“Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle-Earth.”—George R.R. Martin. (via samflynn)
I want to make a little shelf above my bed to display shit on. And I will get a Björk vinyl to display too hehe. :)
It’s weird that I used to not like little useless things like stationary and picture frames, but now that I see the emotional connectivity of trinkets and things that actually reflect my personal taste, well… why the hell not?
I’m sad that I’m unable to magically change my room.. most notably my desk/shelf combination thing that takes up quite a lot of room in my, room.