i write some shitty stuff and drink shitty coffee

yes, i do use the Olivetti typewriter font on my laptop, it helps me feel like a real writer

[interstellarpsycho-blog1]

the cigarette ash flies in your eyes and you don’t mind, you smile and say the world doesn’t fit with you i don’t believe you, you’re so serene careening through the universe your axis on a tilt, you’re guiltless and free

[glorydazed]

Her eyes could simultaneously end wars and start them. I couldn’t handle that kind of power, so I let her go. It was the best mistake I ever made.

(via glorydazed)

[studyspiration-coffee]

just a head’s up

get it done. you know exactly what i’m talking about. that essay in which the deadline is inching closer and closer, that maths exam that you need to study for, those grades you want to increase, those grades you want to maintain, that degree you want to study, the degree you want to finish, that cupboard you need to organise. even the plethora of aesthetic flat lays and study tips on tumblr do nothing compared to actually doing the work. yeah sure, edit and perfect how you do the work. but actually goddamn do it. because life is short and you’ve been blessed with an amazing and admirable drive and ambition, as well as a beautiful mind and an interest in learning. please don’t waste these things. 

[glorydazed]

I am learning how to be alright With only being alright And not spectacular, Magnificent, Or miraculous I am the stardust Trapped on the underside Of an aliens’ foot I am not a star I am splashed salt water Absorbed within salty banks I am not an oasis I am a pen stroke In the bigger picture I am not a masterpiece I am perpetually a piece Of a much grander whole I am never the best

half as great as all the greatest things (via glorydazed)

[glorydazed]

I am a dreamcatcher Give me a package of your nightmares Done up in wrapping paper and a big bow I hold your aspirations in my palms Trap them in slender fingers Stand strong as they get under my skin Chuckle as they burn me Grin ear to ear as I implode I am a dreamcatcher Your dreamcatcher I swallow your fears So you don’t upset your stomach And spill your guts on linoleum floors And matted carpets

I am your shield, your guardian, your lighthouse. My services come free, for you refuse to pay me in your love. Unfortunately for me, my heart is an ocean and a little volunteer work never hurt anyone. (via glorydazed)

[reusablewords]

I am a writer

I am a writer.

I am a writer who cannot write.

Instead I let blank pages stare at me, glare at me, frown at me.

I feel their scorn and their pity, I feel them and yet I do not feel myself.

I stare at these blank pages with their mash of feelings and potential and I let them feel what they will, let them pity and scorn and frown and glare and stare. And I simply sit, never writing.

I think, I think of everything and nothing and imagine myself writing it all. Filling page after page with words and emotions and feelings and experiences of every living person, I see my fingers moving and words appearing.

And then I look again, and a blank page is still staring, glaring, frowning.

I read other people’s creations, I let the beauty of their words trickle through me, I hope they will inspire me, I hope they will move me and make me create something that is mine. I hope for any small spark, glimmer, crack of light.

Nothing comes.

Nothing that will ever truly belong to me. Sometimes I wonder if any piece of writing is ever entirely original. I wonder if every single piece ever written was just regurgitated ideas from someone before them. From another piece of writing, from a speech heard during a drunken conversation, a vague plot put together from someone else’s real-life experiences.

Is anything original anymore or are we all dredging up memories from others’ creations and writing it in a “new and improved” order? Are we even creating anymore or just plagiarising every idea ever imagined?

And if that’s all we are doing, is there even a point in pretending to create again? Is Originality a real thing anymore? Are the words that writers believe belong to them really just stolen goods? Are writers truly thieves?

And if writers are thieves of words, why can I not even accomplish this simple act of thievery, this simple act of plagiarism so that I can claim my own Original?

All a writer is is their words, stolen or their own. Can I even consider myself a writer if I cannot find my words?

I am not a writer.

I am not even a thief.

I am a sham.