ernestosábato

I want to dance until my stomach aches from twisting and twirling and spinning. I want to feel
my mind melt into my hips and legs until I am free.
I want to drive on desert roads with a seldom smoked hand-rolled cigarette, a blazing sun
through the roof, a song that pushes the tears from my ribcage and a bare foot on the gas pedal.
I want warm wind blowing through my hair, and dark coffee that pulses through my veins.
I want stars. Stars that fall on me and envelop every orifice until I become a part of the sky.
I want warm clean socks inside of my sleeping bag and a good soft hat over messy hair that
smells like summer.
I want to say yes to adventures that spark out of madness and I want them to lead to more yes’s
and nights of bold plans that may never happen.
I want music. I want music that carries the weight of everything this world bears down on it and
turns it into beauty.
I want poetry. I want the moon and the setting sun over the canyons and the ocean and the smel
of the redwoods and the wet ferns in autumn.
I want to love without borders and lines and compartments. I want to never hurt but always heal
and, if I cannot do that, I want to at least try and do no harm (but take no shit)
I want to inspire and be inspired. I want to swim low into the depths of myself without the fear of
getting lost.
What do I want? I want to live every moment.

(Source: thoughtcataloginstagram)

Congratulations to yama-bato who marks seven years of blogging on Tumblr today, January 13th. Yama-bato presents original photography here (you see a screenshot from the  y-b archive above) that brings to mind the terms warmth, intelligence and restrained exuberance. And here’s where to find a generously curated collection of black and white photos. Thanks for all you do yama-bato! 

Some important lines with fantastic deliveries to remember from AtLA:

“They’re only flowers, dear.” Hama says, right after explaining how they are her favorite because of their beauty–because anything she might actually care about is completely disposable to her now, as long as it helps to accomplish her goal.

“I only wish they would wear pants.” Bato deadpans, having had to spend days and/or weeks aboard ships with these men, wondering how in the world they manage to stay comfortable, how they can stand to bump against the metal sides of the ship or be out in the ocean air…also, if you didn’t wear pants in the Southern Water Tribe, you froze to death, so this is not something he grew up accustomed to. 

“That gloomy girl who sighs a lot?” Sokka asks, almost disbelieving but incredibly impressed–for here is Zuko, the guy who can’t even muster up the wit and organization required to tell a good joke, the boy who can’t talk for more than fifteen seconds without tripping over his own tongue, whose face is far more likely to terrify the average girl than make her swoon…and he has apparently been canoodling with the most attractive and aloof teenager in the Fire Nation. Sokka almost wants to disbelieve this, but Zuko’s been nothing but blunt and honest thusfar, so he just has to accept this story, too.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to shoot LIGHTNING at you!” Iroh shouts, realizing that he really should have seen this request coming, and that the words “Lightning is very dangerous” were probably not enough to dissuade the nephew who decided to swim under arctic ice in order to reach the Avatar. 

“Do you really think that will work?” Aang asks eagerly, delighted that Zuko has actually spent time thinking about a plan where Aang can defeat Ozai without killing him, and perhaps unlock that little piece of good inside him. It worked for Zuko, right?