“I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you're going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you.” - C. JoyBell
Background Illustrations provided by: http://edison.rutgers.edu/
Reblogged from hlundqvists  121,093 notes

It’s Monday,
and your hair is messy.
You haphazardly put on your jeans and shirt
as you moan about the day of the week -
and I love you.

It’s Tuesday,
and you’re stumbling your way around the room,
trying to sort out the things you have to do.
You stop to briefly kiss the freckles on my nose,
asking me about my day -
and I love you.

It’s Wednesday,
and you’re quietly sprawled on the couch.
You pat the spot next to you and pepper kisses on my hair
because it’s my least favorite day of the week (and you know it) -
and I love you.

It’s Thursday,
and you’re wondering what the weekend will bring,
but you’re still moaning about how
the week is going by too slow for your tastes -
and I love you.

It’s Friday,
and I’m surrounded by DVDs and snacks
you’ve prepared when I was gone.
You welcome me with blankets and warmth from your arms -
and I love you.

It’s Saturday,
and you’re feeling lazy.
You won’t let me leave your arms
(or is it the other way around?)
So you tuck me under your chin as we both wonder
how much time we have left
before sleep makes us miss each other’s faces -
and I love you.

It’s Sunday,
and there’s nothing much to say but
I love you.

By Loving you (NJ.)

Reblogged from forgers  30,958 notes

I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. If you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good, either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be. By Roald Dahl (via larmoyante)

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

By

e. e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your

(via id-like-to-be-amazing-one-day)

You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.

In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach.
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner and you say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.

In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights and olive oil,
not everything you have ever loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
laying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.

At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like wet paint?

You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like “You are always
ticking inside of me and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.”

Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.

You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.

By Sierra DeMulder, Unconditional Love Poem (via decembrist)