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February 11, 2013
151,316 notes
I love how we all (myself included) are so unable to say anything at all about love. Sentences get jumbled and awkward and you try to say something but end by saying ‘it’s not important’, like you’re not saying anything at all. But really, behind it all, behind all the words and the gumph and the fear is the message: I LIKE YOU.

I love how we all (myself included) are so unable to say anything at all about love. Sentences get jumbled and awkward and you try to say something but end by saying ‘it’s not important’, like you’re not saying anything at all. But really, behind it all, behind all the words and the gumph and the fear is the message: I LIKE YOU.

(Source: mandaflewaway, via thescienceofdestructi0n)

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March 05, 2012
21,389 notes
I think this is quite apt :)

I think this is quite apt :)

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February 25, 2012
316 notes
Robbins :)

Robbins :)

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January 03, 2012
35 notes

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Text
December 30, 2011

Forever - is composed of Nows -

It may appear pretentious of me to post an Emily Dickinson poem on my page but I liked this one, and thought it was particularly apt for this time of year, especially with the burden of the future on many of our minds as we welcome in 2012.

Forever - is composed of Nows -

‘Tis not a different time -

Except for Infiniteness -

And Latitude of Home -

From this - experienced Here -

Remove the Dates - to These -

Let Months dissolve in further Months -

And Years - exhale in Years -

Without Debate - or Pause -

Or Celebrated Days -

No different Our Years would be

From Anno Domini’s -

Emily Dickinson, Written c. 1862, published 1929, in Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems ed. Thomas H. Johnson, (London: Faber & Faber, 1975), p. 307-8.

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December 04, 2011
2,131 notes

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December 04, 2011
248 notes

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November 28, 2011
3,694 notes

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November 26, 2011
1,544 notes
And on that note I should probably leave tumblr for a while :D 

And on that note I should probably leave tumblr for a while :D 

(via hermionejg)

Text
November 26, 2011

Flutter (100)

Blades of grass brush between her toes. The sun starts to die; the light fades. A purpling-pinkish pastel tinge is painted on the sky. She presses her back against the overgrown oak tree and readjusts the patterned blanked she is sitting on.

She dog-ears a page in her penguin Classic.

“I wouldn’t do that”, he sits down on the other side of the oak.

She lends him half the blanket and the next paperback on the pile, sighing at his disturbance. He reaches out to let the novel’s paper touch his fingers, ever-hopeful that one day their fingers might brush.