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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Thomas Gray (via kristensnotebook)

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Well-behaved women seldom make history.

Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History (via psych-facts)

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Learn from your mistakes, work hard, and don’t let other people’s opinion of you become your limitation.

Lauren Conrad (via psych-facts)

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You rule your life

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share your favorite things with the temporary people in your life staple your favorite songs to the foreheads of people you’ve known for two weeks dance around in artificial lightning and touch them for as long as you can take pictures with disposable cameras, pin them to cork-boards and write down their dates let them scrawl their names in sharpie ink on your wall, ignore when your mother gets mad at you for it watch your favorite movies with them kiss them during your favorite part write down the taste write down what you hear fill notebooks with their sentences take their hand and lead them to your favorite places count the blades of grass under you record the rocks the tree leaves the sand the hardwood floor read them your favorite books tell them your theories match them to main characters and laugh when they try to imitate their dialect read them your poetry whisper your favorite words in their ear pass them notes with your favorite lyrics give them tastes of your favorite ice cream flavor promise yourself not to forget their disgusted face at your favorite weird food smear the color yellow into their palms because it has always been your favorite trace the lines that crack the paint give them your favorite sweatshirt let them make it their home smell them on you the next time you wear it let them enter your world and include them in your list of favorites and then when they break your heart, you will be forced to conform to the sadness you feel you will have to turn off the radio when that song comes on and you see their smile in the melody you will have to pay for a new camera burn pictures and blame the smoke for your teary eyes stock up on white-out and erase those dates when they pass the next year you will stay inside all day and your hands will shake you will have to paint a new color on your wall just to quit staring at their name while you try to fall asleep you will paint three, four, five coats atop their handwriting and at night you will still be able to see it you will have to go to the movies and categorize new favorite scenes when that movie plays on sunday morning you will taste them and it will taste like cold coffee and eventually you will be strong enough to change the channel you will tear pages out, buy new notebooks drive by your favorite places and don’t stop you will have to read new pages find new characters its okay if you catch yourself running over the spine of the book you woke them up to read at four AM buy a dictionary and find new favorite words make up new favorite words and drop them into casual conversation eat new icecream, try more weird foods at restaurants you can’t pronounce look at colors more closely and determine a new favorite buy new clothes ones that smell like mass production and the local mall you will leave the world you gave to them and you will create a new world with new favorites with new songs, words, memories, places, books, movies, foods with new pieces of you and you will let someone new enter that world they will tear chips of paint off of your wall and ask you what your favorite color is its okay to hesitate say blue.

how to force growth / k.s (via unaffect)

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Don't kill yourself, please.

If you’re suffering from depression and are looking for a sign to not go through with ending your life, this is it. This is the sign. We care.

If you see this on your dash, reblog it. You could save a life.

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wtf = wanting true friends

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The Last Words Of 25 Famous Dead Writers

When you’ve dedicated your life to words, it’s important to go out eloquently.

Ernest Hemingway: “Goodnight my kitten.” Spoken to his wife before he killed himself.

Jane Austen: “I want nothing but death.” In response to her sister, Cassandra, who was asking her if she wanted anything.

J.M Barrie: “I can’t sleep.”

L. Frank Baum: “Now I can cross the shifting sands.”

Edgar Allan Poe: “Lord help my poor soul.”

Thomas Hobbes: “I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap into the dark,”

Alfred Jarry: “I am dying…please, bring me a toothpick.”

Hunter S. Thompson: “Relax — this won’t hurt.”

Henrik Ibsen: “On the contrary!”

Anton Chekhov: “I haven’t had champagne for a long time.”

Mark Twain: “Good bye. If we meet—” Spoken to his daughter Clara.

Louisa May Alcott: “Is it not meningitis?” Alcott did not have meningitis, though she believed it to be so. She died from mercury poison.

Jean Cocteau: “Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking towards me, without hurrying.”

Washington Irving: “I have to set my pillows one more night, when will this end already?”

Leo Tolstoy: “But the peasants…how do the peasants die?”

Hans Christian Andersen: “Don’t ask me how I am! I understand nothing more.”

Charles Dickens: “On the ground!” He suffered a stroke outside his home and was asking to be laid on the ground.

H.G. Wells: “Go away! I’m all right.” He didn’t know he was dying.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: “More light.”

W.C. Fields: “Goddamn the whole fucking world and everyone in it except you, Carlotta!” “Carlotta” was Carlotta Monti, actress and his mistress.

Voltaire: “Now, now, my good man, this is no time for making enemies.” When asked by a priest to renounce Satan.

Dylan Thomas: “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies…I think that’s the record.”

George Bernard Shaw: “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.”

Henry David Thoreau: “Moose…Indian.”

James Joyce: “Does nobody understand?”

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A Love Letter to My Stranger

To the one I have yet to meet,

You don’t know how far I’ve come just to get here. Over the past year I have been through hell and back, and I would even argue that it wasn’t just once, either. I’ve gone to and fro many times, maybe even a hundred times, but who knows? Who’s kept count?

Certainly not me.

I’ve lost many people along the way, but gained scars as proof of my story, and I am itching to show it to you. Look: I had a lived a life before you, learned all my lessons to prepare me for you, and now I am hoping to share it with you.

My story, much like yours, is one that is still unfolding, and I am eagerly flipping the page so I could get to the part of your arrival.

There’s so much I have to tell you. So much I want to catch you up on, and even more that I want to learn all about you. I haven’t even met you yet, I don’t even know who you are or who you will be, but I already know that I will love you with all my heart. And that you, by grace of God, will make it all worth it. You will be the answer to my long-standing question, the yes at the end of all my no’s, the missing piece that will complete the picture.

Before you, a storm had rocked my once-steady ship. I thought many times I’d go overboard, but then suddenly the skies just cleared, and it was smooth-sailing from then on. I see you in the distance; you are sweet land after years spent at sea. (Or maybe I’m the wave that keeps coming back to kiss the shore, no matter how many times I’m swept away.)

When you arrive, I know it will all make sense, and I will finally see why it didn’t work out with anyone else.

I understand that there are a few more things we have to go through on our own, so that we may become stronger and readier for each other. For example, I, for one, am relieved that I have gotten myself out of my slump before I would meet you. If I had met you prior, I doubt that it would have worked out.

God’s time is a funny thing, but I trust it. I can feel how close you are to me, but it is not our time yet. We have to be patient. Soon I know I will be able to tell my friends: It’s him. I have found him. And I will love him, with all the love I have been made to suppress over the years.

It’s weird, isn’t it? When we cry over the people who don’t wish to accept our hearts, even if we willingly hand it over them. No—not even just hand it over to them, we surrender it. And then we meet that person, that new someone else, and we realize that the world was just trying to save us for something better. That’s you. You’re my better; my best.

I don’t think I could put my final message to you any better than Kings of Leon had in their song. Caleb Followill crooned, “It’s all better now, it’s all better now; wait for me. Wait for me.”

Do you know that song? Don’t worry if you don’t. After I meet you, we’ll have all the time in the world to listen to it.

Love,

Nina

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