“In such ugly times, the only true protest is beauty."
- Phil Ochs
Install Theme
The bonds between ourselves and another person exist only in our minds. Memory as it grows fainter loosens them, and notwithstanding the illusion by which we want to be duped and which, out of love, friendship, politeness, deference, duty, we dupe other people, we exist alone. Man is the creature who cannot escape from himself, who knows other people only in himself, and when he asserts the contrary, he is lying.

— Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time (via beyondstyx)

(Source: prokofiev, via wethehumans)

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

— Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

(Source: larmoyante)

We are living in a culture entirely hypnotized by the illusion of time, in which the so-called present moment is felt as nothing but an infinitesimal hairline between an all-powerfully causative past and an absorbingly important future. We have no present. Our consciousness is almost completely preoccupied with memory and expectation. We do not realize that there never was, is, nor will be any other experience than present experience. We are therefore out of touch with reality. We confuse the world as talked about, described, and measured with the world which actually is. We are sick with a fascination for the useful tools of names and numbers, of symbols, signs, conceptions and ideas.

— Alan Watts (via speaksteady)

(via surreal-camille)

There is a language older by far and deeper than words. It is the language of bodies, of body on body, wind on snow, rain on trees, wave on stone. It is the language of dream, gesture, symbol, memory. We have forgotten this language. We do not even remember that it exists.

—  Derrick Jensen, from A Language Older Than Words (Chelsea Green Publishing, 2000)

(Source: tinbanes, via transcendence)

Every mouth you’ve ever kissed was just practice. All the bodies you’ve ever undressed and ploughed in to were preparing you for me. I don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth.
Was it a long journey? Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now, welcome home.

— Warsan Shire  (via everything-i-touchturns-to-stone)

(via deadkicks)

Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you.

— John Irving (via blue-voids)

(via rclinkdump)

All that he had of her was his memory, where he held every moment, every single moment that she had been his. That was all he had, to keep out the loneliness.

— Juliet Marillier, Daughter of the Forest

(Source: larmoyante)

God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.

— J.M. Barrie (via linguistry)

(Source: hoomanao, via sheonlysaid)

She is a rarer creature than you dare to dream. She is a myth, a memory, a will-o’-the-wish.

Peter S. Beagle, “The Last Unicorn” (via seabois)

(via theheartofartemis)

Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

— Sara Zarr, Sweethearts (via myquotelibrary)

(via sheonlysaid)

The thing I like most about time is it is not real. It’s all in the head. There is no such thing as the past; it exists only in the memory. There is no such thing as the future; it exists only in our imagination. If all the watches were truly accurate the only thing they would ever say is: Now.

— Damien Echols, West of Memphis  (via thepoetandthesiren)

(Source: suicideblonde, via thepoetandthesiren)

Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that’s all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.

— Mitch Albom (via literaturesluts)

(via vermeers)

Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.

— Barbara Kingsolver, The Lacuna (via simply-quotes)

(Source: simply-quotes, via streamsofcontext)