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"There is nothing in this world that can trouble you as much as your own thoughts."

- Unknown (via purplebuddhaproject)

(via ok-nma)


buying fake followers on social media is like speaking to a crowded room except everyone is dead

(via overfierce)

"I want to make you feel so fucking happy that you forget every bit of sad in you"

- Nahilliam Truspear (via truornah)

(via k0rrupted)

"It’s a lot easier to be angry at someone than it is to tell them you’re hurt."

- Tom Gates (via observando)

"Private Moon"

By Leonid Tishkov

(Source: dawnawakened, via tarassein)

"I’m not going to censor myself to comfort your ignorance."

- Jon Stewart  (via wolf-cub)

(Source: ghostisborn, via opportun-ity)


The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.


- George R.R. Martin (via observando)