And you will find no fear here, in unkind words or the hardness of others.
And you will find no sadness here, in the meanness of the world, in the anger that comes from those who feel small.
And you will find no hurt here, in a million insults or a single, softly spoken lie.
Because only a hard heart shatters.
Only a hard heart, breaks.
I have learned not to worry about love;
But to honor its coming with all my heart.
Alice Walker (via kari-shma)
Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (via kari-shma)
Yes Please (via loveyourchaos)
The city knows you better than any living person because it has seen you when you are alone. It saw you steeling yourself for the job interview, slowly walking home after the late date, tripping over nonexistent impediments on the sidewalk. It saw you wince when the single frigid drop fell from the air conditioner twelve stories up and zapped you. It saw the bewilderment on your face as you stepped out of the stolen matinee, incredulous that there was still daylight after such a long movie. It saw you half-running up the street when you got the keys to your first apartment. They city saw all that. Remembers, too.
Consider what all your old apartments would say if they got together to swap stories. They could piece together the starts and finishes of your relationships, complain about your wardrobe and musical tastes, gossip about who you are after midnight. 7J says, So that’s what happened to Lucy— I knew it would never work out. You picked up yoga, you put down yoga, you tried various cures. You tried on selves and got rid of them, and this makes your old rooms wistful: why must things change? 3R goes, Saxophone, you say— I knew him when he played guitar. Cherish your old apartments and pause for a moment when you pass them. Pay tribute, for they are the caretakers of your reinvention.
Colson Whitehead, “City Limits” (via meaghano)
I wanna be your last first love.
Inevitable by Anberlin (via lyricallysomething)
But don’t forget who you really are. And I’m not talking about your so-called real name. All names are made up by someone else, even the one your parents gave you. You know who you really are. When you’re alone at night, looking up at the stars, or maybe lying in your bed in total darkness, you know that nameless person inside you…Your muscles will toughen. So will your heart and soul. That’s necessary for survival. But don’t lose touch with that person deep inside you, or else you won’t really have survived at all.
Louis Sachar (via fuckyeahhappy: breathsoftruth: thresca)
