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Brenda / 19 / New York
"Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ" —Philippians 3:8

1:39 pm  198,483 notes

Back to our first love, nothing between us
Back to your heart, to the start of it all, where we found you
Out of the ashes, into the fire
You are refining our hearts in the flames of your presence
Set apart for our God above, set apart for the one we love
Set apart for your glory, we are yours, yours 
Everything for you alone, everything to make you known
Set apart for your glory, we are yours, we are yours

10:14 pm

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all i want

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Don’t you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms
into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds
will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.

Yes—the springtimes needed you. Often a star
was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you
out of the distant past, or as you walked
under an open window, a violin
yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission.

But could you accomplish it? Weren’t you always
distracted by expectation, as if every event
announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place
to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you
going and coming and often staying all night.)
But when you feel longing, sing of women in love;
for their famous passion is still not immortal. Sing
of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost)
who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified.
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising;
remember: the hero lives on; even his downfall was
merely a pretext for achieving his final birth.
But Nature, spent and exhausted, takes lovers back
into herself, as if there were not enough strength
to create them a second time. Have you imagined
Gaspara Stampa intensely enough so that any girl
deserted by her beloved might be inspired
by that fierce example of soaring, objectless love
and might say to herself, “Perhaps I can be like her”?
Shouldn’t this most ancient of sufferings finally grow
more fruitful for us? Isn’t it time that we lovingly
freed ourselves from the beloved and, quivering, endured:
as the arrow endures the bowstring’s tension, so that
gathered in the snap of release it can be more than
itself. For there is no place where we can remain.

— Rainer Maria Rilke — from the first of the Duino Elegies trans. Stephen Mitchell (via slothnorentropy)

(via atramentum)

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Ahndraya Parlato, Towards an Uncertain Sight

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 Souvlaki Space Station - Slowdive

(via wiltedbones)

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Beach House. 

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