Sara in Wonderland

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense."

thatwetshirt:

The Princess Bride (1987)

Has it got any sports in it?
Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles…
Doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try to stay awake.

(via apha4me)

Nymphomaniac (2013)
       ↳ For me love was just lust with jealousy added; everything else was total nonsense. For every hundred crimes committed in the name of love, only one is committed in the name of sex.

(Source: cinentvphile)

areddhels:

Tolkien Read-Along | The Siege of Gondor

Straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Rohan in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.

Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!

(via tlotrgifs)

redstigma:

Supercut of Robert Pattinson talking about how bad “Twilight” is. Compilation of clips from various interviews.

literally the funniest fucking shit i’ve ever seen

(Source: petrichorandrose, via diamandz)

mythology - undines or water nymphs

The origin of the Undines (or Ondines) can best be traced all the way back to ancient Greece wherein mythology cites a clan of nymphs called Oceanides claimed the waters of the world as their home. The water nymphs or water spirits, belong to the Water Elemental, are are usually found in forest pools and waterfalls. They are said to have beautiful voices, which can be sometime heard singing over the sound of water that entices those that hear it. These beings are believed to be the daughters of Titan and his wife Tethys. Their presence in the oceans was legendary among seafarers. Mostly beneficent, Oceanides would aid water-travelers in navigation and provide safe sea-ways.In European lore, Undines are fabled to be the wandering spirits of love-lorn women.  According to some legends, Undines can receive a soul when they marry a human man and bear his child. This aspect of them has them to be a popular subject motif for romantic and tragic literature. Often with sailors being drawn to them by their tears of sorrow that composed the salty seas when wept having lost at love. Tales indicate that these female water spirits are enchantingly beautiful and reputed to be relatively benign, however, like most female spirits they’ve got a temper when crossed and can be force to be reckoned with.

(via mycateatsyouforbreakfast)

cuteys:

BUT THIS IS SO CUTE AW

cuteys:

BUT THIS IS SO CUTE AW

(via smilesare1sizefitsall)

(Source: iheartthedark)

turian-chocolate:

r a i n

shinebrightlikeasveta:

Svetlana Zakharova 

(c) Nadezha Bausova, Bolshoi’s official website

(via kuklarusskaya)

metalonmetalblog:

Pawel Jonca

On The Plethora Of Dryads
Hearing a white saint raveAbout a quintessential beautyVisible only to the paragon heart,I tried my sight on an apple-treeThat for eccentric knob and wartHad all my love.Without meat or drink I satStarving my fantasy downTo discover that metaphysical Tree which hidFrom my worldling look its brilliant veinFar deeper in gross woodThan axe could cut.But before I might blind senseTo see with the spotless soul,Each particular quirk so ravished meEvery pock and stain bulked more beautifulThan flesh of any bodyFlawed by love’s prints.Battle however I wouldTo break through that patchworkOf leaves’ bicker and whisk in babel tongues,Streak and mottle of tawn bark,No visionary lightningsPierced my dense lid.Instead, a wanton fitDragged each dazzled sense apartSurfeiting eye, ear, taste, touch, smell;Now, snared by this miraculous art,I ride earth’s burning carrouselDay in, day out,And such grit corrupts my eyesI must watch ****tish dryads twitchTheir multifarious silks in the holy groveUntil no chaste tree but suffers blotchUnder flux of those seductiveReds, greens, blues.

metalonmetalblog:

Pawel Jonca

On The Plethora Of Dryads

Hearing a white saint rave
About a quintessential beauty
Visible only to the paragon heart,
I tried my sight on an apple-tree
That for eccentric knob and wart
Had all my love.

Without meat or drink I sat
Starving my fantasy down
To discover that metaphysical Tree which hid
From my worldling look its brilliant vein
Far deeper in gross wood
Than axe could cut.

But before I might blind sense
To see with the spotless soul,
Each particular quirk so ravished me
Every pock and stain bulked more beautiful
Than flesh of any body
Flawed by love’s prints.

Battle however I would
To break through that patchwork
Of leaves’ bicker and whisk in babel tongues,
Streak and mottle of tawn bark,
No visionary lightnings
Pierced my dense lid.

Instead, a wanton fit
Dragged each dazzled sense apart
Surfeiting eye, ear, taste, touch, smell;
Now, snared by this miraculous art,
I ride earth’s burning carrousel
Day in, day out,

And such grit corrupts my eyes
I must watch ****tish dryads twitch
Their multifarious silks in the holy grove
Until no chaste tree but suffers blotch
Under flux of those seductive
Reds, greens, blues.

(via abstractgeneration)