Thinker. Feeler. Human. Messy. Lover. Real.

Hey hey, my my. There's more to the picture than meets the eye. ✌🏼️

[whisperingbones]

marry me. let’s spend our week nights eating cereal on the floor when there is a perfectly fine table behind us. we can go to the movies and sit in the back row just to make out like kids falling in love for the first time. marry me. we’ll paint the rooms of our house and get more paint on us than the walls. we can hold hands and go to parties we end up ditching to drink wine out of the bottle in the bathtub. marry me. and slow dance with me in our bedroom with an unmade bed and candles on the nightstand. let me love you forever. marry me.

slow mornings drinking coffee naked in bed and your hands on my face when you kiss me goodnight. marry me. d.a.h (via whisperingbones)

[c0ntemplations]

Get excited about the little things. About wearing a new outfit for the first time. About Sunday brunches with your best friends. About the new cute guy in your class. About finding an extra dollar in your pocket. About anything that even remotely makes you happy because as you grow up, passions fade and enthusiasm gets mistaken for foolishness. So don’t let the grey world stop you from shining.

note to self  (via annalaman)

[lezzginka]

why do men do that thing where they can know absolutely nothing about a topic but will still find a way to talk to you like they have a PhD on it

[20aliens-deactivated20200625]

[slykicks-deactivated20161106]

[lovemakesyouwonder]

[hard-work]

[andrafantino]

[artmania-feed]

[barbasebarbas]

[fotografan-do]

[amargedom]

“Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.”

Sylvia Plath (via amargedom)

[floriental]

[block]

[the-library-and-step-on-it]

January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: the woman she saw peering anxiously by the light of a match at the names in a dark doorway, the man who scribbled a message and handed it to his friend before they parted on the sidewalk, the man who ran a block for a bus and caught it. Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester’s bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define.

The Price of Salt, Patricia Highsmith. (via shakespeareandpunk)

[champagnepapucho-deactivated201]

[anancientheart]

Your anxiety is lying to you. You are going to be okay.