#quoteaddict

[becauseshesaidso]

stay curious my friend, stay curious.

[poppingxbobas]

If it is true that there are many minds as there are heads, then there are as many as kinds of love as there are hearts.

Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy

[lutpius]

Love never gives up. Love cares more for others than for self. Love isn’t always 'me first.

St. Paul

[mirrorworld12]

And his healing touch burnt me

mirror 💕

And its all ash

[imcountingtomilion-blog]

Wciąż pamiętasz zapach jego perfum, który rozpoznajesz u chłopców wokół ciebie. Wciąż pamiętasz jego głos, błagając Boga, żeby nie pozwolił ci go zapomnieć. Czasami zdaje ci się, że czujesz ciepło jego ramion i widzisz oczami wyobraźni swoje zimne palce, wplecione w jego ciepłą dłoń. I znów czujesz tą pewność, że nic nie ma prawa ci się stać. Wciąż czujesz przyjemne mrowienie, a serce bije ci szybciej, gdy przypomisz sobie, jak gorące były jego usta, gdy dotykały twoich. I jak bardzo kochałaś to, gdy brał cię na ręce. I znów ci go cholernie brakuje.

@imcountingtomilion #9

[ranarp]

"Εχεις συνεχεια νευρα για το τιποτα.."

Κι εσυ εχεις συνεχεια νευρα. Ποτε δεν ισχυριστηκα οτι “ειναι για το τιποτα”. Εγω ημουν εκει μαζι σου. Να προσπαθω να σε κανω να γελας.

Κι οταν με εδιωχνες. Και δεν ειναι μια και δυο φορες. Παλι προσπαθουσα.

Κι ας μη καταλαβαινα μερικες φορες, κι ας υψωνες το τειχος.

Δεν απαιτησα ποτε τοση προσπαθεια απο εσενα. Συμβιβαζομουν,κι ας ειναι ασχημη αυτη η λεξη,με πολυ λιγοτερα. Μια αγκαλια ηθελα και λιγη υπομονη.

Αλλα οχι.. Εγω εχω συνεχεια νευρα για το τιποτα..

Αρ.

[darkacademiaandme]

[letterstothepianist]

Lost for words Dear Mr. Pianist, I think I'm having a writers block. I don't know what to write. I lack inspiration. And in times like this, do you know what I do? I go to her instagram page and I stare at your pictures with her. I stare for a long time. Trying to feel something. Hurt, pain. Anything. I saw how happy you were. Your eyes told me everything I need to know. But, as much as I wanted to be hurt, to feel, in order for words to come out, nothing really came to me. The whole time I was thinking, you're happy. And what could I ever do with that? The pain was no more. The sadness, it was there. But it wasn't enough to take me to the depths of poetry. I should be grateful, right? Finally, now I realized I moved on. But I can't help feeling empty. Lonely. Not because you're not here with me. But because, I lost the reason I am writing. I lost the pain, the longing, the fight I was always up against. I lost you. And that alone kills me. My love, I am tired. Weary of wondering if you've ever thought of me as I have with you. And now, though my mind rejoices in your absence, my heart is mourning for my words will never be the same without you. Love, thegirlwiththewritersblock