As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
Anne Sexton
(via incisio)
As for me, I am a watercolor.
The greatest mystery of all is reality.
Beckmann
(via journalofanobody)
“I think of you often. Especially in the evenings, when I am on the balcony and it’s too dark to write or to do anything but wait for the stars. A time I love. One feels half disembodied, sitting like a shadow at the door of one’s being while the dark tide rises. Then comes the moon, marvelously serene, and small stars, very merry for some reason of their own. It is so easy to forget, in a worldly life, to attend to these miracles.”
Katherine Mansfield,
(via rudyoldeschulte)
You can’t make homes out of human beings.
Warsan Shire
(via journalofanobody)
Undisturbed,
my garden fills
with summer growth—
how I wish for one
who would push the deep grass aside.
Izumi Shikibu
(via journalofanobody)
From Il Tartufo D’Oro
Marcus Oleniuk
(via journalofanobody)
We sit and talk quietly,
with long lapses of silence,
and I am aware of the stream that has no language,
coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes, which has no speech.
William Carlos Williams
(via journalofanobody)
Intense, perceptive, blonde, lovely Sylvia. Perhaps she knew too much in a way. Perhaps, I know too much in a way as well. Mind me, I’m even darker than that. Slightly more evil.
Anne Sexton, on Sylvia Plath from “A self-portrait in letters.”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
