“Begin at once to live, and count each separate day as a separate life.”
— Seneca

(via toast-and-nectarines)

This Poem

This poem is not for him and it doesn’t wonder why I wasn’t what he wanted.
It simply says, I was not what he wanted,
which this poem knows is very different from saying I was not wanted.
This poem is not confused. It is not written by a lovesick adolescent cataloguing paragraphs of him like answers to a test. It is not a naive girl making excuses when his eyes don’t meet hers across the room because he’s watching a woman whose body speaks a sign language the girl does not understand.
This poem is not angry. It is not written by someone made savage by love gone unrequited too long. It is neither maudlin nor bleached entirely of feeling, because it knows now that love is not that extreme. It knows love is much more subtle than what they show in the movies.
This is a poem that accepts his contradictions. It is a poem that knows him without trying to define him.
It is not a sad poem.
This poem remembers moments on a dream-like night where the stars seemed to uncross for just a moment to grant me an idea of what could have been. But this poem also remembers afternoons when the heartache was so big it didn’t seem possible it could be contained by my body.
This poem understands that love itself is not always enough. Not enough to keep people together, not enough to save them from themselves. It knows love is not medicine and shouldn’t be used as prescribed. This poem sees love more like a shooting star on a black night. This poem doesn’t believe in waiting for the star to move, or in trying to catch it when it does.
This poem is only here to describe it, to memorialize it, and to be thankful for it’s existence.
This poem is not for him. This poem is for me.

“Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.”
— Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

(via toast-and-nectarines)

“And I understand. I understand why people hold hands: I’d always thought it was about possessiveness, saying ‘This is mine’. But it’s about maintaining contact. It is about speaking without words. It is about I want you with me and don’t go.”
  • Writer: I've planned and plotted this novel. I know what's going to happen, and I know my characters like the back of my hand.
  • Main character: Lol no
  • Writer: What - what are you doing? You aren't supposed to do that.
  • Main character: wanna do it
  • Side character: hey you don't mind if I ruin this thing do you
  • Writer: STOP IT.
  • Main character: brb gonna steal a boat lol
“When I’m writing, I don’t feel like I’m making things up. I don’t feel like I’m deciding what my characters will say and do; I feel like I’m remembering and recording a story, something that has already happened and is out of my hands.”
— Flarene
“Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like.”
~ Lemony Snicket (via moncheriiee)

As if I needed another reason to move to Sweden

They have started to make the Bechdel Test AN ACTUAL MOVIE RATING SYSTEM.

I’ve been trying to write about you for three hundred years. There are no words for the furious fondness you pulled from my chest like a surgeon removing cancer the first time we met. I’ve been trying to explain stars in backyards the size of swimming pools and red planets you visit in dreams because it’s the closest I can get to telling people about you and me. I’ve tried to say there’s no getting away from someone who’s always been inside you, because I think if you weren’t real I would’ve written you into existence. Forgive the hyperboles, the metaphors and the similes. The only way I can think to explain thunder is by saying earthquakes rain down from the sky sometimes. But you are far less violent, and much more destructive than a natural disaster. I’m more like a house built on a sinking foundation. I know you never wanted to know this, and frankly neither did I, but the truth is some people are destined to destroy each other, just as every living thing is eventually destined to die.

I’m worried that one day
my family will add your name
to the list of things to never say around me
and sometimes, when you kiss me
with your records playing in the background
I wonder if I’ll hate that song next October.

Yesterday, I looked at you
and tried to calculate what the odds are
that we’ll rip each other’s hearts apart
and the best I could come up with
was 50/50
and even this feels optimistic.

So, yeah,
I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m scared
but there’s no one I’d rather be scared with than you.

— Fortesa Latifi (via madgirlf)

(via waitingonroses)

Anyone who doesn’t think procrastination is an art form has clearly never done it the right way.

What if Tumblr is powered by the sleep it steals from innocent teens around the world and we only *think* staying up until four AM looking up Sherlock GIFs is our choice?

  • me: gets ready for bed
  • me: goes to bed 5 hours later

My whole life I thought it was pronounced ‘Sure, Bert.’ It’s not. It’s ‘sherbet.’ My entire life has been a lie.