Pocket full of memories, heart full of dreams

18 Countries. 19 Years. South African born. Parisian bred. University of Stellenbosch educated.

[icanrelateto]

[so-personal]

everything personal

[c-h-i-c-l-e-t-e-s]

[youjustyou-deactivated20140307]

[so-personal]

everything personal

[onceuponawildflower]

[p-atheticfallacy]

London.

[niketa-rae]

You read novels, I read poems, My attention span was never as vast as yours. You wanted to carve passion out of the hearts of people, I just wanted to pave pleasure into your center. My display of affection was never quite the same as yours.

Raw- that’s just the truth.

Niketa.

(via niketa-rae)

[unamalditaflorecita]

the wounds have changed me. i am so soft with scars my skin breathes and beats stars.

Nayyirah Waheed  (via unamalditaflorecita)

[p-atheticfallacy]

I saw this couple sitting on a train in Switzerland making their way to the top of Europe and I thought they were so beautiful. So I decided to take a picture.

[p-atheticfallacy]

The Weeknd- Often.

I’ve finished another journal; our story threatens to crack the spine and burst from the pages. Your gum wrappers and all my sketches of your face in profile. My doodles and all your handwritten notes. I follow our tale from beginning to end. On page one I do not know your name, on page seventeen I hate you, twenty one reads ‘My darling’ and you’ve signed your name, twenty five is a ticket to that art exhibit we went to. On page thirty I describe your Sunday mornings, on page forty eight I copy ‘Sometimes it is the order of things that makes them much worse, its not as if you would have stayed if I hadn’t left you first’- Lang Leav; A Small Consolation. On page fifty I try to paint you in poetry, on page fifty two you call me and say you’re sorry. On page fifty three I love you. Again. Again. Again. Perhaps it is not the grandest tale of love. Perhaps it is no Russian novel. But I collected your beer bottle caps and stuck them in a journal. You showed me how to blow rings of smoke into the air. Perhaps it’s a little rough around the edges, perhaps it lacks a little elegance. But your legs wrapped around mine in the moonlight and you pulled my hair and kissed me harder. Perhaps it is a little crass. Perhaps we were a little broken. But your fingers traced continents onto my skin. Your lips pressed poison into my jugular. Perhaps it is not the prettiest picture… perhaps it’s not very romantic. But it was in your arms that I realized…home is a scent not an address. 

[shootphotos]

[lifeof-ty]

[nnoushja]

Angelina, late 1990s

[p-atheticfallacy]

[brazilwonders]

[pizzapriince]

following back everyone until i find a tumblr gf♡

[nickmiller]

This is my new writing place. I’m very pleased with it.

[writteninsilence-blog]

Here we go again- Sweet Talker

And it's all about the experiences. All about the things that we do when we have nothing to do at all. We sit and get stoned and watch the stars. Trick ourselves into thinking that somehow we're untouchable. Beyond the limit. Dancing in the stratosphere. We collect the memories and keep them in crates; take them out once in a while and paint them a little bit brighter or a little bit bluer depending on how they once tasted in our mouths. Write novels on the sound of his voice while he's out finding another girl to spend the night. Wonder if she'll notice how beautiful the stars shine from his window, or how big the hole in her heart becomes when he falls asleep. Another glass of whiskey and the burn in our chests have a tangible cause. And as the sun rises over the mountain all that's left is the sound of fingers on a keyboard. All we can lay claim to are the words. Perhaps all the insomnia and over thinking and over feeling and pain... oh the pain... perhaps it's all worth it. After all we can write some great stories about it. Perhaps that's the cost of living a life that starts with quotation marks. 

[sammymanny15]

Hangin’ out Down the street

[theweedteacher]

They’re so fucking baked