I love that sweet smell of decay that surrounds me in forests and woods. A kind of mulchy, deep, rich rot that has no connotation of death or ending, but rather of life and age. A sense of perpetual destruction and rebirth.

Unknown 

(via llleighsmith)

nymphmold:

*picks stars and puts in ur hair*

(via llleighsmith)

what-do-i-wear:

Feminine Hardware 
farsizaban:

Iranians playing in the first ever snow in 30 years at the ruins of Naghsh-e-Rostam. (Picture by Newsha Tavakolian for National Geographic Magazine)
You think women are weak? Women are forged of iron. My body, it has bled and blazed and broken, and yet it beats on. I am iron. A little rusted, perhaps, but still I endure.

my 77 year old grandma, straight up reciting poetry at us to get out of going to the doctor’s office (via cora-hale)

(Source: wesgibbans, via holyfuckmeinthemouth)

sampsans:

me
If you surrender to the wind, you can ride it.

Toni Morrison

(Source: sidzthekillahhh, via lowtuss)