“Wendy: Peter… I should like to give you a kiss.
[Peter holds his hand out]
Wendy: Don’t you know what a kiss is?
Peter: I shall know when you give me one.”

1:09 pm  •  24 October 2011  •  3 notes

“Destiny, I feel, is also a relationship - a play between divine grace and willful self-effort. Half of it you have no control over; half of it is absolutely in your hands, and your actions will show measurable consequence. Man is neither entirely a puppet of the gods, nor is he entirely the captain of his own destiny; he’s a little bit of both. We gallop through our lives like circus performers balancing on two speeding side-by-side horses - one foot is on the horse called “fate,” the other on the horse called “free will.” And the question you have to ask every day is, Which horse is which? Which horse do I need to stop worrying about because it’s not under my control, and which do I need to steer with concentrated effort?”

— Elizabeth Gilbert, excerpted from Eat Pray Love

4:01 pm  •  19 September 2011

Please sail me away
to the vast ocean of dreams
then drown me within.

11:28 pm  •  29 April 2011  •  1 note

She was standing very close to him. She could see every single eyelash, every fine hair on his face. She had to stop herself from counting his freckles, like chocolate sprinkles across his nose. And his skin, smoother and softer than anyone else’s that she has come across, except for the scratchy patch of stubble on his chin. She remembered that scratchy stubble well. He used to bury his face into her stomach in the wee hours of morning and tickle her with it.

She stuck her makeup brush behind her ear and rummaged for her pot of silver paint. He was tanner than she remembered. His sun-soaked skin was more radiant than before, an endless piece of brown satin that wound around his sculpted cheekbones, his slightly hooked nose. Did he finally go to the Philippines like he always wanted to? Did she go with him?

She reached out to tilt his head back; the stubble, oh so familiar, grazed the ends of her fingers as he looked at her. His eyes, green like stones of jade, were more pronounced than ever against his golden complexion.

He spoke first.

“You’ve come back to work.”

“A girl’s got to make a living.”

His eyes glittered as he stared at her and she lowered her eyes, fearful that his gaze would pierce through her mind and let spill the thoughts that were racing at lightning speed in her head. 

He opened his lips, blood-red and stained with lies to speak but she stopped him.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed instead.

Then with a slight flick of her makeup brush and silver paint, she colored in his face. She covered up the freckles, the stubble, the soft skin, painting vigorously over the golden boy until he was no longer golden, no longer the man she once loved, but the Tin Man who did not have a heart.

12:33 pm  •  22 April 2011  •  34 notes

“Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It’s all the same impulse. What do we get from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get?
At the very least we want a witness. We can’t stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio winding down.”

— Margaret Atwood (via suzywire)

(Source: jaimelannister)

3:28 pm  •  21 April 2011  •  1,362 notes

Crime requires two things:
Will and opportunity
Loss, your own damn fault.

6:01 pm  •  28 February 2011