Pura Vida

I need to feel strongly, to love and admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe.

—Jean-Dominique Bauby, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: A Memoir of Life in Death (via feellng)

Genius comes from the unconscious mind. In short, if the muse exists, she does not whisper to the untalented.

—The War of Art (via leredbone)

Once upon a time there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. And they grew next to each other. And every day the straight tree would look at the crooked tree and he would say, ‘You’re crooked. You’ve always been crooked and you’ll continue to be crooked. But look at me! Look at me!’ said the straight tree. He said, ‘I’m tall and I’m straight.’ And then one day the lumberjacks came into the forest and looked around, and the manager in charge said, ‘Cut all the straight trees.’ And that crooked tree is still there to this day, growing strong and growing strange.

—Tom Waits, Wristcutters: A Love Story (via feellng)

Our favorite book is always the book that speaks most directly to us at a particular stage in our lives. And our lives change. We have other favorites that give us what we most need at that particular time. But we never lose the old favorites. They’re always with us. We just sort of accumulate them.

—Lloyd Alexander (via mellifluousbookshelf)

Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.

—Victor Hugo (via observando)

Life is funny isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, just when you finally begin to plan something, get excited about something, and feel like you know what direction you’re heading in, the paths change, the signs change, the wind blows the other way, north is suddenly south, and east is west, and you’re lost. It is so easy to lose your way, to lose direction. And that’s with following all the signposts

—Cecelia Ahern, Love, Rosie (via wordsnquotes)

(via wordsnquotes)

You can love someone so much…But you can never love people as much as you can miss them.

 John Green (via feellng)

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

—Robert Frost (via poetry-and-insomnia)