To be totally honest, I don’t know who I am. And I don’t think people ever will know who they are. We have to be humble enough to learn to live with this mysterious question. Who am I? So, I am a mystery to myself. I am someone who is in this pilgrimage from the moment that I was born to the day to come that I’m going to die. And this is something that I can’t avoid, whether I like it or not, or — I’m going to die.

So, what I have to do is to honor this pilgrimage through life. And so I am this pilgrim — if I can somehow answer your question — who’s constantly amazed by this journey. Who is learning a new thing every single day. But who’s not accumulating knowledge, because then it becomes a very heavy burden in your back. I am this person who is proud to be a pilgrim, and who’s trying to honor his journey.

Paulo Coelho, from his interview with Krista Tippett in "The Alchemy of Pilgrimage" (via beingblog)
http://www.erikmarinovich.com/work/bbdo-mural

(Source: totalpackaging)

It’s hard to be brave. Because bravery requires you to be honest with yourself. It requires you to look inside your heart and find a genuine reason to fight. It cannot be money. It has to be something bigger. Something you truly believe in. When you find it, everything changes. A flaw can turn into an asset. Fear becomes a motive and comfort becomes the enemy. [Bravery, from bonfire to fireworks](http://blog.fandco.ca/en/post/bravery-from-bonfire-to-fireworks/228/), on blog.fandco.ca. Camera: Maxime Riverin, Daravong Thongsavath, Alexis Bourassa, Jean-François Desrosiers Editing: Maxime Riverin, Alexis Bourassa

(Source: creativemornings.com)

(Source: sarnain, via foxycleverpatra)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

by Dylan Thomas
cabbagerose:

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cabbagerose:

open bookshelves

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aplacetolovedogs:

Beauty!

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