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freedom within

ask me something :)   show me sumthin cool. i dare ya. :)   i want to be like water: to slip through fingers but hold up a ship

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    If you haven’t already, read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

    If you haven’t already, read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

    — 1 year ago with 2 notes

    #favorite  #books  #reading  #literature  #adventure  #discovery 
    Colbert’s Maurice Sendak tribute: ‘I Am a Pole’ released, coincidentally, on day of author’s death →

    SC: What’s the best thing a parent can do for a child?

    MS: Love him/her.

    SC: What’s that mean?

    SC: Take them for what they are.

    — 2 years ago

    #The Style Blog  #The Washington Post  #books  #children  #parents  #love  #keep it real 
    RIP Maurice Sendak. Your gifts will live in the heart of the kid in all of us. Thank you <3

    RIP Maurice Sendak. Your gifts will live in the heart of the kid in all of us. Thank you <3

    — 2 years ago with 9 notes

    #children  #taurus  #legend  #where the wild things are  #books  #writer 
    "When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are to become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No… don’t blush. I am telling you some truths. For that is just being in love; which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away. Doesn’t sound very exciting, does it? But it is!"

    Captain Corelli’s Mandolin

    — 2 years ago with 1 note

    #movies  #books  #i'm gonna have to see this 
    How about we play our little game?

    "How about we play our game?" he says.

    "All right," I say. I close my eyes and quietly take a deep breath.

    "Okay, picture a terrible sandstorm," he says. "Get everything else out of your head."

    I do what he says, get everything else out of my head. I forget who i am, even. I’m a total blank. Then things start to surface. Things that — as we sit here on the old leather sofa in my father’s study — both of us can see.

    "Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction," Crow says.

    Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction.

    You change direction, but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the sandstorm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you.

    This storm is you.

    Something inside you.

    So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverised bones.

    That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

    And that’s exactly what I do. I imagine a white funnel stretching up vertically like a think rope. My eyes are closed tight, hands cupped over my ears, so those fine grains of sand can’t blow inside me. The sandstorm draws steadily closer. I can feel the air pressing on my skin. It really is going to swallow me up.

    The boy called Crow softly rests a hand on my shoulder, and with that the storm vanishes.

    "From now on— no matter what— you’ve got to be the world’s toughest fifteen-year-old. That’s the only way you’re going to survive. And in order to do that, you’ve got to figure out what it means to be tough. You following me?"

    I keep my eyes closed and don’t reply. I just want to sink off into sleep like this, his hand on my shoulder. I hear the faint flutter of wings.

    "You’re going to be the world’s toughest fifteen-year-old," Crow whispers as I try to fall asleep. Like he was carving words in a deep blue tattoo on my heart.

    And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical storm.

    No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it:

    it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades.

    People will bleed there, you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

      And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over.

    But one thing is for certain.

    When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

    On my fifteenth birthday I’ll run away from home, journey to a far-off town, and live in a corner of a small library.

       It sounds a little like a fairy tale. But it’s no fairy tale, believe me.

    No matter what sort of spin you put on it.

    Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami

    — 3 years ago

    #books  #kafka on the shore  #murakami  #favorite