my-point-ofview

[my-point-ofview]

“Sometimes I hate being inspired. Stop thinking faster than I can write. Stop thinking faster than I can write. What was that metaphor I came up with again? Oh my fuck, this sounds stupid as hell. Should I post this online? Shit; I had it then I lost it. I hate that I’m still writing about you. I should stop using that phrase. THIS IS A PIECE OF SHIT AND I HATE IT! Nevermind, it’s kinda good. Should I end this here? Whatever, I’ll get back to it later. Ugh, I love it. Ugh, I hate it. Ugh, whatever. Time to post it.”

— Write down the interior monologue you experience when you sit down to write. (Prompt from 642 Things to Write About)

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

You know that feeling you have when you start to be interested in someone? When you wonder, at 11 pm, what is he doing? If he has a middle name. If he loves his mum. I hate when it starts. Because that’s when I start to give a damn. When I start to self-doubt. When I look at myself 1000 times in the mirror and still feel like I'm not 1000 ready to leave the house but there’s nothing I can do about it so I just think “fuck it” and I leave feeling defeated. 

It fucking sucks to fall for someone before you fall for yourself. It drowns you. Because in the end, all the hours I spent trying to convince myself that is okay to look the way I do, are worth it for just a few minutes of conversations. I know, in a few weeks, everything I'm feeling is going to disappear because I know for a fact the boy will never be interested in me. It will break me every day. Piece by piece till I let go.

But I can’t help it.

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

“You messaged me out of the blue. I wasn’t looking for anyone, In fact I was too busy running from someone else, But I slowed down enough to reply “Hey.” You slowly became my good morning text, My drunken phone call, My tearful FaceTime when work had wrung me out like a dirty tea towel, And you were there, Always.”

— FRS, Yes we met on tumblr, no she wasn’t a fifty year old man. (via larmoyante)

[my-point-ofview]

“You messaged me out of the blue. I wasn’t looking for anyone, In fact I was too busy running from someone else, But I slowed down enough to reply “Hey.” You slowly became my good morning text, My drunken phone call, My tearful FaceTime when work had wrung me out like a dirty tea towel, And you were there, Always.”

— FRS, Yes we met on tumblr, no she wasn’t a fifty year old man. (via larmoyante)

[my-point-ofview]

“I like sunflowers,” she said with a smile, “they’re always looking for the sun. For the bright things in life. I aim to be like that, you know?”

She sighs and her smile turns sad, “It’s just life is so tough and hard, that the sun hides and you don’t know where it is. You try to find it, but it’s hidden behind all these clouds. And you’ve got to wait for it to come again.”

- sunflowers

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

[my-point-ofview]

y’all seen this shit right here?

[my-point-ofview]

¬×¬ 17 ¬×¬ (em Paris, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/Brk_nOMlLin1ITq7QT_8OQGLBsqibNl06tZPi00/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1p0nk47fqnjd6

[my-point-ofview]

By the sea is the best place to read

[my-point-ofview]

to walk invisible: the brontë sisters (2016) written and directed by sally wainwright

[my-point-ofview]

Am I scared? yes. Am I giving up? no. https://www.instagram.com/p/BrN0987lwgWRa7t2eg2flZhEewwDeBdeX56mkE0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=p60tg72adsc8