She talks to Angels

I love books.TID. TMI. TLA. TDA. TST. I love music. T.O.P.|-/ and I adore photography. Kittens. Cute boys. Cute girls. I'm in love with the man of my dreams. I'll marry him soon. Emma Rose. Charlie Jackson. ❤️ 🍼Candy. London, England.

[bestviralposts]

babies!!!

art by: watercatlor - pls do not remove credit

[ikwt]

Winter Jackets (ryan_field_)

[theanimalmemes]

BABY GOATS

(via)

[meiselr]

365 Characters ↳ #59 - Padmé Amidala

I know it’s a horrifying situation, but you can’t fight every evil in the galaxy.

[cwunch]

[the1975music]

[vein]

[alombreda]

[gothes]

[teekoo]

Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation Darkness stirs and wakes imagination Silently the senses abandon their defenses

[destroymylife]

[meiselr]

The Twelve Olympians

[sproutaesthetics]

witchcraft | LOVE WITCHES

love witches use the energies associated with love in their magic. they often work with rose quartz, teas, roses, and moon water.   

[inkskinned]

so easy, for men to diagnose women with “crazy”. how often i’ve stood in showers and wondered: who am i crazy to? who did i ask too much from, who did i stand in the sun and cast a shadow for, who sits with his buddies among beer and sympathy and says: she was crazy.

ah, so soft a word and used so purposefully. in their stories of ex-girlfriends, men are always both hero and victim. she called me every night at the same time, she was always so clingy, she was crazy.

there are girlfriends who are bitter, and bad, and should not be dating. and then there are girlfriends who are called bitter, and bad, and who are constantly worrying: am i crazy? am i doing the same thing? am i poison like she was, like she could be? somewhere, a young man is saying “my girlfriend is crazy” and he means help me and somewhere the men around him roll their eyes and say all women have to be.

toxic people don’t worry if they’re toxic, i tell myself. but i must have been, right? i called him roughly all the time. it’s easier for me than texting; i had a long commute and we were long-distance. it seemed to make sense, but wasn’t i rabid? the other day i realized i always called first, never the other way around - how unseemly. i wanted dates and more communication and asked (and begged) for the bar to be higher, for him to be present, for us to have a good relationship. so i am the girl before me, i guess - calling all the time. clingy. known to throw a tantrum.

and oh, our worst days. when we have them, when we’re sobbing at a train station love me goddamn it, when we’re ready to stomp our feet and shout and say i exist as a real person and i need you to understand it, isn’t that crazy? i tell myself: this is a pressure that has been built up. this is from little things piling like dishes. but it is crazy. i nitpick my own behavior; try harder to stay calm when i am frantic. this is also allowing him to ignore my constant “nagging.” please clean up. please answer your texts. please be there. please listen. please, and please, and please, and then i’m sobbing again.

a woman’s anger is always, always, always crazy. how fascinating. a man can be righteous or sanctimonious or misunderstood, but we are always crazy. coming out of nowhere. a secret wasp hive. all of a sudden she was crazy.

and we with mental illness - where do we draw the line? where is a normal breakdown and our own brain splitting? where is our disorder and our indignation? where is this-wasn’t-right-of-me and of-course-it’s-happening? we sink deep into the whorls of our own fingerprints, examining: am i bad? am i rotten? am i going crazy again? will he lump in she was always counting, will he chuckle she sometimes saw things, will he rub his temples and say she was always messy at 3 in the morning.

i got help. i’m better now; even-tempered and no longer experiencing psychosis. i deserve, after all, crazy as a diagnosis. i have a list of illnesses like a cvs receipt. at the top, in red pen, does he annotate: extremely feminist, and it annoyed me.

i worry i over-reacted. i worry that i shouldn’t have asked for so much, that i should have split the bill, that i should have been calm and gentle and understanding, that i should have been a cool girl who laughs it off and lets it roll like water off of me, that i should have buried my own needs like sunflower seeds, so that they only rise up in beauty. my anger always carefully banked, an explosion i am terrified of, my inner horrible witch.

somewhere, he’s shrugging. what can i tell you. she was a crazy bitch.

[soracities]

“I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about – with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you.”

Virginia Woolf, in a letter to Vita Sackville-West

“There was once a very great American surgeon named Halsted. He was married to a nurse. He loved her-immeasurably. One day Halsted noticed that his wife’s hands were chapped and red when she came back from surgery. And so he invented rubber gloves. For her. It is one of the great love stories in medicine. The difference between inspired medicine and uninspired medicine is love. When I met Ana I knew: I loved her to the point of invention. “

Sarah Ruhl, The Clean House

“I think I must write entirely for you.”

Robert Lowell, letter to Elizabeth Bishop

“Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room.

One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room’s only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.

Every afternoon, when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window: it overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite details, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine this picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon, the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man could not hear the band — he could see it in his mind’s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.

Days, weeks and months passed.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window besides the bed.

It faced a blank wall.

The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window.

The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall.

She said, “Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you.”

The Hospital Window (my edits, author unknown)

[kafk-a]

Jenny Slate, from an interview Hozier on twitter  Chelsea Hodson, from Tonight I’m Someone Else

[quotemadness]

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”

— Sylvia Plath