Spare Part Nostalgia

Lauren Yates
Poet. INFJ. Quiche whisperer. Leo.
23 / F / Philadelphia

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Epiphanies, Unnoticed
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Being an artist means forever healing your own wounds and at the same time endlessly exposing them.
Annette Messager  (via tinagrey)

(via femmebastard)

Ignoring your passion is slow suicide. Never ignore what your heart pumps for. Mold your career around your lifestyle not your lifestyle around your career.
i don’t know what to do anymore (via westorientaletters)

(via die-forelle)

Forgiveness.

The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this, because it is the key to making art and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. Every time I have set out to translate the book (or story, or hopelessly long essay) that exists in such brilliant detail on the big screen of my limbic system onto a piece of paper (which, let’s face it, was once a towering tree crowned with leaves and a home to birds), I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.

Don’t take anything personally. Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
Don Miguel Ruiz, The Four Agreements (via earthenspirit)

(via hidden-silhouette)

If you don’t make time to work on creating the life you want, you’ll be forced to spend dealing with a life you don’t want.
Kevin Ngo  (via wishcandy)

(via intoxicaito)

huffelpoof:

colourfulpantsandarainbowhat:

WHY DO PEOPLE CALL IT FUCK, MARRY, KILL WHEN THEY COULD CALL IT BED, WED, BEHEAD

Or, as King Henry VIII likes to call it, a productive evening. 

(via alamour7)