Vagary: an erratic, unpredictable, or extravagant manifestation, action, or notion.
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Reblogged from observando  393 notes

Nobody wanted your dance,
Nobody wanted your strange glitter, your floundering
Drowning life and your effort to save yourself,
Treading water, dancing the dark turmoil,
Looking for something to give. By Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters (via observando)

believing in yourself is not a luxury. it is where the wildness enters your genius. it is wanton survival and burning indifference to what and who you are not supposed to be. it is the deepest revolution possible, the arc and heft of the universe in one strategic thought; vital to the weight and will of your whole health. without your belief, you are a wilting born, a folding off into the corner of a sky hot with loss. By nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)

Reblogged from observando  253 notes

O Me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

By Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via observando)

Reblogged from observando  611 notes

To be great, be whole;
Exclude nothing, exaggerate nothing that is not you.
Be whole in everything. Put all you are
Into the smallest thing you do.
So, in each lake, the moon shines with splendor
Because it blooms up above. By Fernando Pessoa (via observando)

Reblogged from lifeinpoetry  126 notes

And to tell the truth I not only knew who I was, but I had a sharper and clearer sense of my identity than ever before, in spite of its deep lesions and the wounds with which it was covered. And from this point of view I was less fortunate than my other acquaintances. I am sorry if this last phrase is not so happy as it might be. It deserved, who knows, to be without ambiguity. By Samuel Beckett, Molloy (via robcam-wfu)

Reblogged from observando  328 notes

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me — the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods—
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house— , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced
upon,—
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening…

By Rainer Maria Rilke (via observando)