home message past theme
fragments of
my mind.
hiptronichoops:

Go with the flow…
fuckyeahveganlife:

jo-anne mcarthur. vegan.
" I want to be your 1 a.m. fuck and your 1 p.m. lunch date. "
- i.c. (via thekrak3nawaits)
April 4 14 // 69,937 notes
puhja:

lola-pastel:

fr4nktherabbit:


"…every living creature on earth dies alone”

donnie darko

the best

my favorite movie <3

discoveries of inspiration in delicate forms,
for how can you not acknowledge the enormity of existence?
mysteriously enough — perhaps eerie, perhaps unnerving .

what is watching you? whom permeates your silken flesh?
composed so spectacularly of geometric synchronicity.
synchronicity; the essence of Being.

emeralds and aqua pour relentlessly from my Being,
accompanying simple gazes of moon and sun.
be as a child – learning as you’ve learned once before,
but nearly reborn into the magnificence of humanism.

each day the Sun arises,
he greets the landscape with sublime medleys of pink and gold.

each night the moon surfaces,
she welcomes darkness with celestial silvers.

perpetually, the earth adorns herself in each color,
every shade of vibrancy and delight.
she is embellished with the marvels of her own creation.

These are our gifts –
our eyes to gaze upon them;
our ears to hearken her whispers;
our skin to caress the softest moss;
our nostrils to cherish sweet nectars and salty oceans;
our tongues to savor her pleasant fruits.

ah, the inspiration is unfathomable. I can see the brilliance.
the love of our sustenance – while she desires our love in return.

April 3 14 // 0 notes

dreams of delicate oscillations and graceful enchantments lure me from worldly comforts — comfort in hell is divine, yes this is so. is hell the devouring fortitude we fabricate? aberrations betwixt licks of fire and red-faced revulsion? i cannot concur for the devil is not whom we avoid — in imaginative form, that which is not empathized with.

i seek hell in it’s finest form — this demise of which we speak. monumental mountains grin sheepishly, guarding the landscape using their enormity and their silence. jade willows whistle nonchalantly, lazily teetering with each gust of appeased wind.

not a drop in the ocean is lost, not one pedal of a tulip disappears.

the soldiers of irony and deception tear away at the pits of hell — shredding and burning. we name ourselves angles, providing justice to satire while fueling anguish. and yet the entities of hell smile onward, waiting quietly in the know for the awakening of man.

April 2 14 // 0 notes