flickr.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d!” ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet