Even in the darkest of times, there is still light.

I'm a paralegal for a large law firm in NYC, from a tiny little town in the middle of no where. I want to travel the world, embrace adventures and enjoy the freedom I have now while I still can.

[wentzswift]

so much for summer love, and saying us 🤍

cause you weren’t mine to lose..

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

“Once more, I was faced with someone I understood who could neither read me, nor see me, nor perceive me.”

— Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin: Volume Six: 1955-1966.

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters/ Anne Sexton, from a letter to Anne Clarke dated 23 March 1964

[ohsresearchlibrary]

[brokenheartedcubscout]

I don’t know to think, when I kiss you

The Perks of Being A Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky | My Own Private Idaho, dir. Gus Van Sant | Love on the Road, Ron Hicks | Convertible Kisses, Joseph Lorusso | The Raven King, Maggie Stiefvater | Kisses and Coffee, Ron Hicks | Just Can’t Wait, Joseph Lorusso | The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, Taylor Jenkins-Reid | Impulsive, Ron Hicks |  Blue Lily, Lily Blue, Maggie Stiefvater 

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

peace // taylor swift

[sunshinexthunderstorms]

“I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract: I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are forever sundered: - and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.” ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

“Monday evening, my love, I spent the end of my day trying to throw away a huge ball somewhere deep inside me that was choking me to death. I did not burst. I held on tight. I thought you’d be proud to know I was brave and I held on - “Dora” alone knew everything that was inside of me; she was enriched by it to the last corner of her heart and soul. On my way home, once I got into bed, I made drastic arrangements for the next few days. Only one thing had to count for you, for me, for us: not to let myself go, and on this idea I worked out a busy schedule. Since then, I’ve forbidden myself a single minute off.

I barely finish one work that I’m already thinking about preparing for the next one. And, for the moment, that’s how the hours go by. Tuesday morning I finished some details in my rooms, I cleaned up, I went out for two errands, I updated my mail and in the afternoon I went to the radio. Yesterday, I filed papers, I finished my mail, I placed the blinds, I arranged in the library the beautiful books I received (Proust and Montherlant) and in the afternoon I went to the radio (Hélène and Faust de Gœthe) where I stayed until 7 o'clock.

In the evening on my way home, I read manuscripts (Brainville* and another) and turn off the lights exactly at 2 o'clock in the morning. I get up at 10 o'clock. And I have lunch at 2 o'clock. At Hébertot everything goes well - less people but very, very hot and the rental is already going up for the next few days. Jamois**, Villars, have come. Packed. From tomorrow, I have radio on radio until the end of next week, but you’ll know the details.

Tonight I start my little diary that I’ll send you every three days. The weather is grey, flat, dull like me. I’m waiting for you to live again. I have a project in store for me that would interest me if it were done under the conditions I dare to dream of from time to time. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow in detail. This morning I received your first letter. I was waiting for it… You speak of “mugs” and “boiled”!!!! Oh! My darling!

I think of you all huddled up against me, all supple, all warm, and tenderness suffocates me. I think of you serious, of your beautiful clear eyes, of your forehead that I would like to have under my hand, and love suffocates me. I think of your hard legs, your arms, around me, and… But I stop.

Be as calm and as happy as you can be, my love. Rest, take care of yourself, work, enjoy the peace and quiet that you’ve been given. Don’t think too much about our separation, but rather about our meeting in this world, about our waiting, our trust, our love, the sunny days that await us in all those minutes of eternity that we still have to live. Think that everything I do, I do with you, for you, in view of your coming presence.

Forgive me for not resting yet. I don’t feel ready to do that. More later, to be beautiful when you return; later, when hope finally allows me to be alone with myself, alone and naked. I am yours forever. Marie-Hélène Dasté asks for your address to write to you. Shall I give it to her? Tell me, is Corsica beautiful? Ah! If my project could come true… We could even go to Sicily afterwards… But I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Rest, my love. Take all you can from what’s under your hand. Forget about me enough to live a little happy - think of me enough to be happy altogether. I love you.”

Maria Casarès to Albert Camus, Correspondance, January 5, 1950 [#114]

* The actor Yves Brainville, born Yves de La Chevardière (1914-1993), husband of the actress Léone Nogarède. He played the role of Annenkov in the creation of Les Justes. He is also the author of L'Obstacle, a play that he directed himself at the Vieux-Colombier in 1951.

** Marguerite Jamois (1901-1964), actress and director, director of the Théâtre Montparnasse from 1943 following Gaston Baty. She will play the role of Caesonia during the performances of Caligula at the Angers festival in June 1957.

[perfectquote]

“There are some people who could hear you speak a thousand words and still not understand you. And there are others who will understand without you even speaking a word.”

— Yasmin Mogahed

[tam1blog-deactivated20180728]

[hype]

[hype]

[humansofnewyork]

“He had five daughters. And whenever he came home from a work trip, we’d all line up to give him a kiss. But he always kissed my mom first, because she was his ‘first love.’ Then he went on to his ‘second love,’ and his ‘third love.’ On weekends we’d all pile into the car and take these long road trips. We’d drive for hours, and the whole way he’d be singing to my mother. It was a normal thing for us, because we were used to it. But that kind of affection wasn’t normal in our culture. We used to have these karaoke parties with our extended family, and everyone else would sing normal songs. But Papa would choose these old, romantic Bollywood songs. And he’d sing directly to Mama. She loved every second of it. She’d get dressed up for him. She’d put on her brightest red lipstick. And she’d do her hair just as he liked it, even after she got sick. The tumor was deep in her brain. After every surgery, more and more of her would slip away. When she couldn’t walk properly anymore, she grew embarrassed of her limp. So Papa held her hand wherever they went. He’d sit next to her bed, and stroke her cheek, and recite the Quran until his lips went dry. Some nights he’d fall asleep sitting up in his chair, but then he’d wake up, and begin praying again. In her final moments, when she was slipping away, he leaned close to her and whispered: ‘You won’t be alone. I’m coming with you.’ I heard him say it. And I got so angry. It seemed selfish to me, as if the rest of us weren’t worth living for. But all his children were grown. Most of us had our own families. And I guess he felt like there was nothing left for him. Every day he visited Mama’s grave, even though we told him not to. He applied for the plot next to her, and every few hours he’d ask if the cemetery had called. He was obsessed. When the paperwork finally arrived, I rolled my eyes. But he got very quiet. For the next two days he barely said a word. Then on the third morning, he walked in our front door and told me he wasn’t feeling well. I bent down to help him with his shoes, but he collapsed on the floor. There wasn’t time for him to suffer. Because by the time the ambulance arrived, he was already gone.”

[sunshinexthunderstorms]

Reciprocity

The concept of breaking someone’s heart is so confounding. Do we know what we are doing? Are we oblivious? Heart broken ourselves? Or blissfully detached?

Is our pain matched? Do they learn from the pain as much as we do?

What I’m afraid is, we try to find meaning in adversity. But often times, there is none. And that is the most painful thing of all.

The boy who broke your heart may not grow from the experience. He may not learn. He may not feel remorse. He may forget.

It’s so troubling to face suffering head on. I wish I could catch it in a jar, hide it in far away place, and forget it ever existed. I wish I could forget him.

[timotaychalamet]

[marcy-playground]

This is how all rape trials should go. Especially those of people who work in the sex industry because, unfortunately, some people take their profession as consent.  

[lostinpersona]