I am trying to understand the concept of a conformity-conscious freedom

Yours

(now I’m even losing my name — it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena (via easymomentsandobsession)

(via pouvoires)

aseaofquotes:

W.S. Merwin, “To the Present Tense”

fierceawakening:

poeticrican:

grrrls-fighting-back:

"My name is Michael Hunter. I was diagnosed with leukemia in June 2013 & was told on June 11, 2014 that I only have a few months left to live if I can’t find a donor. Please help me with my biological family or a donor match! I was born in Columbus, OH 3/1/1985 at Doctor’s North Hospital and given the name Christopher Brown. Please share"

Michael is a friend, I’m asking that you all take the time to share this. He desperately needs a bone marrow donor and there is very limited number of African American donors. Without a donor Michael is going to die.

Michael was adopted and does not know his birth family. We know he has a half brother but have no information about him.

He does not specifically need an African American Donor but because of all of the things that factor into finding a match (blood type, dna tissue etc.) , someone of similar descent is more likely to be a closer match.

If anyone knows anything about Michael’s birth family or if you would like to see if you are a match, please privately message me. I can put you in touch with him and his caregivers directly!

We hope through spreading awareness we can either find his birth family whom he does not know or find a donor match. Michael lives in the Cincinnati, OH area. Please dont just like this or scroll past. Please share this! You could save his life!

BOOST. Its so hard for Black people to find donors.

Signal boost

(via wretchedoftheearth)

It’s like this … All your life you’re yellow. Then one day you brush up against something blue, the barest touch, and voila, the rest of your life you’re green.

Tess Callahan  (via perfect)

(via x324b21x)

You were red. You liked me cause I was blue. You touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky and you decided purple just wasn’t for you.

colors.  (via versteur)

(via pouvoires)

violentwavesofemotion:

Le Petit Soldat (1963) dir. by Jean-Luc Godard: It’s strange. When I look myself in the face…I get the feeling I don’t match what I think it’s inside.”

You are not sadness. You are not the cigarette burns on your elbows. Someone will hold you like a daffodil and you will bloom the way you’re supposed to, with no stinging burns but with a blanket of freedom.

You are worth every piece of clothing; you need not to be naked to be loved. Your body is not fat. Your body is not ugly. You are not an apology. You are a wonder created, so don’t only tell yourself that you’re beautiful in front of a broken mirror. You have to feel it in the recesses of your skin, along the line of your collarbones, in the exhales of air that linger on the edges of your lips. You have to breathe it.

Nobody has ever told you that your voice cracks beautifully, like a trusty old radio on a Sunday afternoon, and your eyes peel off the sour skin of oranges. Those are the moments when you become an unearthly phenomena, when you are not the scars on your skin or the blood between your lips.

You are a carousel ride from the moon and back and you deserve a star-crossed lover who can make you feel like so.

You have the right to feel shitty like everyone else. Every once in awhile you can smash the telephone and yell you’ve had enough—the phone booth won’t collapse and you can always break down inside; the glass will keep you and your tears will be out. And that is when you learn to love yourself.

You can choose to pick up dandelions and not make a wish, until you decide to blow it off to pieces, but unlike burning lily flowers you do not let yourself become ash. You are whole. You are worth.

Kharla M. Brillo, What every girl deserves to be told (via pouvoires)

(via pouvoires)

But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.

Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (via wordsnquotes)

(via pouvoires)

ساکنان دریا بعد از مدتی صدای امواج دریا را نمی شنوند
چه تلخ است قصه ی عـــــــــــــادت


After a while, the residents of the sea do not hear the sound of the waves.
How bitter it is, the story of routine.

Unknown (via rawfuel)

(via pouvoires)

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