Lies written in ink cannot disguise facts written in blood.

Lu Xun (via wordsnquotes)

I don’t care that the house is burning, let’s keep on dancing 

Is it only, is it only up from here In moments like this I wish I could just disappear Kiss me like you still believe Hoping that nightfall will bring you back And if only You could step out of these dreams Cause my heart is heavy It’s breaking piece by piece Isn’t it funny how it’s lonely people Who want no one around Isn’t it strange how lost we are When we find that no one’s found

Nightfall: Anchor & Braille (via the-sea-whisperer)

You’ve got more sinners than saints as friends.

Sleep When We Die by Anchor & Braille (via colourful-dystopia)

Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?

It’s life that matters, nothing but life–the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself, at all.

We are so enamored with becoming or finding ourselves. Why? Because we see our ‘me’ as perfect, and we strive for it; rejecting our actual personality as adequate in the hunt for this perfect self-image. If we all became dedicated to being ourselves rather than becoming ourselves, I believe that happiness would no longer be the elusive prize it appears to be when viewed through the fog of self-doubt and dissatisfaction.

Chris Pruce (via wnq-writers)

You don’t have to explain your dreams. They belong to you.

Paulo Coelho (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

Minimalist Posters of Great Mathematicians.

Unreachable Interior #4872

Trinity College, Dublin

I touch you, but am I really touching you? I feel you, but are you really felt? Perhaps you are velvet, like the sky on a calm summer evening, or the sky after a storm. Or the sky in general. Or the ocean when seen from above in those rare moments when it appears to be still. How does one begin to hold everything? How does a person belonging to so many places and times exist in singularity? “I want to be plural with you.” Us. We. Hours pass like you do. Swiftly and as effortlessly as the wind. People are intangible. There is so much to each person that exists beyond the eye or the hand, the heart or the soul. I used to hold the belief of the skin as library. I realize instead that person is archive. Each one a book or a page or a story or the entire library itself. Experience and existence are date stamped, recorded, kept for eternity. While a library can be read, checked out, explored, a person can only be experienced by sections. And never will you peruse the entirety of an archive, not living and certainly not dead. We can, then, only perhaps experience a page. A story. An instance. An example. An anecdote. A paragraph. Sentence. A word. Sometimes all we will ever know of a person is a word. A person is library and archive and book bound into one. Their contents kept tight between their surfaces. Hard covers. Every memory a sinew of the self, a cell in the body of being. Music wafts in the air around me, pushing gently off the walls. The vibrations of piano echo against my spine, turn it into a haunted path of dust and bone. Harold Budd and Robin Guthrie sound to my ears as pleasant aromas often smell. Like her skin. Like baking. Sounds that remind me of the smell of Europe. And I don’t know how Europe smells but I know her scent all too well, to the point where I question if this knowledge is legitimate and valid at all. To assume we can have someone, anyone at all, is to assume we can hold everything they have experienced, everything they encompass up to the present moment. And we assume that we are capable of containing all that there is to come after. I touch you, but all I touch is the moment. I feel you, but all I feel is velvet and longing, and fragments of ocean and sky simultaneously. I want to be plural with you, but proximity is as close as our experiences will allow. Togetherness is to experience this present, the now, and to be slowly written into one another’s libraries.

Nav K || The Person as Archive (via navk)