The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it’s not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of another person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other.
— Osho (via psych-facts)

3941 Notes

I fell for you the way rain falls on pavement
Delicately at first, afraid to penetrate beneath the surface,
Then with reckless abandon, desperately plummeting,
Though sinking into you would mean violently crashing
Across your hardened exterior to painfully linger like a stain
In the hopes of one day slipping through your cracks,
Nurturing hidden, neglected seeds so that there may be
A beautiful garden w
here there is now an abandoned lot.

39567 Notes

"It is only money that they wish, my sweet, but I want riches for you."
Ted, whoever and wherever you are, I hope you followed the advice written in the copy of Le Petit Prince that was given to you in 1973 and had a life full of riches - it truly was a special message to find in a little thrift shop in North Carolina 41 years later.

"It is only money that they wish, my sweet, but I want riches for you."

Ted, whoever and wherever you are, I hope you followed the advice written in the copy of Le Petit Prince that was given to you in 1973 and had a life full of riches - it truly was a special message to find in a little thrift shop in North Carolina 41 years later.

1 Notes

The Way It Is

Gender
Race
Religion
Ethnicity
Sexuality
Class
And all
Are the bars
In the cells
That separate
Us from the
Realization that
We are souls
Whose infinity
Is limited by
Eyes whose
Narrow vision
Cannot see
Beyond barriers
We ourselves
Created in a
Jail we’ve been
Imprisoned in
Which we call
“The way it is.”

I want to erase
Your outlines
Until we bleed
Into each other
Like watercolors
Filling in the
Blank spaces
Of a clean sheet
Until nothing
Of its original
Emptiness is left

A person’s emotional being is like an ocean. The people in your life are separated into three different categories. You have the sailors: they won’t touch the water. They opt to stay inside the boat. These people are your acquaintances, or “surface” friends, and they never make it deep.
You then have the snorkelers. These are the friends who want to go deep, but don’t have the emotional capacity to carry the pressure and weight. If they make an attempt, they either drown or are forced to go back to the surface for oxygen.
Finally, let’s talk about the deep sea divers. These are the people who stay with you through storms and violent waters, and they aren’t afraid to dive to the darkest parts of the ocean floor: they stay with you, in the water, through the worst times. They aren’t afraid to call out your bullshit. They’re the people who are there for you no matter what happens.
We all need the third type of people in our lives.
— Yahya Bakkar (via psych-facts)

3476 Notes

And at that point the realization suddenly burned me like a searing flame: For each person there was an “office,” but for nobody was there one that he was permitted to choose for himself, to define, and to fill according to his own wishes. It was wrong to desire new gods, it was totally wrong to try and give the world anything! There was no duty for enlightened people, none, none, except this: to seek themselves, to become certain of themselves, to grope forward along their own path, wherever if might lead. — I was deeply affected by that, and for me that was profit from that experience. I had often played with images of the future, I had dreamt of roles that might be meant for me, as a poet, perhaps, or as a prophet, or as a painter, of whatever else. That was all meaningless. I didn’t exist to write poetry, to preach sermons, to paint pictures; neither I not anyone else existed for that purpose. All of that merely happened to a person along the way. Everyone had only one true vocation: to find himself. Let him wind up a a poet or a madman, as a prophet or a criminal — that wasn’t his business; in the long run, it was irrelevant. His business was to discover his own destiny, not just any destiny, and to love it totally and undividedly. Anything else was just a half-measure, an attempt to run away, an escape back to the ideal of the masses, an adaptation, fear of one’s nature. Fearsome and sacred, the new image rose up before me; I had sensed it a hundred times, perhaps I had already enunciated it, but now I was experiencing it for the first time. I was a gamble of Nature, a throw of the dice into an uncertain realm, leading perhaps to something new, perhaps to nothing; and to let this throw from the primordial depths take effect, to feel its will inside myself and adopt it completely as my own will: that alone was my vocation. That alone!
— Hermann Hesse - Demian

5 Notes

I am a waterfall
Catapulting from
Soaring heights
Into tumultuous
Churning waters.

I am a river
Carving my course
Through jagged
Mountainous terrains
To vast open seas.

I am a brook
Gently meandering
Through shaded
Sheltered forests
To still, calm reserves.

Whichever pace
I choose to employ
In my endless journey
Effortlessly overcomes
Unforeseen obstacles.

Each sharp edge
Is softened by 
My loving passing
As I conjure the
Momentum to carry on.

Whatever winding path
I spontaneously discover
Brings me to the same, sacred place.
I always return to myself.
I always return home.

3 Notes

When authors write novels, they usually act as if they were God and could completely survey and comprehend some person’s history and present it as if God were telling it to Himself, totally unveiled, in its essence at all points. I can’t, any more than those authors can. But my story is more important to me than any author’s is to him, because it’s my own; it’s the story of a human being — not invented, potential, ideal, or otherwise nonexistent person, but a real, unique, living one. To be sure, people today had less of an idea than ever before what a really living person is; in fact, human beings, each one of whom is a priceless, unique experiment of nature, are being shot to death in carloads. If we weren’t something more than unique individuals, if we could really be totally dispatched from the world by a bullet, it would no longer make sense to tell stories. But each person is not only himself, he is also the unique, very special point, important and noteworthy in every instance, where the phenomena of the world meet, once only and never again in the same way. And so every persons story is important, eternal, divine; and so every person, to the extent that he loved and fulfills nature’s will, is wondrous and deserving of full attention. In each of us spirit has become form, in each of us the created being suffers, in each of us a redeemer is crucified.

Not many people nowadays know what man is. Many feel it and therefore die more easily, just as I shall die more easily when I have finished writing this story.

I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seeking the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of only and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.

Every person’s life is a journey toward himself, the attempt at a journey, the intimation of a path. No person has ever been completely himself, but each one strives to become so, some gropingly, others more lucidly, according to his abilities. Each one carries with him to the end traces of his birth, the slime and eggshells of a primordial world. Many a one never becomes a human being, but remains a frog, lizard, or ant. But each one is a gamble of Nature, a hopeful attempt at forming a human being. We all have a common origin, the Mothers, we all come out of the same abyss; but each of us, a trial throw of the dice from the depths, strives toward his own goal. We can understand one another, but each of us can only interpret himself.

— Hermann Hesse - Demian

1 Notes

Rootless Trees Will Never Weather Storms

We are each of us trees
Twisting up through the earth
To be kissed by the rays of the sun

We think that it is by
This reaching and stretching
That we grow towards the heavens

But those who solely reach and stretch
Can be blown over by the gentlest winds
And swept away by the weakest currents

The few who turn inwards
Cultivating their roots with life giving waters
Anchor themselves in the darkest depths

Though occasionally shaken
Not even the grandest of storms
Can tear these asunder

Let Your Troubles Be Like Sea Glass

Send your troubles out to sea
Where they can be cleansed by the thrashing waves,
Smoothed by the gentle currents,
And returned to you with the tide.

Watch as they are transformed;
Sharp jagged edges into smooth rounded corners,
Hard cracks into soft curves,
And deep pits into shallow grooves.

Cherish them as treasures
As they now decorate the shorelines of your life,
Shimmering in the sun
Instead of sinking in the shadows.


2 Notes

Ever finished a book? I mean, truly finished one? Cover to cover. Closed the spine with that slow awakening that comes with reentering consciousness?

You take a breath, deep from the bottom of your lungs and sit there. Book in both hands, your head staring down at the cover, back page or wall in front of you.

You’re grateful, thoughtful, pensive. You feel like a piece of you was just gained and lost. You’ve just experienced something deep, something intimate… Full from the experience, the connection, the richness that comes after digesting another soul.

[…]

It’s no surprise that readers are better people. Having experienced someone else’s life through abstract eyes, they’ve learned what it’s like to leave their bodies and see the world through other frames of reference. They have access to hundreds of souls, and the collected wisdom of all them.

Beautiful read on why readers are, “scientifically,” the best people to date

Perhaps Kafka’s timeless contention that books are "the axe for the frozen sea inside us" applies equally to the frozen sea between us. 

(via explore-blog)

(Source: explore-blog, via but-thats-impossible10)

6536 Notes

Spectacular, spectacular
No words in the vernacular
Could describe this great event
You’ll be dumb with wonderment!

(Source: theworldofcinema, via mycarefulheart)

21187 Notes

2304 Notes