life is beautiful.

Emily, 22. this is a collection of my thoughts, poetry, photographs, ramblings about nothing in particular, and what inspires me.
Recent Tweets @
All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was.
Ernest Hemingway (via observando)

(via kharmaa)

‎’Slut’ is attacking women for their right to say yes. ‘Friend Zone’ is attacking women for their right to say no.

(via emilys-nostalgia)



(via fightingforanimals)

(via logodaedalist)


Feminist-a person who supports feminism.

Feminism-the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.

(via kharmaa)


sext: Today, it’s raining and all I can think about is the color of your eyes.

The walls are boiling so hard that the entire house peels back. The bones are dirtier than they were yesterday, and you almost trip on your way out of your body. But here you are, without a single stumble left in your feet. There are angry letters underneath the bed and softer ones on the nightstand. We are all so guilty of trying to hide our sharp. Your elbows are bleeding, and you can’t blame it on the city this time. This was all you, trying to push away the person you used to be. Some nights you still wonder if she ended up in someone else’s body. Science tells you that energy can’t be destroyed, so where did all that wind go? Maybe it’s coming back as something different. Maybe it’s coming back as something you actually want to keep this time.
Y.Z, If forgiveness knocks on your door, offer her a key (via rustyvoices)

(via williamrbirdjr)

I remember standing in a field in Switzerland at dusk, surrounded by cows with bells around their necks, and reading John Keats’ “Ode to a Nightingale” out loud from an open book I was holding in my hands, and I started to weep — weep is a better word for it than cry — and I remember the tears slowly streaming down my face, it was that beautiful to me, and I loved poetry that much. I was eighteen.
Mary Ruefle, from “I Remember, I Remember,” Madness, Rack, & Honey (via commovente)
Let’s love fully
and let’s love loud
let’s love now.


a story is growing in the small of her back. i follow it with my finger, a slow reader. 6am sunlight transcribes it into a wordless language no-one will understand, but the source and the scribe.

it ends in an anticlimax.

after, we start again.

(via aquietjoy)