hellogdby123

[hellogdby123]

A Scottish farmer at Auchingarrich Wildlife Centre fools tourists into believing that her flock produce tartan wool with the help of some harmless sheep marking spray. The visiting Americans were told that the animals were being raised on a diet of Irn Bru and shortbread.

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Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices, Sylvia Plath 

[ID: I wait and ache. I think I have been healing.]

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woman: i miss you like the deserts miss the rain

man: oh that's so sweet, i--

woman: i've adapted to existence without you, buried everything we made together, and prolonged exposure to you would be disastrous.

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Louise Glück, ‘Vespers: Parousia’

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tiny dog on the move

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I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

Sylvia Plath (via purplebuddhaproject)

[hellogdby123]

when mitski said i am a forest fire and i am the fire and i am the forest and i am a witness watching it i stand in a valley watching it and you are not there at all

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“My solitude is sacred. I won’t let anyone take it from me anymore—”

— Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from “Rien ne va Plus,”

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from “New Year’s Day” by Audre Lorde

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Same. Edie Fake from Gaylord Phoenix 8, published by the crucial Pegacorn Press

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And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five  (via stupidst)

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Van Gogh once said that death takes us to another star — gravity is lifted off of our body and we transform into the sky. 
 But the sky is out of reach when our feet are fixed on the ground 
and how is it that a person can just disappear? From here, there will be words that will be hard to pronounce. 
There will be unspoken shoulds and questions you’ll prefer not to answer. 
Words will swell like corks in your throat — 
your hands will find it hard to settle themselves. 
 You will find labour in honesty. You will have questions that will drag answers 
too raw to digest. 
You will refuse to let him vanish. From here, you will hum the symphony of your memories 
composed of the feel of him. 
 You will tune your laughter to the sound of your childhood 
and you will breathe-in, with a ting of pine, 
 when you come across any relic of his presence. 
 Van Gogh once said that death takes us to another star. 
We swallow stars in our sleep. And on some mornings, 
 we wake up with a brighter light 
guiding the darkest parts of ourselves. These guides have wings made from silvers 
transcending beyond human vision — They have the form of a sign you need most, 
 when you need it most. 
 Sometimes we are sent to the sky before we hope to be, 
sometimes we search for another star ourselves. 
 Sometimes we want to be out of reach — 
 apart of a constellation people rely on to find their way home. Not one person lives their entire life without losing someone — without having the world stolen right from their hands. But see, 
 when you love someone who has been taken 
 to another star, you travel with them, to the sky, 
 in the same way they remain here with you.

Alessia Di Cesare, Sent to the Sky, to Another Star.  (via featherumbrellas)

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lol big reblog

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