So I lost my ring which was from my mom, who gave it to me as a present of my 18th. Now I am so fucked because it was so special to me and the only thing I can do is cry. FUCK MY FUCKING LIFE
to be honest i find it hard to believe that theres someone out there that would be able to spend the rest of their life with me
The problem with being a writer is that people so often fall in love with your words. So much so that they think they’re in love with you, but they’re not. They never are and can never be. Because you are everything like the stories you tell and nothing like them all.
Writing is what you do, so they call you a writer. But it’s not necessarily who you are. You are not just your writing. You are your own person.
you are the unedited version of myself
the plain and simple
the naive and pure
the happy and free
the uncorrupted and innocent
i wish i was you
i mean, i am. i am the factory-reject version of me.
im just always waiting. waiting for the time, waiting for the first move, waitig for somebody. i dont know how long should i keep on waiting. but all i know is my times running out and im here, sitting.
Jack Kerouac (via modernhepburn)
The Kerouac all day every day.(via irrationalgraceistaken)
All i need is the world and my dreams.
no matter how close i think i am with someone there’s always someone before me like i’m literally never someone’s first option
Have you ever thought about how many people think about you? It’s so bizarre. Imagine someone, out of the blue, thinking of your face. Something happens; they remember you. Your favorite song, how you dress, the way you talk, the look in your eyes when you are happy. They remember that about you, even if you haven’t seen each other in years. Everything in life is a reminder of a person, a place, a moment. You may think you’ve forgotten, but you haven’t.
Funny how you have the power to ruin someones day by unfollowing them. Its like you’re freaking Scar killing Mufasa
I just want that one guy who loves me as much as i love him. That one guy who cares about nothig but me and us.
Is that really too much to ask for
Can i just escape far far away from this city and never ever come back. Im gonna find new place to live in, meet people who’s never heard of me and see things I’ve never seen. I want that. I want it all.
I guess that’s why it’s hard for me to love because I’m both passionately desperate and incoherently scared of it. Pain alone shakes all the muscles within me, eating me, cutting me. But then again, I’ve been lonely for too long. Passion drives me mad, touch inhabits my body, my lips yearns for kisses.
We are not the cigarettes we smoke, whiskeys we drink and clothes we fit ourselves into.
We are not the kisses we send or the hugs we receive.
We are not the people we sleep with or the friends we hang out.
Above all, we are not the person other people think. We are the person who we choose to be.