TRAVELS OF AN EQUANIMOUS FLIBBERTIGIBBET

Be not the slave of your own past. Plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

My thoughts. My words.
Others thoughts. Others words.
My photographs. Others photographs.

Chronicle yourself. Know yourself. Love yourself.
But perhaps most importantly, trust yourself.

Smithfield, RI. Washington, DC. Clinton, NY. New York, NY. Westhampton, NY. Oxford, England. Europe. The World.

Love is like a narcotic. At first it brings the euphoria of complete surrender. The next day, you want more. You’re not addicted yet, but you like the sensation, and you think you can still control things. You think about the person you love for two minutes, and forget them for three hours. But then you get used to that person, and you begin to be completely dependent on them. Now you think about him for three hours and forget him for two minutes. If he’s not there, you feel like an addict who can’t get a fix. And just as addicts steal and humiliate themselves to get what they need, you’re willing to do anything for love.
— Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept (via observando)
I have ruined relationships for fear of ruining those relationships.
— Neil Hilborn (via observando)

(via thingskeptaway)

I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.
— You’ve Got Mail (via c-oquetry)

(Source: jeremy-atticus, via a-thousand-words)

Where I feel you

I feel you in the cracked paint of my bedroom walls

In the silent stratosphere where one thought ends

Before another begins

You somehow creep up through the bricks and stones

Through the walls I built.

And here you are.

People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken. But sometimes it’s 9am on a Tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up. And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much you don’t know what to do with your hands.
— Rosie Scanlan, “On Missing Them”    (via cultivate-solitude)

(via a-thousand-words)