And I Think There's Nothing More Beautiful Than Finding Songs, Movies, Books, Places Or Any Form Of Art

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Is life not just a scramble to get things done before a deadline that you don’t even know the time of?

I believe that a morning should never describe a day. Of course, I don’t believe mornings listen to mortal pleas and reasoning, but I try to enact this rule myself. Yet, it is a morning’s nature to bleed into your perception of a day, tint it with sorrow or with beauty. The only times when I forbid myself from enforcing this rule is when my day is unknowingly stricken with a morning of perfect quiescence, an awake before the world has begun to turn. Those rare mornings can feel free to pour through the seams of time and stain the parchment of afternoons and evenings a beautiful shade of rose. I’m quite a hypocrite, I do know.

because you were only 5 when you learnt the dark was something you should be afraid of and that night, a child found god in the bathroom light

when you turned 11, someone said you were too loud, too brash, too annoying for a girl; they made you think you’d never make it in this world

then came your 13th birthday when you realised that your mother would only love the person you could become for her, so you made yourself smaller and smaller until you ceased to exist outside of your own mind, screaming “are you happy now, mother?” but no voice comes out because you can’t be too loud, remember?

at 15, you hated yourself for not being able to fight without crying (you still do) so you don’t let anyone in that can hurt you

and now that you’re 17, you’ve waited for summer long enough to know it will never arrive for a person who says so little of what she means.

// you’ve been 8, on your way to 18, and barely survived the years in between

Take care of your costume and your confidence will take care of itself.

ig: l_reads.

His pillow was wet with salty tears and his eyes were swollen from crying as he woke up. His chapped lips stung with the taste of saltwater. Diana called him.

“What time is it,” he asked, his voice cracking. He hoped she would think he was just tired. She did not.

“It’s just about 8 o’clock. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything but simply hung up. He walked to the South Meadow again, slower than last time. He did not see Theo next to him. After a few minutes sitting at the bench next to the field, he heard a voice behind him.

“You’ll be late to chapel,” it said quietly, worried. Theo popped up in front of him. He tried his best to smile. Theo did not mask the concerned expression on his own face. He noticed a stray tear right under Alexander’s eye, and knelt down to wipe it away. The feeling of his hand on Alexander’s face made his skin tingle. He started to smile honestly. Theo sat down next to him quietly.

It started to rain, and Theo stood up from the bench.

“We’ll be late,” he repeated simply. Alexander walked behind him to chapel.

Foxglove Perimeter

You ever see a pretty dress, a well-organised notebook, a peculiar balcony or read one line of poetry and get the overwhelming urge to reinvent yourself