//
PROVEHITO IN ALTUM
₪ ø lll ·o.
Deep into that darkness peering,
long I stood there,
wondering, fearing, doubting,
dreaming dreams no mortal ever
dared to dream before.

Gabriela, Slovenia, 17, ECHELON, //
Archive
/ Ask me anything
/ Theme

1445 ♥

45821 ♥

aseaofquotes:

Francine Pascal, Fearless

2767 ♥

To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

— Mary Oliver, American Primitive (via itsfromabook)

63 ♥

171019 ♥

My heart wants roots
My mind wants wings.
I cannot bear
Their bickerings.

— E.Y. Harburg (via murmurrs)

27 ♥

origami-dolls:

Best way to start the day :)

7054 ♥

710 ♥

The Temple of Celestial Harmony.
There is a legend of a monastery deep in the mountains of Nepal wherein dwell an order of monks which never see evil or ugliness. Their monastery is in a sheltered vale and protected by mountain passes. The monks come to the monastery as infants and never leave their entire life, everywhere around them is nothing but beauty, serenity and peace. There is no sickness here. Death, when it comes, usually at an age of around 110 years or more, sometimes a great deal more, is treated as a joyous occasion and there is no mourning. They raise their own crops and make a soothing drink called “tansgoma”. It is said to allow men to dream while waking. They are said to be capable of shape shifting, often into birds, to travel to the heavenly realm at will and to see long distances while in meditation. They never leave but travelers in the summer of 1922 claimed they have an uncanny knowledge of the outside world including, so the village elders told them, knowledge of the then recent World War in Europe.
The people in the surrounding village are not permitted to enter the sanctuary but trade spices and other goods from a basket which is lowered from the walls at sunrise and again at sunset. Here, there is no greed, no lust, no envy. All belongs to all. There is no hierarchy all are equal. Marco Polo heard of the Temple and these legends came down to us as the legend of Prester John and the lost city of Shangri-la Four times in a thousand years enemies, each in their turn, have made their way to the walled monastery. The Mongols, the Rajputs, the Mughals and the Chinese. Each lured by tales of golden idols, with eyes of ruby each the size of a melon. Each army was devastated, destroyed almost to the man by a raging plague which was borne upon the very air they breathed but which the monks and surrounding villagers are immune.
No Westerner has ever so much as touched the sacred walls of the temple compound. It is told that the great Alexander himself made it to the first pass but turned back when he discovered the bloated and blackened bodies of his advance force. He went no further east in his conquests, his men threatening to mutiny, these battle hardened veterans had seen something in that valley which frightened them more than all the Armies of the east, and after turning westward back toward Macedon, Alexander was himself dead within the year. Near the opening of this pass lies the broken form of a 1970s era Russian jet fighter. The bodies of its two pilots still rotting in their harness. No effort has ever been made to recover their bodies. The Nepalese Army now guards the pass. They deny the existence of the temple and will shoot any person regardless of nationality who tries to enter. In 1992 a Japanese film crew consisting of expert mountaineers with modern gear, including oxygen and satellite communications, attempted to avoid the guarded pass by going over the mountain to the west of the temple. They were “lost” in the mountains no trace having ever been found.
It is said that the monks are waiting for something, but nobody knows why they wait. Very little has come out of the valley since the 1920s. The mystery only deepens with each passing year.

13441 ♥

Most of the writers I know are weird hybrids. There’s a strong streak of egomania coupled with extreme shyness. Writing’s kind of like exhibitionism in private. And there’s also a strange loneliness, and a desire to have some kind of conversation with people, but not a real great ability to do it in person.

— David Foster Wallace (via dulcetdecember)

3147 ♥