"So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever. With masks down, I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but merely accepting my being. And does not smite me down."
- Sylvia Plath, Cambridge Notes. (via torturegardens)
(Source: theburnthatkeepseverything, via eveyinbrunette)
If a boy must wonder,
let him recall
not the lightning grace of falcons,
the dizzying aeronautics, Darwin’s finch,
the voyage of ancients
who saw farther, whose charts and sails
and bubbly telescopic minds
brought ashore hope
to lift
a charioting god to the moon,
but how
even a rogue dream of stars
once birthed the possibility of flight
(via inseadious)
you know what else is everywhere? innuendos.
It’s like the cat realizes whose holding it in the second gif
is this heaven
you can almost hear the cat fangirling
(Source: lipgallagher, via might-catch-my-crazy)
