gosh mom I don’t work out to be “cute” and “petite” I work out to have legs that are strong enough to crush the souls of 10,000 men

that´s the spirit

Preach, ladies!

Reblogged from theslyestfox 12 hours ago |

There’s something so real about holding hands; some kind of complex simplicity, saying so much by doing so little. I love it.

(Source: morwend)

Reblogged from shatteruslikeglass 12 hours ago |


Constellation map with floral wreath, by Kirsten Holliday


Constellation map with floral wreath, by Kirsten Holliday

Reblogged from fuckyeahtattoos 3 days ago |

Trying to sort through things you deem irreplaceable and worth keeping around is borderline bittersweet and depressing, at least for me anyhow. Technically, I could live without all of these things, but those memories attached to the items in question make it fairly difficult to just toss them aside.
And that doesn’t even include movies, books, or clothes! I dread moving each and every time I choose to do it. But I’m actually making more of an effort to relieve myself of all of these belongings. Trying to tell myself that nothing is safe, and everything can find home elsewhere, but it’s more of a challenge once you’re in that situation.
Oh well. Bring on the stress because I’m sure I’m in for some great experiences come moving day.

3 days ago | Tags: personal


There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable
incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportion to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.


Milan Kundera, from Slowness (HarperCollins, 1996)

(Source: liquidnight)

Reblogged from fuckyeahexistentialism 6 days ago |

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