Clairvoyance
sextnoise:

following back tons!
thisiscasey7:

forgott-en:

nedhepburn:

This one time I painted a living room with a girl.
This was a handful of years back. It was about eight months before the huge, flame-out of a breakup. That day, though? That day we painted the living room? It was pretty uneventful. We painted my parents living room for $50 between us and a pizza. That was it. I think we watched Anchorman or something after that.
But it still holds as on of the most indelible memories I have. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not still in love, it happened, it was good, it ended, and we’ve both moved on. But I’ll never forget that day. Because it’s never, in the long run, about the grand gestures. You can fly across the world and show up on her doorstep with a rose in your teeth and a ring in a little velvet box but I can guarantee you that - more often than not - she’s going to remember the time you built the birdhouse in the back yard, or what have you, a whole lot more.
Life wasn’t meant to be taken in large movements. The next day will inevitably arrive, you’ll sleep, and the moment will have passed. But when you have a hundred thousand small moments, you can step back and appreciate the picture a lot more than metaphorically blowing your load on some grand moment that, in all honesty, look, you’re not Bruce Fucking Springsteen, you’re not going to be able to blow everyone’s mind every single night. You’re not Romeo and/or Juliet. There’s no reason to drink the poison together in some flame-out gesture. So that leaves us with the small stuff. It’s all about the detail.
That’s what love is. Attention to detail.
And the moment will end. And then things will get boring. And it might get a little quiet. And it might all end horribly. And you might hate eachother at the end. And you might walk away from eachother one day and never speak again. But that’s just how it goes.
But she’ll remember the time you held the door open for her on your first date.She’ll remember the time you laughed at her impression of the landlady.She’ll remember the time you stayed up all night that first time. She’ll remember the small things a lot longer than the big ones.
But everything ends. And I’ll tell you why you have to make the small things, the small moments count so much more:
One day, probably a while longer from now, when old age takes ahold of someone, she might just only remember your smile. Everything you ever did together, every second, every moment, every beat, every morning spent in bed, every evening spent together on the sofa, all of that - gone. Everything you ever did will be reduced to the head of a pin. She won’t remember your name. She’ll just remember your smile, and she’ll smile. She won’t know why. It’s a base, gut reaction. But she’ll smile, uncontrollably, and it will come from somewhere so deep as to know that you touched her on a primal, honest, and true level that no scientist, scholar, or savant could ever begin to explain. There is no more. There is nothing else. There is just this: She’ll remember your smile, and she’ll smile.
And you know what? That’s all that really matters in the end.


I just cried at this
Insomnia.

Sometimes I wish you knew how much I care about you.
How much I genuinely am in love with you.
How honest my feelings and actions are towards you.
When we lay next to each other at night,
I can’t sleep,
I don’t mind your heavy snoring whatsoever,
Or you cold sweat when you have nightmares,
Or your on and off grinding of the teeth.
I lay here,
Enjoying every second I have with you.
Keeping these nights secured safely in the back if my mind so when I leave to New York and feel lonely at night, I could look back to nights like right now, and remember how it felt to have my whole world so vulnerably by side.
I’ll miss waking you up at 3AM asking you to take my knots out of my back.
And I’ll miss eating dinner on my carpet at 2AM.
I’ll miss running over routines randomly at 4 and having tickle fights until I scream bloody murder that I have to pee…
I already miss you and you’re right next to me, sleeping.
I am so in love with you.
It’s ineffable.
I’m just so in love with you.

And even when you frustrate me, I still want you by my side.
foryou.  (via amendedesregenbogens)

(Source: fragmentallygirl, via brvnd-nswvn)

1. Are her lips like the hot chocolate your mother made
During the winter months when you were seven? Or have you not tasted her well enough to find the fine granules of cocoa that lightly come with each kiss?

2. Do you know her favorite songs? Not when she is happy, but when she is sad. What music reaches inside her ribcage and softly consoles her heart?

3. When she is sad, are you on the phone or are you at her door? Words do not wipe away tears, fingers do.

4. Do you know all the things that keep her up at night? Do you know why she has gone three days without sleep? Do you know of the insurmountable waves of sadness that wash over her like a tsunami?

5. Do you know the things to say that will calm her heartbeat? The places to touch? The places to love?

6. Everytime you see her do you kiss her like it’s the last time but love her like it’s the first?

7. Do you love her?

8. Do you love her?


"Things I Want To Ask Your Boyfriend" - Nishat Ahmed  (via 33113)

(Source: sickwithsyllables, via brvnd-nswvn)


I’m Madison Montgomery. I make seven million dollars a picture. I have two Teen Choice Awards. My mother put me to work ever since I could talk. I hated it. The last time I saw her, she snorted half my coke and then let the cops bust me for it. I am a millennial. Generation Y; born between the birth of AIDS and 9/11, give or take. They call us the global generation. We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. But it seems our one defining trait is a numbness to the world. An indifference to suffering. And that’s the rub of all this, isn’t it? I can’t feel shit. I can’t feel anything. We think that pain is the worst feeling. It isn’t. How could anything be worse than this eternal silence inside of me. I used to not eat for days, or eat like crazy then stick my fingers down my throat. Now no matter how much I binge I can’t fill this hole inside me. I can’t take it anymore. I think I’m going batshit.
photorator:

Abandoned school bus cultivates moss on the side of the road in Puerto Rico
jeueness-perdue:

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