Amour, toux et fumée En ne secret sont demeurée.

Si l'amour n'est qu'une illusion, alors qu'est-ce que la réalité?

clothesandrings:

Clothes & Rings
clothesandrings:

Clothes & Rings

“Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free.”

—   Rumi (via feellng)

“And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see, —
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, —
I know not how such things can be! —
I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky.”

—   Edna St. Vincent Millay (via observando)
simplistiic:

(Source: brentchua, via superfriky)

punkmonsieur:

have a good monday friends and be awesome 

punkmonsieur:

have a good monday friends and be awesome 

(Source: zaynner)

“Wait for someone who tells strangers about you.”

—   Vodka thoughts #1  (via )

(via theradicalteen)

“I barely noticed loneliness anymore; it was my normal condition, by necessity if not by nature.”

—   Rachel Hartman, Seraphina  (via cromwyll)

(via lagunareef)

“Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.”

—   Sylvia Plath (via fluorescent-opalescent)

“That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrow from a Fourth of July rocket.”

—    Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via mmacg)

The Jailer by Sylvia Plath

dubstephalloweencarcommercials:

My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?

I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax,…