cixra1meow

[cixra1meow]

by Rebecca Belcher......................................... To a Siamese Cat

I shall walk in the sun alone

Whose golden light you loved;

I shall sleep alone

And, stirring, touch an empty place;

I shall write uninterrupted

(Would that your gentle paw

Could stay my moving pen just once again!)

I shall see beauty

But none to match your living grace;

I shall hear music

But not so sweet as the droning song

with which you loved me.

I shall fill my days

But I shall not, cannot forget;

Sleep soft, dear friend,

For while I live you shall not die.

　　　　∧＿∧

　 　　 (*･∀･*)

★*。:ﾟ*〇☆〇*ﾟ:。:*★

☆｡*･:+*ﾟ　　 ﾟ*+:･*｡☆

　 THANK YOU

･*･ﾟﾟﾟﾟ･*･ﾟﾟﾟﾟ･*☆･*

[cixra1meow]

Black is not sad. Bright colors are what depresses me. They’re so… empty. Black is poetic. How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not.

Ann Demeulemeester

*∧🎀∧*

⁽(˶> ᎑ <˶) ⁾⁾ﾟ

*〇☕〇

[cixra1meow]

think we're all monsters deep down, if we're pushed to that extent. Maybe if I felt like he was my father I could hate him. How could I hate a man that was just a stranger to me?

Amina Khan, Loathing You

૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

./づᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘~~~~♡。・゜ 　♡ 。　　・　゜ 　　　♡

　　　♡　　　　♡ ゜・。。 ♡

・゜ ♡ ゜ 。　　. * ・ ♡ ° .

[cixra1meow]

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

Herman Hesse, Bäume: Betrachtungen und Gedichte

[cixra1meow]

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.

Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence.

Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.

Yoko Ono

　　　　　 ♪∧,,∧

　　　♪∧,,∧・ ω・)

　∧,,∧・ ω・)　　 )っ

(・ ω・)　　 )っ＿_フ

(っ　　)っ＿_フ(_/彡

　( ＿_フ(_/彡

　 (_/彡♪

[cixra1meow]

I held a brief debate with myself as to whether I should change my ordinary attire for something smarter. At last I concluded it would be a waste of labour. "Doubtless," though I, "she is some stiff old maid ; for though the daughter of Madame Reuter, she may well number upwards of forty winters; besides, if it were otherwise, if she be both young and pretty, I am not handsome, and no dressing can make me so, therefore I'll go as I am." And off I started, cursorily glancing sideways as I passed the toilet-table, surmounted by a looking-glass: a thin irregular face I saw, with sunk, dark eyes under a large, square forehead, complexion destitute of bloom or attraction; something young, but not youthful, no object to win a lady's love, no butt for the shafts of Cupid.

Charlotte Brontë, The Professor

╔══╗....<3

╚╗╔╝..('\../')

╔╝╚╗..( •.• )

╚══╝..(,,)(,,)

╔╗╔═╦╦╦═╗ ╔╗╔╗

║╚╣║║║║╩╣ ║╚╝║

╚═╩═╩═╩═╝ ╚══╝

[cixra1meow]

I began becoming that girl again, the girl who had wildflowers in hair, and madness in her soul, the girl who danced, trembling with emotions. I began becoming that girl again, the girl who sang her soul, longing to drink the wine of life again.....

Jayita Bhattacharjee

˚∧＿∧ 　+ —̳͟͞͞💗

( •‿• )つ —̳͟͞͞ 💗 —̳͟͞͞💗 +

(つ　 < —̳͟͞͞💗

｜　 _つ + —̳͟͞͞💗 —̳͟͞͞💗 ˚

`し´

[cixra1meow]

“If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.”– Frances Hodgson Burnett

♡‌ ‌҉☆‌ ‌҉.☆‧₊˚‌ ‌

╭◜◝‌ ‌͡‌ ‌◜◝╮‌ ‌╭◜◝‌ ‌͡‌ ‌◜◝╮.‌ ‌҉‌ ‌

(‌ ‌•‿•‌。‌ ‌)☆(‌ ‌•‿•‌。‌ ‌)☆‌ ‌♡‌ ‌

╰◟◞‌ ‌͜‌ ‌◟◞╭◜◝‌ ‌͡‌ ‌◜◝╮‌ ‌͜‌ ‌◟◞╯☆‌ ‌҉‌ ‌

.‌ ‌҉☆‌ ‌҉(‌ ‌•‿•‌。‌ ‌)☆‌ ‌♡‌ ‌

♡‌ ‌　‌ ‌╰◟◞‌ ‌͜‌ ‌◟◞╯‌ ‌.‌ ‌҉☆‌ ‌