You have to trust that God has a plan. It doesn’t say his plan has only easy steps along the way, just that it works out in the end.
Have faith and pray for strength and peace that passes understanding.
You asked me to write you a letter, so I am writing you a letter. I do not know why I am writing this letter, or what this letter is supposed to be about, but I am writing it nonetheless, because I love you very much and trust that you have some good purpose for having me write this letter. I hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love.
They never tell you in health class
that once you become a woman,
they rip your heart out
and put in a clock instead.
sixty seconds a minute,
sixty minutes an hour,
until your worth runs out
with your youth.
They never tell you
what it feels like,
not being able to get on the subway
without some guy
checking out your ass,
even though the government
says you’re too young
to buy alcohol.
They never tell you that out there,
the word “sensitive” is an insult;
out there, shame is something even Chanel no. 5
can’t cover up.
They never tell you that by the time you find a boy
to love, taking off your clothes will be like
taking off bandages,
like peeling off
That some days you’ll feel
like a broken vase
everyone keeps trying
to stick flowers in.
You are not Schrodinger’s cat.
You are not beautiful or ugly
only until someone tells you so.
But they don’t teach you that
in high school.
So when you want to tell the guy on the bus
to go fuck himself
because he won’t leave you alone,
you’ll bite your tongue instead
and swallow your words,
collecting them underneath your ribcage:
a hornet’s nest buzzing below your heart,
reminding it not to feel too much or beat too hard.
And you’ll see him again the next day:
same time, same place,
with his hand
up a girl’s skirt
and the sun will still be out
and the world will still be turning."
"A letter to my 11 year old self" - Kristina Kutateladze (via coffeeshoppoet)
On this day, you read something that moved you and made you realise there were no more fears to fear. No tears to cry. No head to hang in shame. That every time you thought you’d offended someone, it was all just in your head and really, they love you with all…
What raises a man up more than any other earthly thing is his ability to humble himself. A real man doesn’t need to talk up who he is, because his life does that for him. He can put away the talk, because a man of humility is focused so much more on his walk. He is quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry because he has put away his “rights” for the right to be selfless, loving and full of grace.
When we love we know ourselves. When we know ourselves we easily recognize that which is not us, that which we do not desire. When we know ourselves we don’t depend on other to approve us, to tell who we are, that we are OK. When we love we have the courage to know and say, “This is what I want.” And then we have the courage to go and do it.
"Wisdom is knowing what to ignore." - William James.
Harry Callahan (via visual-renascence)
“Victor Veritas, the Neophyte” He thought himself to be a neophyte intellectual who lacked prerequisite pretension and survived his existential dilemma. He was beautiful, dark and deep, composing notes, strumming his fingers through mental chords, Striking up a match, Shaking jolts through systems, Shattering conventions, Pouring out the vocal fuel for future generations. He played them all charmed them with his charisma, leaving them breathless, blinded, Rapt by the rampant drumming about rationalizing the self. They wondered, “Philosophe Or charlatan?” Whereas he was only a soul still lost, grasping for the tangibility of his own truth. He struck up a conversation summoning up his charm, his weapon his gentle persuasion as he blithely blew his game plans into the seamless curve of her ear, knowing full well that she’d leave him winded, shooting the breeze about his scars sunk beneath his psyche. She was half-tempted to grab the spade, twice-enticed to forge her verbal blade, deciding at last to pick up the scalpel and knit her way through the fibers cloaking his core unwinding, testing out the theory of how long until he gives in and shows her she’s more than just a constellation in his rose-tinged sky. But she refrains, restrains her own desire chooses to smile and feign indifference to his mad scheming as her analytical wits crackle With the spark that started it all, the spoken verse that struck a chord and cursed her with the scalding imprint of his asymmetrical smile burned somewhere in the folds of her memory stamped into her heart. And all she could think at the moment, The higher you soar, the greater the fall. She could have kissed his wounds, brushed her lips along his temple, but as they stood face-to-face she realized that the damage had already been done long before they collided. “You’ve got a crack in your crown, my darling,” she cried softly, wondering at how one could be so fluent in theories of love yet so flawed in practice.