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growlethal:

there are 7 billion people on the planet and you only interact with like a fraction of a fracton of them in your lifetime. imagine how many incredible friendships or relationships you could have but you’ll never meet or get to know those people

I constantly think about this

(via ruinedchildhood)

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kaitrokowski:

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.

(via jibun-de)

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dreaming of qmul

Tags: audio
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"I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing."

— Agatha Christie (via kushandwizdom)

(via sweetendings)

Tags: quotes
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gxddess:


The dress was made of live flowers, and literally fell to pieces along the runway, a symbol of decay : Alexander McQueen s/s 2007.

fucking legend

gxddess:

The dress was made of live flowers, and literally fell to pieces along the runway, a symbol of decay : Alexander McQueen s/s 2007.

fucking legend

(Source: alejandroperegrina, via istalksnape)

Tags: inspiration
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It’s nearly 1am, and I should be sleeping but instead I’m here dreaming about driving a car hundreds of miles so that I can see the northern lights. 

Tags: life lately
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grandefilms:

Frances Ha (2012), dir. Noah Baumbach

It’s just that if something funny happens on the way to the deli, you’ll only tell one person about it and that’ll be Patch and I’ll never hear about it.”

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In between my laughter I saw the way he stared at you, eyes crinkled by smiles but strong and focused on your face. My heart felt nothing, but now I am awake in a silent house of strangers wondering why I could not tear my eyes away from a pair that would not meet my own.

I isolate myself, reason away potential loves and deny the ones that try to find their way in. I hurt myself over and over again, prying away lovers like they are leeches on my skin when they are the life-giving transfusions reminding me to stay alive.

Tags: ramblings
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"Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does."

— Allen Ginsberg  (via istalksnape)

(Source: contramonte, via istalksnape)

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omniastudios:

Celestial Lunar Oracle ring with deeply antiqued sterling silver, white topaz accent.

www.omniaoddities.com

(via general-pansy)

Tags: lust
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aseaofquotes:

Jeanette Winterson, The Passion

aseaofquotes:

Jeanette Winterson, The Passion

(via general-pansy)

Tags: quotes
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current mood

current mood

(Source: warlordjimmeh, via gottooken)

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I once read that every time you remember
an event, a time, a person
that you aren’t remembering the actual thing, but your memory of the thing itself.
Like a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy.
When I learned that I tried desperately not to think of you,
so that the things I remembered were as pure and real as I felt that they were,
but your mind can tell your heart so many things 
with no promises that they’ll be obeyed.

Perhaps this is why I can’t seem to shake my feelings of confusion
that you are not what I thought I knew.
Your hand fits mine so perfectly in my dreams,
your is smile so much fuller in my mind
so different from the you I encountered. 
How could it be that my heart beats so much faster at 2am when I am struggling to fall asleep and I think of you and everything you do to me, 
than when I finally saw you. 

And I can’t be angry at you
or myself
for the way things turned out to be. 
I know now you cannot become the false facsimile of a person,
imperfections faded like a photo left in the sun. 
That it’s impossible to fill the blurred edges of the of the hole you left,
just like I could not fill yours. 

Tags: ramblings
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08282014-09012014. The summer here is unbearable heat pushing you to the brink of exhaustion as the sun climbs higher and higher into the sky until finally it dips into the Pacific, and your slumped shoulders perk upwards like a desert flower receiving the season’s first rain. 
All embraces are slightly damp with the barest hint of sweat caught between the fibers of clothing. I love this heat if only for the way it disappears at night, allowing me to breathe a deep sigh of relief, filling my lungs with hot baked air, tasting traces of the city, its smog laced clouds, ocean spray, and warm people. Food tastes so much better eaten under fairy lights and invisible stars with the city twinkling and glowing and pulsing and humming beneath you. There is a life here that pulls at my heart, that makes it difficult to leave ‘home’ for whatever city I’ve adopted. 
I spent my weekend here surrounding myself with friends from elementary, high school, college. People who have known me at such different stages of life; in formative years and those who saw me before I even knew all the people I would become. Picnicking atop Olive Hill, basking in the view at Griffith Park, dark secrets and laughter falling into pools of melted gelato in Porter Ranch, exploring the Venice canals, catching up while stuck in traffic on the 405. What I have been learning lately is that time passes far too quickly with friends you see too rarely. No amount of pushed off sleep or cups of coffee will make up for your absence, but you can try though it makes ‘goodbye’ all that much harder. 

And then there are the moments spent alone. Night drives trying to process all that you’re feeling, all that you’ve seen. Blasting the radio that you can barely hear over the wind whipping through your windows at 80 miles per hour, your hair dancing in the wind as if not even a single inch of you can bear to remain still with the fullness of your heart. 

08282014-09012014. The summer here is unbearable heat pushing you to the brink of exhaustion as the sun climbs higher and higher into the sky until finally it dips into the Pacific, and your slumped shoulders perk upwards like a desert flower receiving the season’s first rain. 

All embraces are slightly damp with the barest hint of sweat caught between the fibers of clothing. I love this heat if only for the way it disappears at night, allowing me to breathe a deep sigh of relief, filling my lungs with hot baked air, tasting traces of the city, its smog laced clouds, ocean spray, and warm people. Food tastes so much better eaten under fairy lights and invisible stars with the city twinkling and glowing and pulsing and humming beneath you. There is a life here that pulls at my heart, that makes it difficult to leave ‘home’ for whatever city I’ve adopted. 

I spent my weekend here surrounding myself with friends from elementary, high school, college. People who have known me at such different stages of life; in formative years and those who saw me before I even knew all the people I would become. Picnicking atop Olive Hill, basking in the view at Griffith Park, dark secrets and laughter falling into pools of melted gelato in Porter Ranch, exploring the Venice canals, catching up while stuck in traffic on the 405. What I have been learning lately is that time passes far too quickly with friends you see too rarely. No amount of pushed off sleep or cups of coffee will make up for your absence, but you can try though it makes ‘goodbye’ all that much harder. 

And then there are the moments spent alone. Night drives trying to process all that you’re feeling, all that you’ve seen. Blasting the radio that you can barely hear over the wind whipping through your windows at 80 miles per hour, your hair dancing in the wind as if not even a single inch of you can bear to remain still with the fullness of your heart. 

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I lay on my bed listening to heartfelt outpourings from my sister. It’s so much easier to remember the wide-eyed child who would slip into my room and share stories and ask me questions about what to do. It was so much easier when I felt I had the answers or at the very least the right words to say. I wish I could keep her suspended in that time, before the harsh truths of the universe threw themselves into her life and body. But it’s unfair to hold onto the past, to press it against my heart because it is easier for me to bear. Better, I suppose, to listen and let her know I’m here. Is it terrible that even in the moments where her tears fall and crush my heart that I am uplifted by her depth, her bravery, her complexity? I feel I spent so much of my life admiring—envying even—her beauty, her talent, her kindness and charisma; and yet she continues to amaze me as I discover her strength, her compassion. She carries so much for someone so young, and I try as hard as I can to be someone better, stronger for her. I don’t know if this is what she wants or needs. I don’t know how I could be good enough, loving enough for her. When she hung up today, voice raw and emotions exhausted, I told her I love her and hung up the phone. I continued to stare upwards at my ceiling, watching a red haze fill my room from the passing cars below. And I wept. 

Tags: ramblings