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Our Real Discoveries Come From Chaos.

Ask me anything   Obsessed with anything and everything fantastical, delicious, and spectacular. This is my outlet.

I like to post anything residing within the realms of architecture, food porn, thinspo, illustrations, fashion, arts and crafts, typography, poetry, or macro photography. Sometimes I write and sometimes I rant. I love each and every one of my followers... unless you're a hater.
"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And what do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited."
Sylvia Plath

(via cuttingicetosnow)

— 2 years ago with 20 notes
#quote  #plath  #life  #reading  #author  #writer  #poet 
"

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks —-
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

"
Blackberrying, Sylvia Plath
— 2 years ago with 1 note
#poem  #poetry  #plath  #favorite  #lit  #english  #poetry  #author  #poet 
"Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to."
— 3 years ago with 408 notes
#sylvia plath  #author  #quote  #writing