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petaltexturedskies · 4 hours
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"He is not to them what he is to me," I thought: "he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
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petaltexturedskies · 5 hours
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Louise GlĂĽck, from Nocturne
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petaltexturedskies · 6 hours
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Anaïs Nin in a diary entry dated 30 September 1920 featured in The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923
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petaltexturedskies · 7 hours
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I love you. You are the treasure box of the things dearest to me the images of someone who will never live again, the girl of today, older tomorrow. Time is the greatest thief of all; it carries away things that are never replaced or reborn. Tomorrow I will have lost something, the thoughts of today, but I will be learning other things, developing, crystallizing. So keep here for me all the things I have given you—the unsolved mysteries, the broken enchantments, the reflections of a storm-tossed soul, the reflections of a girl's simple exterior and complicated, perplexing interior life. They do not belong to me any more; they are yours.
Anaïs Nin in a diary entry dated 30 September 1920 featured in The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923
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petaltexturedskies · 9 hours
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BRIGHT STAR (2009) dir. Jane Campion
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petaltexturedskies · 9 hours
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Juan Ramón Jiménez, tr by Robert Bly, from "Nocturne" wr. c. 1903
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petaltexturedskies · 10 hours
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I remember a cool river beach and a May night full of rain held in far clouds, moonly sparks raying on the water, and the close, dank, heavy wetness of green vegetation.
Sylvia Plath, in a diary entry dated 15 May 1952 from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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petaltexturedskies · 10 hours
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I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.
Sylvia Plath, from "'Lesbos"
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petaltexturedskies · 11 hours
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L.M. Montgomery, from Rainbow Valley
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petaltexturedskies · 12 hours
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read literature. be present. make love. make tea. write a poem. cry. watch a sappy movie that makes you want to throw things at it. paint your nails. cook something. call your best friend. learn an instrument. wonder. take a bath. go for a walk. lie down on the grass. listen to the entirety of ur favorite album from 2016. take pics of sunsets. ponder. shamelessly dance in your room. curl up on your bed. make endless wishes to the stars twinkling in the midnight sky. think about nothing. think about everything. think about things so hard that you barely remember what happened moments ago and why you’re feeling the way you do
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petaltexturedskies · 12 hours
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L.M. Montgomery, from Anne's House of Dreams
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petaltexturedskies · 17 hours
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if you're online too much as a young woman and you forget to read books you'll get convinced that the reason you don't have power in your life is because you aren't pretty and that your life is doomed despite living in one of the wealthiest countries in the world with unprecedented freedoms. and it's fine at the end of the day like you're not committing the most egregious thought crimes you possibly could, but just make sure you're partying a little. like once a month maybe.
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petaltexturedskies · 17 hours
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why did you allow this?
― Ilya Kaminsky ("Deaf Republic"), Ocean Vuong ("Notebook Fragments"), Plato, Grave of the Fireflies
buy me a coffee
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petaltexturedskies · 17 hours
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add alt text to the text posts please
I’ll try.
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petaltexturedskies · 19 hours
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Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay; "Moriturus"
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petaltexturedskies · 19 hours
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a society that allows people to starve when there is food has failed. like. that’s it.
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petaltexturedskies · 1 day
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Today is very beautiful — just as bright, just as blue, just as green and as white, and as crimson, as the cherry trees full in bloom, and the half opening peach blossoms, and the grass just waving, and sky and hill and cloud, can make it, if they try… You thought last Saturday beautiful — yet to this golden day, ’twas but one single gem, to whole handfuls of jewels.
Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Austin Dickinson wr. c. May 1853
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