north south east west



For this set of images, I was thinking a lot about things I feared. In doing that, I realized that there are a lot of things that I (and many of others) are terrified of losing and/or disappearing. It is when we start losing or gaining distance from something or someone that we start to remember how important it is to us. From top to bottom, the images represent losing touch with your passion, friendships/relationships, and very simply, oneself. 

hey that’s me in the first one :)

(via spirare)


— Maya Angelou


— Maya Angelou

♥1054 ""Don’t share work-in-progress with non-writers. Indeed, don’t even discuss it. Think of work-in-progress as an egg around which the shell has not yet hardened. I told my wonderful husband, a newspaper editor, my idea for a scene I wanted to write. ‘It sounds like a cliché to me,’ he said. I winced—but as an editor on a daily deadline, his job is to derail weak ideas before they waste anyone’s time. As a fiction writer, mine is to trust my ideas, follow them around dark corners and see what turns up. Thankfully, I wrote my scene. The story won a prize that took me to Russia, ran in a top literary magazine, and was published in my first book." —"

— Dylan Landis (via mttbll)

(Source:, via langleav)

♥2236 "

They say there are five stages of grief.

The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.

The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.

The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?

The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.

The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.

We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.


— v.g. | athelasss (via athelasss)

(Source: , via pavorst)

on being considered shy


People tell me that I’m shy. And I immediately want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them hard, say No I’m not shy, I’m just so full of everything and all these feelings are threatening to spill over and out between my ribs. I want to tell them, I’m quiet even though I have so much to say; I just don’t know how to say it.

Some days I feel as if the moon lives inside my skin. There’s all this luminescence, this brilliance inside of me struggling to get out. And my skin is just splitting at the seams all the time, stretching and tearing and breaking, but the moon can never get out. My heart is just a satellite traveling on a constant orbit around and around the cage of my bones and every night all I want is for it to run out of gas and crash so that all the feelings will spill out like fuel. The moon is there and it’s burning white-hot like a cigarette, it’s made of molecules and blood and it’s consuming me like a fire. I want to grab a complete stranger’s body in my hands and kiss their mouth till we both turn numb, look into their eyes and see their soul.

I’m not shy; I just sit down at the dinner table and forget what to say. I can pass the mashed potatoes or the butter but I can’t put my feelings on a platter and pass them to my father, and I can’t ask for my mother’s in return. I can ride a bike and take a photograph and write a poem, but I can’t look someone in the face and say, I love you. I always have and always will, and I am so in love with you I can barely speak. And I can play the violin and run through the streets at midnight without caring who sees me, but I can’t tear apart my soul like an orange and rip all the layers off or expose all the tendons and muscles beneath the skin.

My teachers tell my parents I could benefit from raising my hand more in class. I want to tell my teachers they could benefit more from trying to get to know me. Ask me who I am and I’ll be yours forever. Hook your arm around my neck and bring your mouth to mine and if you kiss me a paragraph I’ll reply with a novel. I speak in touches and quick glances and smiles, not words.

My heart’s on an elevator and it doesn’t know what floor to get off on. My heart’s locked up in a cage and someone’s thrown away the key. My heart’s a willow tree that sobs gently in the rain until the birds move amongst its branches.

Sometimes I want to get drunk and there’s vodka in the cupboard and whiskey too, and I want a gin without ice and a scotch on the rocks but there are plates in the cupboard too and I want to smash them, I want to throw every single one against the wall until they shatter. I want to shatter too. I want to disappear.

I catch snow in my mouth in winter and try to braid snowflakes in my hair. I want to run until I’m out of breath. All these things I can do, but I can’t speak to you.

I’m not shy; I just don’t know how to tell you that I am so full I might burst. And I am not shy; I just have more feelings than there are languages in the world.

Shūji Terayama, Taken from Photothèque Imaginaire de Shūji Terayama: Les Gens de la Famille Chien-Dieu, 1975.

Shūji Terayama, Taken from Photothèque Imaginaire de Shūji Terayama: Les Gens de la Famille Chien-Dieu, 1975.

(Source: raveneuse, via heavydrug)