not a waste of space

hi. i hockey at gnashvillesmashville.

[fairieicedtea]

hot girl summer but its me taking care of my emotional health, spending time under the sun, reading more, finding new things that make me happy, doing things that bring out good versions of myself

[enki2]

[aldmerii-blog]

[outofcontextarthur]

[ewvirgostellium]

lovely lil piece from a few days ago

[almondfae]

brighter days are coming

[tinamotta]

[wishuponastarion]

"oh sorry, i guess i was infodumping again" - sad, shy, apologetic

"you sly dog, you got me monologuing" - cool, strong, confident

[sssabi]

[thekimonogallery]

Off the coast of Japan: “Venus,The Crescent Moon and Rocks”.  Photography by Masahisa Uemura on Flickr

[mpdrolet]

[dappledwithshadow]

Vincent van Gogh Still Life with French Novels and Glass with a Rose 1887

[unreadable]

[sovietpostcards]

Winter. A woman with two buckets goes to fetch some water. Photo by Vsevolod Tarasevich (1950s).

[engulfes]

beautiful bedrooms in ikea's 1996 catalogue

[recr7-deactivated20181013]

[bourgwesioie]

What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three and two and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see.

sandra cisneros; eleven