Welcome to Wonderland.

Josh - 22 - Professional Games tester - Twitch streamer - owner of Baked Apparel - Stoner- Single -Poshboy - Curley Hair - Skinny Jeans - Shirts - Girls in Tights - Camden - London - Late Nights - Long Talks - New People - Pointy Shoes - Skinny Ties - Suits to Gigs - making music - Never regret anything because at one time it was exactly what you wanted - Too weird to live. Too rare to die

[dreamtodayliveforever]

10 years ago today.

[innocenceatitsbest]

“Sometimes we get sad about things and we don’t like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret. Or sometimes, we are sad but we really don’t know why we are sad, so we say we aren’t sad but we really are.”

— Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (via wordsnquotes)

[imposer]

unknown

[bcneggncheez-deactivated2020121]

[lostsoulsworlds]

“I acted like it didn’t bother me, but inside it’s killing me.”

— Unknown

[thegoodvybe]

[adrenaline]

[weedltd]

[virare]

the best part about being in your 20’s is slowly caring less and less about what people think of you and surrounding yourself with good people

the worst is that I’m broke

[hatin-deactivated20140225]

[dreamtodayliveforever]

It is you. It is fucking you. I cannot describe it anymore, it is you. You are the only one that I will ever want. I belong with you. You are my home. I look at you, and somehow I can see 50 years from now on the front porch of some old house in the middle of nowhere and we’re together. I need you. You are the only thing that matters. You are my good.

[ironedout]

“1 you know you’re fucked when you have an entire dream revolving around holding his hand. and by holding his hand i mean palm hugs. i mean fingers building steeples together, opening doors you never even knew existed. i mean your head line disappearing into his heart line. i mean, you’re fucked. 2 how do you love someone who is always, but never, just about to leave? every time you look over your shoulder he is always turning the corner. every time you scratch your ghost town heart off the map he turns it gas station. you take your last gallon of fuel and give it to him. don’t tell him it’s the last. keep waiting for him to come back round that corner. 3 one night he will tell you about this girl, because there’s always a girl, and she is beautiful. i mean, the kind of beautiful you can’t even hate, and believe me, you’re going to try. all your friends are going to try but the fact is she is yellowstone and you are botanic gardens. i mean, sure, you have flowers, but no one’s gonna stay there for more than half a day. he is not staying with you. you are the gas station girl, the rest stop he sleeps in on the way to his coda city slow dance. you are nothing but fuel. 4 how do you love someone who is always, but never, just about to leave? you sit on a ledge and argue with your heart for hours. when is a boy not just a boy? when you won’t stop dreaming of his hands. when your heart thinks he’s the sky. 5 you know you’re fucked when you have an entire poem revolving around holding his hand. and by holding his hand i mean not really. i mean you are never sitting in that passenger seat. i mean, close those doors. even the ones you thought existed. even the ones that felt real. i mean, there are no more corners left to turn. i know you’re fucked, but stop looking.”

— “Gas Station Girl”, by ironedout

[refiningfire]

[haleyincarnate]

Lisa Schroeder, The Day Before

[inkskinned]

he never wrote me poems. we would fuck in his car or on his bed where others girls had been or in the shower or while i was crying. we saw each other naked so often i have the image painted on the back of my eyelids. he ripped my underwear off. i was always vulnerable. i woke him up with kisses, he woke me up with hickies. for a long time, i thought they were the same thing.

i asked him once while we both got high why it was that i could write novels about him until the words got tired of being anagrams of his name - but at the same time he would never reciprocate. he blew a smoke ring and broke it with his finger. “dunno,” he said. we would fuck again later.

i found him once sitting on my floor staring at a picture from when i was young. “god,” he said, “i really fucked you up.”

[chronodiegetic]

i don’t have the forbearance to be happy, i think; neither the bones for it nor the patience, to look at what i have built – at where i have landed – and to say, yes. this is good. here i can live and grow, and love, and do all these things in plenty, these things which should fulfill me, and root me, and – well – nail me down, really, between the bones of my feet, to some sort of solid ground, which is more or less the problem, if you see. nails. not particularly conducive to happiness, at least not what it means to me. i have neither the bones for settling, nor the patience to grow to love anything in particular; cut ties, drop ballast, gnaw off my feet at the ankle and limp onwards. rest when i’m tired, or one day when i’m dead, i suppose, but until then: there are so many lives to lead, and so little time left to settle into one which does not allow me the luxury of leaving. — “foothold”, é

[gentle-reminder]

gentle reminder

even the worst days can become better again, and brighter – so please try your best to keep holding on