malformalady:

Traumatic cataract with an iridodialysis (separation of the iris from it’s attachment to the ciliary body) from a blunt injury during childhood.

Photo credit: Cindy Montague, CRA

(via twowrongturns)

That’s why I’m not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.

Louise Glück, closing lines to “The Untrustworthy Speaker,” Ararat (HarperCollins, 1990)

(via quievi)

Title: Home Artist: Dotan 187 plays

The sound of the wind is whispering in your ear.
Can you feel it coming back?
Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running ‘til we’re there.
We’re coming home now, we’re coming home now.

Everything we feared about communism - that we would lose our houses and savings and be forced to labor eternally for meager wages with no voice in the system - has come true under capitalism.

Jeff Sparrow (via sinidentidades)

(via s0easy)

This is what I miss… not something that’s gone, but something that will never happen.

Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye (via kitty-en-classe)

(via jadorelavie)

the-uniformium:

French Garde du Corps du Roi M1814 Officers Helmet

Black varnished leather body and visors trimmed entirely with silver-plated copped fixtures. The body has two large palm leaf scrolls on each side with their curls forward, and the ends terminating behind a silver band that covers the seam between skull and rear visor. The front visor is edged in silver. A large sun ray plate embossed with crown over intertwined scrolls of palms crossing above the face of a deity, all above clouds with a bannered motto "Nec Pluribus Impar" (without comparison under the sun). Screwed to the skull, a crest with feather plume designs on both sides, holds a black chenille of horse hair cropped like a mane and falling forward over the front of the helmet. The ear bosses are sun rays behind the godly face at center, and hold the scalloped, graduating chinscales to the helmet. The chinstraps fasten at the wearer’s chin with a cloth ribbon tie. On the left side, forward to the ear boss, a silver squared tube plume socket holds a two-tiered tulip cup holding the stem of a white cock feather plume. Interior sweatband of leather only. Green color under the front visor and black under the rear visor. 

The Garde du Corps du Roi of the King was the senior unit in the Maison du Roi (House of the King). It was disbanded in 1816. 

I hear so many girls talking about the underlying game that’s behind all the interest and attraction of a potential relationship, and this is what I tell them: Love should never be a game, so stop wasting your time and emotions trying to follow unspoken rules when you already know 1) who you are and 2) what you want. Those two things should be enough when it comes to a relationship. And if your authenticity pushes someone away, let them go because if you’re too much for them, they weren’t enough for you.

LB, “From Her, To Her”  (via yesdarlingido)

(via hazeltons)

(via marthajefferson)

And you know, I agree to everything:

I will condemn, I will forget, I will give comfort to the enemy,

Darkness will be light and sin lovely.

Anna Akhmatova, from The Complete Poems  (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via keatspring)

(via bacchea)

It will always be this way.
I stand here scared
that you will disappear,
scared that you will stay.

Mark Strand, The Man in the Mirror

(via poemusicoffee)

(via leprintemps)

INFJ FRIENDS

myersandbriggs:

There is a running theme with INFJs, and that is a yearning for authenticity and sincerity – in their activities, their romantic relationships, and their friendships. People with the INFJ personality type are unlikely to go for friendships of circumstance, like workplace social circles or chatting up their local baristas, where the only thing they really have in common is a day-to-day familiarity. Rather, INFJs seek out people who share their passions, interests and ideologies, people with whom they can explore philosophies and subjects that they believe are truly meaningful.

(via fleursdansmescheveux)

(via mashamorevna)

Your calm is not enough,
I do not want your still.
I want your restlessness,
all the things which
make you stir at night.
I wish to be uprooted,
and moved
in the way immovable
objects are to be moved.
I want your gale force winds,
the flooding of emotion
between breaths,
the promise of danger
and renewal.
Your calm is not enough.
Give me your storm.