I want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

Mary Oliver, Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays (via observando)
The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.
Stephen King (via kushandwizdom)

(Source: cassiesjuly)


This is literally one of my favorite scenes ever. Not joking.

(Source: rooneymara)

Sometimes the trolley feels a lot like the busses in middle school; it reminds me of the subways in chicago when strangers would meet only at crossroads to never see each other again. Some of us take the same trolley everyday to go to work and seeing the same strangers has a quiet comfort to it, but other days the trolley is empty and all of a sudden it feels like the 3am subway guiding me home after an all night rave. When I become nastalgic days and moments blur into each other.