Moon Garden.
Taken with Instagram at Young Art
Within this series of small deaths, there is triumph to be found.
Amongst the rubble of sorrow and anxiety there is a trajectory of new memories, ideas, experiences, laughter and love.
4/15/12
We grow up
And we forget about love
And yet were all so obsessed with it.
But it becomes progressively less
genuine as the years progress.
We all want to have back
The love and bliss we experienced
When we least expected it.
(and took it for granted)
I’ve really lost myself.
I’ve lost my identity,
But more than anything
I’ve lost love.
I’m going to be selfish
Until I find the person to
Make me selfless again.
(Source: arrests, via villenoire)
How silently the heart pivots on its hinge.
—Jane Hirshfield, from “Not Moving Even One Step” (via the-final-sentence)
(Source: growing-orbits, via the-final-sentence)
Here’s to you…
Here’s to me…
He lay in his coarse canvas sheets
Gripped by a premonition of setting sail.
—Arthur Rimbaud (tr. Jeremy Harding), from “Seven-year-old Poets” (via the-final-sentence)
(Source: leopoldgursky, via the-final-sentence)
In Bed The Kiss
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec
