I think we still live in a culture that assumes that men are single by choice and women are single because no one wants them.
- Sara Eckel, This is Why You’re Still Single (It’s Not Why You Think) (via aprettypastiche)
Every Man Wants His Woman on a Pedestal
Rogers places you there in a gown and peignoir of filmy nylon sheer and opaque nylon.
Photos that have made me cry today
I don’t have a ‘you’
to write of anymore and
god would I like one.
- "Someone Flirt With Me Or Something Because I’m Starting To Lose My Mind" by Claire Luisa (via claire-luisa)
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
- Charles Dickens (via observando)
The lights have been dimmed,
Awaiting her entrance for weeks.
It is her opening solo beneath the grayish spotlight before the company arrives in reckless bloom.
She takes the stage with calculated finesse,
Leaving a breadcrumb trail of white dust.
Does she expect a round of applause?
The audience starts to shiver and roll down their sleeves.
A few strands of hair fall out the back of her bun.
She notices but begins anyway.
On a count of six she bursts through the spotlight’s gleaming pane
Like the sun’s eager fingers through late morning fog,
And she is at once Diana on the hunt and Daphne in flight.
Her hair is of an indeterminate color-
All shades and hues, but comprised primarily of the shadows beneath a petal’s eave.
Whatever music accompanies her is lost in the morning song
Of dew bearing footfalls and the sigh of her negative space.
Her face is that of a proud condor,
Her features thorn-like, and her grande battements cruel-
Bruising rainclouds and dueling with the heels of Helios’ wild steeds.
She completes the final pas de chat and the air catches up
With her swirling skirts and ivory soles.
The audience aches to stand, but her grace
Demands a fearful reverence, and requires knees to quake in her golden presence.
She bows once, twice, thrice,
And glides off the stage quietly.
In her absence, the audience begins to shiver again.
There is audible breathing from the wings.
The lights ask permission to come up
And, lingering about the ancient proscenium,
Falls the faint perfume of pale silver mornings
and waking creatures.
- "The Late Prima of Spring", Adam Spiegelman (via jackstraws)