Collecting Beauty

inspiration. art&beauty. words. pictures. magic. hpϟ. greatness. ♥ violet. x

adrieldaniel:

“There are only patterns, patterns on top of patterns, patterns that affect other patterns. Patterns hidden by patterns. Patterns within patterns. If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself. What we call chaos is just patterns we haven’t recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can’t decipher. what we can’t understand we call nonsense. What we can’t read we call gibberish. There is no free will. There are no variables.”

Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

(via clockworkgalaxies)

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #851 by Tyler Knott Gregson
*Pre-Order my book, Chasers of the Light, and donate $1 to @TWLOHA and get a free book plate signed by me :)  Click the link in my bio, or go here:  tylerknott.com/chasers*
temporary-frame-of-mind:


The stationWhere I told youI love you

Cumulus Consonance Study 1 by Scott Naismith
Why are you stingy with yourselves? Why are you holding back? What are you saving for—for another time? There are no other times. There is only now. Right now.
by George Balanchine (via creatingaquietmind)

(Source: larmoyante, via squeats)

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.


by Aaron Freeman “You Want A Physicist To Speak at your Funeral” (npr)

(via squeats)

I’ve always wanted to begin a poem
with the line, “I’ve always wanted
to begin.” Now I have. Best to end here,

but then the universe is expanding
back into its black beginnings,
and space, aware of its own looming demise,

is singing of possibilities. I’m almost over, it sings,
it’s almost over and sooner or later we’d be left
with nothing but time. If we live that long.

Sometime before then all our dialects
will have moored on the gray sands of forgetting,
all our sad words will have started

to repeat themselves, as if sound didn’t dissipate
into stillness, as if not everything has been said before.
Here, let me tell you a joke: I am a man of faith.

Or a child, a tree, some living thing
that will someday be a dead thing.
What does faith have to do with it? I know;

it isn’t funny. Nothing funny about mortality,
how movement bleeds into clockwork,
how clockwork succumbs to its own igneous finitude.

How we aid entropy by being born.
See? I only wanted to begin, now I’m humming
the ghost-heavy refrain of imminent endings.

In that song about possibilities, someone
is hurling an empty bottle skyward. I see you:
You’re imagining it slowing towards its peak,

anticipating gravity, its ruthless duty. Stop.
Don’t. Let’s go. Let’s not be around when it shatters.
Let’s not wait for an ending.


by Mikael de Lara Co, Poem That Had Some Difficulty With the First Line (via grammatolatry)

(via squeats)

seashellgray:

stripedhouses:

summer between the sheets

the photos i took with my Hassi on the shoot the other day / july 2012

dancer: Ana Germ • clothes: Erna Ostanek • assistent&organiser: Iris Anam Cara • location: Skrinja Prodajna Galerija Maribor

THIS IS GORGEOUS OMG

(Source: katrapetricek, via squeats)

… my whole sky craves
an island of tenderness.
My rivers tilt towards you.
by Marina Tsvetaeva, from “My ear attends to you,” in Selected Poems, translated by Elaine Feinstein (Penguin Classics, 1994)

(Source: sketchofthepast, via squeats)