Me: *gets Touched By Random Wave Of Sadness*

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.

(archive moodboard for @woodlandhalls)

     Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster? Is Kitsey right? If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or—like Boris—is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

— THE GOLDFINCH, Donna Tartt.

“The phenomenon of female anger has often been turned against itself, the figure of the angry woman reframed as threat […] She conjures a lineage of threatening archetypes: the harpy and her talons, the witch and her spells, the medusa and her writhing locks. The notion that female anger is unnatural or destructive is learned young; children report perceiving displays of anger as more acceptable from boys than from girls.”

— LESLIE JAMISON, I Used to Insist I Didn’t Get Angry. Not Anymore. (via rnyfh)

— Vengeful, Victoria Schwab

Mum:hey -

Me, returning from a walk in the woods after still being unsuccesfull in getting abducted by the fair folk: I don’t wanna talk right now

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

In bed already at 8:29pm. This is what we call living the life.

some of you never sacrificed your life for your infant son and saved his life through the strength of your immense love for him and it shows

do you ever use a pen and you’re just blown away by how smoothly it glides across the page and how the ink flows out so beautifully like tears of jesus or something

never talk to me about your boy problems because my solution will always be to gone girl his ass. your man textin other bitches? Frame him for your murder