Want someone to say "what a mind" when I write poems

How can I listen to Temporary Fix in public without being a partial stripper haha

“One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters…But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.”

— Charles Baudelaire

This look of Harry in green sweatshirt is an "obsession" I'll never get over

Being a Hufflepuff feels like you're a kind ocean with arms as soft as the waves crashing on the shore.

But oh how these waves sometimes go batshit crazy yesss like that

The Lumineers

“(…) tenderness is a point somewhere in the vast space between grief and hope.”

— “So We Must Meet Apart” by Gabrielle Bates and Jennifer S. Cheng

Hari Alluri, from “Ancestral Memory”, After Kwame Dawes 

1. A Primer for the Small Weird Loves - Richard Siken / 2. The Crane Wife - CJ Hauser / 3. Automat - Edward Hopper / 4. Red Doc> - Anne Carson / 5. Melancholy - Edvard Munch / 6. The Village (2004) / 7. So We Must Meet Apart - Gabrielle Bates and Jennifer S. Cheng

Why do I think of flowers often with an ache even the thorns of rose won't be able to pierce me as much as these thoughts are. Perhaps it's the way the petals are so soft, as soft as I aspire to be, or it's just the way hues come together with a blending similar to sunset and sunrise. How do I let myself watch these flowers wither without letting my skin shrivel with them. Tell me the grounds, you'd swallow me as you will the dead flowers.

You cannot save people,

You can only love them.

- Anaïs Nin.

I think one of the times when life slows down for me is when I get lost in art, when I am devouring art (be it a painting, a musical piece, a piece of literature or just hearing someone's philosophy out or anything else, could be the way the waves crash at the ocean bed or tye way clouds change shape) it's when I actually start living and breathing and existing and I don't even realize that because I've lost myself to tye beauty of tye art in front of me.

I love the way the word queer rolls off my tongue. It feels like spitting fire, the kind of fire that exists in souls that desire to throw away all social norms to be who they wanna be and love whom they wanna love.

Queer is used to describe something strange or odd and reclaiming that word, saying- yes we are weird, we like to be weird.

They call us queer because they think we are different, a negative difference in their eyes (which is not exactly true since queer people are just like any other person …just cooler), but then again, we love being different and we love being queer and we love saying fuck your definition of normal or good or whatever, im gonna be different, im gonna love and live according to what I feel is suitable and no one is going to be able to stop me. I love the way the word queer rolls off my tongue, it feels like power. The power to stand out and be myself. The power I get when I piss you off by being myself.

It's beautiful when I see people talk about their dreams or goals of future, like them saying " I'm gonna dress dark academia once I have enough money" or "I'm gonna dye my hair once I move out" or " I'm gonna get a cat" or "I'm gonna become a writer"......I love the amount of hope each word carries... so heavy because in that moment as we say those words we're completely unaware if we will ever get a chance to see those dreams and wishes come true or maybe we are aware yet we let all our worries get weighed down by hope.

It's beautiful how we carry pieces of people in our memories unwilling to let the good ones pass.....like here's a song we shared that now reminds me of you or you told me about this movie so now everytime I watch it it reminds me of you making me hope you were watching it with me or I'm baking a cake which I know I'd your favorite, would you have liked the taste of my cooking....and maybe this feeling of losing the person and living with the memories is merely tragic, but we make it beautiful....maybe it's to keep us from going insane....

I love the smell of cinamon and oranges, and even though I haven't been nicer to myself, I would love to smell like something I love very much, like cinamon, like oranges, old books. I would love to smell like winter, like burnt woods, petrichor, lemon and vanilla. But I wonder if one day I would love to smell like my lover. The morning lights with the scent of my lover in my hair, morning chores with the hint of smell of my lover in them. A smell so distant yet as distinctive as the smell of cinamon and oranges. Oh how I can compare my lover with cinamon and oranges, how my lover is nothing but all the small things I hold onto. How my lover is in everything, like a God, an energy I cannot seem to get enough of.