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The rest shall be left behind, but this remains. One moment of split sunlight bringing a distinct curiosity and a desire to just stay. Stay because this isn't the same without you. Because you make silence sing. #sweeterpoetry
"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." —John Lubbock, The Use Of Life
Peaceful and beautiful morning in Prague
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Haruki Murakami's— "On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning" #💕☔#🌿☁
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One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don’t you think?
Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her. .
.
Source: Gravitytrope | On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning — Haruki Murakami
"Love is the most important thing in life, and it happens when you least expect it" ❤️ —Diane Kruger
⋅ (Article reading www.townandcountrymag.com/a6656)
“Standing on the snow-covered plain, as if in a pasture amid the hills, I cut my way first through a foot of snow, and then a foot of ice, and open a window under my feet, where, kneeling to drink, I look down into the quiet parlour of the fishes, pervaded by a softened light as through a window of ground glass, with its bright sanded floor the same as in summer; there a perennial waveless serenity reigns as in the amber twilight sky, corresponding to the cool and even temperament of the inhabitants.
Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.”
— Walden (1854) by Henry David Thoreau
(Chapter 16: The Pond in Winter)
A business trip to Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam made me realized how much I missed shooting travel and streets.
Gearing away from my comfort zone of shooting landscapes, I try to wander the busy streets of Ho Chi Minh.
These are my capture of Ho Chi Minh with side trips at Cu Chi and Mekong Delta.
“No changing of place at a hundred miles an hour will make us one whit stronger, happier, or wiser. There was always more in the world than men could see, walked they ever so slowly; they will see it no better for going fast. The really precious things are thought and sight, not pace”
–Ruskin
“Nietzsche also proposed a second kind of tourism, whereby we may learn how our societies and identities have been formed by the past and so acquire a sense of continuity and belonging.
The person practising this kind of tourism ‘looks beyond his own individual transitory existence and feels himself to be the spirit of his house, his race, his city’.
He can gaze at old buildings and feel ‘the happiness of knowing that he is not wholly accidental and arbitrary but grown out of a past as its heir, flower, and fruit, and that his existence is thus excused and indeed justified'.”
—The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton
“What interests me is not the destination, but the attitude [traveling with new eyes and an open mind].” — Giampiero Bodino
Self portrait.
Instagram: www.instagram.com/rosemarieyang
Blog: www.theoraclejournal.blogspot.com
Contact: chaiandbelle@gmail.com
"What we find exotic abroad may be what we hunger for in vain at home" —The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton
“In the morning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagavad gita, since whose composition years of the gods have elapsed, and in comparison with which our modern world and its literature seem puny and trivial; and I doubt if that philosophy is not to be referred to a previous state of existence, so remote is its sublimity from our conceptions.
I lay down the book and go to my well for water, and lo! there I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of Brahma and Vishnu and Indra, who still sits in his temple on the Ganges reading the Vedas, or dwells at the root of a tree with his crust and water jug. I meet his servant come to draw water for his master, and our buckets as it were grate together in the same well. The pure Walden water is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods
Leave me here in a world that my pen understands.
Where light passes dusty windows like inspiration through life's confusion; stubbornly unyielding yet absorbing mystery along the way.
Where stone echoes every melody like filled pages on a shelf; unwilling to let their voices be silenced.
Where stars pulse like mismatched heartbeat patterns; resounding uninhibitedly over the expanse of time and space.
Where every step carries the memory of someone's "someday," and makes me rejoice all the more. #sweeterpoetry