meulivroblr

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“You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.”

— Haruki Murakami

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Joseph Quinn

Stranger Things: The Experience in London on December 16

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what i want: ☾

🔭𖨆♡𖨆

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I am a strange and sometimes overwhelming amalgam of all the people, creatures, and words I've ever loved. Regardless of if theyre real or not, they are a piece of me. I am a tapestry, a quilted shape of love. Something made by hand over a lifetime, some parts new, some pieces older than my grandmother. And here I stand. Given function based on form. To exist is to love.

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schrodinger's chekhov's gun. a detail in a story that looks like it should have some big payoff but it's too early to tell if that's relevant or if the author just has a passion for lovingly describing guns.

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“I hope you fall in love with someone who never lets you fall asleep thinking you’re unwanted.”

— Unknown

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Rhapsody, Frank O’Hara

[ Text ID: your calm brown eyes ] 

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@mkvx

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btw if you’re starting college this week everyone else is also nervous about making friends. everyone feels lonely and out of place. and everyone thinks that everyone else is doing a better job than they are.

it’s a weird life transition & you’re doing a good job.

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I Will Tell this Story to the Sun Until You Remember that You are the Sun, Erin Slaughter

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I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.

My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.

But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

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marscia; Against Bethlehem

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Emily Dickinson, from “No crowd that has occurred” (Poem #515), Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

[Text ID: “August–Absorbed–Numb”]

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“you‘re so quiet” baby i’m not even here. i’m fantasizing about a book i read weeks ago. move on.