You’ve been so accustomed to your lips
only touching your mug each morning that
the thought of them touching another person’s
skin unsettles you. You will walk out the door
with a scarf around your neck and “nobody” in
your mind except the anxiety that haunts your
every step. Passing others on the street, but
never to look up and make eye contact because
god forbid if you see another pair of eyes admiring
yours. You’ll sit alone in class with your head in a
book or your mind lost in music, you’ll look around
to see everybody’s got somebody, except for you.
I mean, who cares anyway, right? People are just
people, they aren’t permanent. They always leave.
At least that’s what you’ve told yourself more than
a thousand times in the stillness of the night when
the only thing your tongue is craving is to taste the
feeling of company. So when you get home you’ll
kick off your shoes and fall on your bed, you won’t
let that one person back into your head. Being
alone is okay, being alone is good, being alone
helps you think. Yet thinking is what is killing you,
suffocating you. You check your phone every ten
minutes even when you know no one has called,
no one has texted. You’ll convince yourself it’s
only a habit, when this habit only formed because
deep down you’re hoping, hoping for someone,
anyone to take away the loneliness.
She was as constant as rain, as strong as thunder and as bright as lightning; She was a storm that I longed to be engulfed in.T.B. LaBerge // The Novel of Us (via recoveryisbeautiful)
Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.Oscar Wilde (via kingofcolorado)
When I see flowers growing from graves I remember there is life after death. And when I feel the fireworks in veins when she grabs my hand, I remember that there is also life after you too.Life moves on J.S (via unsads)
I take great care of myself by carefully shutting myself away.Vincent Van Gogh, a letter to his brother, Theo. (via loieloie)
There is not one big cosmic meaning for all; there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934 (via introspectivepoet)
the past two months have been a complete whirlwind, I haven’t felt this lost in a while.
But I’m happy.