There are a lot of things that I don't understand in this world.
Joplin.

planar-analysis:

I love this song so much.

laclefdescoeurs:

Eruption of Vesuvius, 1823, Johan Christian Dahl
anotic:

Gothenburg, Sweden  |  Coyhand

neon-moth:

h-o-r-n-g-r-y:

varaocavalcanti:

"Oh, I said I could rise from the harness of our goals. Here come the tears but like always - I let them go, just let them go”.

Favorites of all time. So many feelings.

I can play this on guitar. Just saying.

(Source: usicmay)

We always hear something of the echo of desolation in a hermit’s writings, something of the whispering tone and shy, roundabout glance of solitudep; out of his mightiest words, even out of his screams, we still hear the sound of a new and dangerous sort of silence, silencing. Anyone who has sat alone, in intimate dissension and dialogue with his soul, year in and year out, by day and by night; anyone whose cave (which might be a labyrinth, but also a gold mine) has turned him into a cave-bear or a treasure-digger or a treasure-keep and dragon; this persons ideas will themselves finally take on a characteristic twilight colour, and odour fully as much of the depths as of decay, something uncommunicative and stubborn that gusts coldly at every passer-by. The hermit does not believe that any philosopher (given that all philosophers have always first been hermits) every expressed his true and final opinions in books: don’t we write books precisely in order to hide what we keep hidden? Indeed, he will doubt whether a philosopher is even capable of ‘final and true’ opinions, whether at the back of his every cave a deeper cave is lying, is bound to lie — a wider, stranger, richer world over every surface, and abyss behind his every ground, beneath his every ‘grounding.’ Every philosophy is a foreground philosophy - this is a hermit’s judgement: ‘There is something arbitrary about the fact that he stopped just here, looked back, looked around, that he did not dig deeper just here, but set down his spade — and there is also something suspicious about it.’ Every philosophy also conceals a philosophy; every opinion is also a hiding place, every word also a mask.

lightfox177:

"Like a serpent The forest brooklet crawls Over the shadows Of marble chain of mountains Spirit of winds Faceless king Defends the setting of altar”
afogblog:

Morning fog on a burnt forest, Madison River, Yellowstone by Laurel Casjens on Flickr.

Bourgeois ideology is an ideology which refuses to allow itself to be identified as an ideology by presenting itself as neutral, impartial, universal, objective and value-free.

By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smile or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference.