Cameranomie

Not one of these pale roses would I choose to match the flowers of my red ideal.

When I Was Eighteen It Wasn't Like This

womenreadaboutthemselvesincolor:

There are weeks in which I do not shave and I think of

you. Bullied by a beam of light.

Your apartment a fester of fireflies

cooked in the habitual

recollection of love,

a season of ill-projected

adolescence

You ask me how often I’ve written

in the month of August.

I tell you summer

has…

I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone.

—Henri Barbusse (via rauchwolken)

(Source: splitterherzen, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare.

Caitlin Moran (via scatteredandshining)

(Source: lustsandluxuries, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

Just imagine becoming the way you used to be as a very young child, before you understood the meaning of any word, before opinions took over your mind. The real you is loving, joyful, and free. The real you is just like a flower, just like the wind, just like the ocean, just like the sun.

—Miguel Angel Ruiz (via exoticwild)

(Source: opaqueglitter, via fuckyeahexistentialism)