She Mistrusted Reality. She Understood Infinity. She Was Weeping, Weeping Whole Seas.

I think we would me much more alive if we dared ourselves to recognize that we are not obligated to know who we are at every given moment.

Jorge Bucay, Argentine gestalt psychotherapist, psychodramatist (1949–)

original: “Creo que estaremos mucho más vivos si nos atrevemos a darnos cuenta de que no estamos necesariamente obligados a saber en todo momento quienes somos.” (via fyp-psychology)

Arctic Ocean, Norway, 2006. Photos by Gueorgui Pinkhassov.

by  Dave Fieldhouse

trees dont get enough love

they’re strong mighty beings who shield you from danger

they’re delicate ethereal beings enveloped in flower blossom, emitting the sense of love

their leaves crinkle under your footsteps, their leaves brush past you as you wander through the forest

trees arent scary, they’re wise and beautiful

whisper kind words to them as you walk past

they will protect you if you protect them

“The scent of blossom, morning sweetness, heavenly felicity.”

— Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by Carl Wildman, from “Zorba the Greek,” wr. c. 1946

J’ai toujours eu soif d’affection. J’aurais voulu au moins une fois dans ma vie recevoir de l’amour à satiété. Au point d’en être écœurée et d’en refuser davantage. Une seule fois, juste une seule fois.

Murakami, Haruki. La Ballade de L’Impossible. (via wordsnquotes)