Compass of the Wanderer

I love learning about everything. Most especially I love learning about different people and their unique life story. I am a storyteller at heart, and I see a story in everything. The wind and rain tell a tale that you can only hear if you listen closely, song conveys the story of the heart better than any pen, each of us have a story to tell, and each is worth the hearing.

O Me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via observando)

nobodyiswatchingus:

Waterfall amidst a mountain covered in ash after a volcano eruption.
Taken in Iceland. One of the most unique landscape photos I’ve ever seen.

nobodyiswatchingus:

Waterfall amidst a mountain covered in ash after a volcano eruption.

Taken in Iceland. One of the most unique landscape photos I’ve ever seen.

(via brittna)

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (via observando)

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams.

—W.B. Yeats (via observando)

I want you to hold my hand while we go grocery shopping. I want you to play with my hair while we watch tv. I want you to kiss me in the middle of my sentence because you wanted to taste my words. I want you to rub my back as we fall asleep. I want you to sing my favorite song when I look sad. I want you to do these things without having to think about them. Do them because you love me.

So I just noticed that Ralph Waldo Emerson’s middle name is indeed Waldo. Are we sure he’s dead? Or have we just given up on looking for him?