"I was happy, but happy is an adult word. You don’t have to ask a child about happy, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind. Much easier to let it blow all over you. This is where I disagree with the philosophers. They talk about passionate things but there is no passion in them. Never talk happiness with a philosopher."

Jeanette Winterson (via observando)

"As he caught her into his arms, she gave a sob that went through him like a knife. But as the minutes passed and she half lay in his arms in the shadow of the cab’s awning, he loved her so much and felt so close to her that he couldn’t believe anything could really have gone wrong."

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Image on the Heart (via fitzgeraldquotes)

"A week feels like a year when you’re seventeen and in love. A twenty minute drive might as well be an ocean. But we were together again and the whole world was rejoicing, even the gravel crunched melodiously under our feet as we danced onward through the night."

Chloe Rattray, Sacré Noir (via observando)

"When does a life bend toward freedom? grasp its direction?
How do you know you’re not circling in pale dreams, nostalgia,
but entering that deep current malachite, colorado
requiring all your strength wherever found
your patience and your labor
desire pitted against desire’s inversion
all your mind’s fortitude?
Maybe through a teacher: someone with facts with numbers
with poetry
who wrote on the board: IN EVERY GENERATION ACTION FREES
Maybe a student: one mind unfurling like a redblack peony
quenched into percentile, dropout, stubbed-out bud
—Your journals Patricia: Douglas your poems: but the repetitive blows
on spines whose hope you were, on yours:
to see that quenching and decide.
—And now she turns her face brightly on the new morning in
the new classroom
new in her beauty her skin her lashes her lively body:
Race, class…all that…but isn’t all that just history?
Aren’t people bored with it all?

She could be
myself at nineteen but free of reverence for past ideas
ignorant of hopes piled on her She’s a mermaid
momentarily precipitated from a solution
which could stop her heart She could swim or sink
like a beautiful crystal."

Adrienne Rich, from Later Poems Selected And New: 1971 - 2012 (via violentwavesofemotion)