this is mine.

Some homes are the perfect friend, womb, safe harbor or hiding place when one is needed. Others are nothing more than neutral spaces to sleep, eat, and store your belongings in. The last and worst kind of dwelling doesn’t even deserve to be called home because it offers no comfort, rest or shelter. You get the feeling that if it were a person, it not only resents your presence, but would likely turn you in to the authorities if you were in trouble. Bad moods darken in these places; despair grows like bacteria.

All the fitness He requires is to feel your need of Him.

Come, Ye Sinners, by Joseph Hart (via lifetides)

(via rebelsigh)

I wish I wrote the way I thought;
Obsessively,
Incessantly,
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should.

—Benedict Smith (via hellanne)

(via harlem-shuffle)

You never go away from us, yet we have difficulty in returning to You. Come, Lord, stir us up and call us back. Kindle and seize us. Be our fire and our sweetness. Let us love. Let us run.

—Saint Augustine, Confessions (via rainydaysandblankets)

(Source: closertothelost, via rebelsigh)