It painfully hurts. Loving and hating things from this world at the same time. I’m not cute by having big contrasts in my heart. I’m horrible.
When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty. The world teaches you that the way you exist in it is disgusting — you watch boys cringe backward in your dorm room when you talk about your period, blue water pretending to be blood in a maxi pad commercial. It is little things, and it is constant. In a food court in a mall, after you go to the gynecologist for the first time, you and your friend talk about how much it hurts, and over her shoulder you watch two boys your age turn to look at you and wrinkle their noses: the reality of your life is impolite to talk about. The world says that you don’t have a right to the space you occupy, any place with men in it is not yours, you and your body exist only as far as what men want to do with it. At fifteen, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. At almost thirty, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met still somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. They are children. They are children.
― Stevie Nicks (via fleurstains)
I write as though you could understand.
Let’s cry, let’s swim, let’s everything.
― Keaton Henson (via wordswithinyou)
I am in that utterly shaken condition when a man neither speaks nor thinks but can only creep into loneliness.
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Selected Letters (via fleurstains)
I want to live simply. I want to sit by the window when it rains and read books I’ll never be tested on. I want to paint because I want to, not because I’ve got something to prove. I want to listen to my body, fall asleep when the moon is high and wake up slowly, with no place to rush off to. I want not to be governed by money or clocks or any of the artificial restraints that humanity imposes on itself. I just want to be, boundless and infinite.
― (via victorianstar)
We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It’s our own concept—our own selves—that we love.
People think you’re crazy if you talk about things they don’t understand.
― Elvis Presley (via pussywiillow)
Whatever it is you’re seeking won’t come in the form you’re expecting.
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.
Must, must, must. Must go, must sleep, must wake, must get up—sober, merciful word which we pretend to revile, which we press tight to our hearts, without which we should be undone. Still, we are slipping away. Little bits of ourselves are crumbling.
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via sunst0ne)
When was the last time someone ran their fingers through the knots of your soul?
― Maza-Dohta (via sulkingsouls)