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||Strange elevator||

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I am my own enemy, I am my own murderer! My own murderer, that is what I am!

Fyodor Dostoevsky, from Selected Prose; “The Double,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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We are messy haired and freckle faced, tan lines and sunburns and dirt under our nails. We are fingers clasped around steaming styrofoam cups of instant hot chocolate, wrapped in blankets and sat in the dirt in front of a bonfire. We are dirt covered bluejeans and dripping wet gloves, rolled up sleeves of a hoodie already spattered with mud. The wind blows against our faces, hair breaking free from its ponytail and brushing against chapped lips upturned in a smile. We are wild and loud and messy and joyful and we are alive. We are brushed hair and made up faces now, fading tans and cleaned up nails. We are glasses of filtered water filled with ice, drank at a granite counter in a warm and sunlit kitchen. We are skinny jeans and flannels and leather boots, suede jackets and knit sweaters and not wearing something if there’s a stain on it. We sit inside, away from the wind, remembering the time we climbed into the sky and felt truly on top of the world. Thinking of the time we immersed ourselves in the dust and could only think of how clean we felt inside. Now, we are quiet and thoughtful and so missing that place, but yes, we are still alive.

alive // c.r.h. (via carpelanoche)

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x nature blog x

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“Spaced”

HDLSD.com

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The thing about writing is I can’t tell if it’s healing or destroying.

- avouer (via avouer)

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Judge nothing, you will be happy. Forgive everything, you will be happier. Love everything, you will be happiest.

 Sri Chinmoy  (via abiding-in-peace)

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All that is necessary to awaken to yourself as the radiant emptiness of spirit is to stop seeking something more or better or different, and to turn your attention inward to the awake silence that you are.

Adyashanti (via withlovingkindness)

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When you can write your autobiography on the back of a stamp and still have room to spare, I wish to meet you.

Mooji (via aspiritualwarrior)

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can you love somebody back to life?

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(by Clemens Fantur)