“If I lived by the sea I would never be really sad. I get an immense sense of eternity and peace from the ocean. I can lose myself in staring at it hour after hour.”
Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Aurelia Plath written c. July 1951.
video from october of 2021 - serra grande/bahia, brasil.
another important thing to remember is 1) u can pick up any hobby at any point in ur life and get outstandingly good at it & 2) the project u've been working on & aren't pleased w the current outcome so far will not be your last. u will draw/crochet/paint/sculpt/write another piece, and another, and you will have many chances to be fully content w your craft. so you should cherish the joy of making art instead of worrying ab the results & think ab how lovely it is that we're all vessels for artistry and we can share the divine act of creation!!!!!
i just need nick nelson to be my gf that’s all
welcome to my jpeg & mp3 diary
“I’d gotten extremely sick — emergency-room sick — and although we had only been dating a few weeks, she came to sit with me and take me home. The ER drugs put me in a dizzy haze, but all I wanted to do was continue reading the incredible book I’d started that morning. I groggily murmured my wish as I lay in bed. She paused. Quietly, she scooped me up into the crook of her arm, picked up the novel next to me, and started reading. For hours, we lay there: her, stepping out of her comfort zone, and me, listening to the soothing sound of her voice. No one had ever done that for me before. That’s when I knew — I’d found who I was looking for.”
— 30 Lesbians Reveal the Exact Moment They Fell in Love
(via sapphicisms)
it's just - the way you were, the way that you got, back then. the bad rush, the oil spill so high up your neck that your teeth swam in it. what you needed back then was a barn raising. what you needed back then was all-hands-on-deck.
it's just - you needed a village, is all. you needed your parents to actually just cool it for a second, because for one minute if you were very still, in the middle of the act of being roadkill: you could feel it. the edges of that sharp thing, the other-world, the promised land, the bird that was supposed to be born in your throat.
if you'd just - if any one person had just - noticed. maybe that would have been enough. you could have convinced your body to do a strange form of necromancy: you could have come back with the rope ladder. you were an emergency flare. you were morse code.
it's okay. come home again. us do-it-yourself undead, those of us who broke the book and still found our way out of the grave again. we never got the return flight. we never got the party. we just got up. we got up and then we kept going, because nobody else was gonna clean the mess. we might as well. we just... exist here, half-ghosts, barely-made it kids. no medals, except the strange serene rush of spreading jam on perfect toast. of moving a paintbrush. the silence that knows about the danger of sparks. the little candle of our heart not a stormbreaker or earthshaker. just the persistent lick of hope.
it is a quiet reward. we will not get the barn, but we do get each other. a night sky of little lights made from the gruesome survival of blood and bone. the life we made in the dark. a little somber radiance. a spellwork that's all our own.
in the end - despite it all, we built ourselves a home.
How to (not, of course) still access z-library (kinda) safely.
complete and clear guide (that actually works) for desperate and bitter people.
idk why groceries cost money like girl i need them
