If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.

Ray Bradbury (via melohdramatic)

yo, write everyday, read everyday, so important man.

(via omgitscandace)

(via ripclc)

Saw this on Facebook today, loved it.



Amazing! Around the world in a minute. 


"You can either own a skipping stone, or you can throw it."


The other night I was sitting in front of a fire, thinking back on my past, trying to replay my memories against the glowing night. I wasn’t trying to remember my birth, or imagine it either, but suddenly an image sprouted in my mind, like a dandelion under my family tree, and there I was, being held by my mother. The image didn’t last long. As if it had been plucked by a curious child venturing through the woods, one moment I could see it, the next it was being escorted towards the back of my mind, fading into a filing cabinet somewhere inside my prefrontal cortex, possibly to reappear one day in the future: possibly on a similar evening, when the logs in the fire pit in front of me begin to drip away in the flames, rain drops pecking at their doomed embers. Possibly the moment just before I die, when one’s life is rumored to ‘flash before their eyes.’  This was the first time I had ever recalled my birth. Is this normal? Are people supposed to remember their birth? Either way, this is my earliest human memory, although I can’t really remember it, but have only envisioned it once.

not from concentrate

Today, your love is the breeze that pours through an open window,

Concentrated from the natural juices of romance; it is a satisfying sample of refreshment.

It has been said that lovers play in the field,

In the open air and under the open sky,

We are not those lovers.

We play indoors, between sheetrock walls and under low ceilings,

The open window keeps us breathing,

The left over energy from the lovers in the open,

Finds its way to us,

And we feel fulfilled; we are content; we idle.

We mix together, turning banal into beautiful,

How vivid this concoction appears.

We begin to take miniature sips,

Hoping to make this beverage last as long as possible,

But we soon stop sipping.

Our dehydrated mouths and fuzzy throats,
Can no longer tolerate the sugars, pulps, and falsified nectars.

The taste buds of our heart know that purity exists elsewhere,

So they urge us to either crash through the sheetrock,

Or leap from the open window,

But such a large decision leads to apprehension…

…you go first.