I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.
Walking around alone in the world is a fucking pleasure. Every time I forgo a trip in a car or a subway, I am reminded of what a strange and gorgeous and confusing planet we live on and how lucky I am to be here. Today I stopped to take a picture of a flower and then just gaped at it for awhile, considering the millions of years and coincidences and reasons and stages it took to get it here in this form, all silky and veiny and bright with neon color. And then I passed a man walking four dogs and they all looked up at me at once with their eyes all transparently emotional and I thought about all the good dogs I’ve ever known and was able to recall the actual feeling of the memory of laying on the cold tile floor of the house I grew up in with our dog Maggie’s legs looped across my shoulder, my arms hugging her as tightly as I could. Even the fact that my brain could just grab that memory off the shelf and hand it to me like a gift in the middle of the afternoon 17 years later is incredible. And then the sun was hot and is just up there hanging out in the universe burning hotter than anything a brain can really comprehend, on fire all the time and keeping us alive. I have never understood how anyone can think that not being religious is somehow a less magical or compelling story to live inside; the sun by itself is about 10 times more awe-inspiring and confounding to me than the idea of a being that hung it up there for decoration. Not to mention the joy of sharing a huge living planet with 8.7 million (give or take a million) other species of living beings who all arrived at this moment in time despite all odds. I spend so much of my time worrying: about whether I said the wrong thing, whether I made the right decisions along the way, whether I hurt someone, whether someone feels a certain way about me, whether I’m doing enough for others, whether I’ll be happy tomorrow or the next day or in ten years. And yet: I got to be here in this magical place, alive, and so are you, and that’s pretty neat.
Aside from being a prolific writer, Ernest Hemingway was also quite the cat lover. Unlike your average house cat, Hemingway’s feline friend actually had 6 toes!
Photographer Henry Hargreaves traveled to Hemingway’s home-turned-museum in Key West, Florida to photograph the descendants, all of which are named after celebrities in Hemingway’s time.
via Design Taxi
<3 _ <3
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
this song will always make my feel better