a girl and her bed on sundays are an endless love affair.
note to self. (via indsayne)
*For Inspiration Purposes Only*
There is a kind of voracious reading that happens between the ages of seven and 17 that I thought was reserved only for, well, children. Sometimes I wonder if all my reading since has been a secret attempt to get close to that experience of sustained absorption. To have a book become your entire world so effortlessly is a precious ability that rarely occurs during the exhaustion and distraction of adulthood.
SEE WHAT THEY DO TO YOU? ALWAYS MAKE YOU FEEL ONE STEP BEHIND. ALWAYS STRIVING FOR SOME FABRICATED IDEA OF PERFECTION CONCOCTED BY THOSE WHO DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR INHERENT WORTH.
DON’T. BELIEVE. THEIR. BULLSHIT.
YOUR SELF-LOATHING IS THEIR PAYCHECK.
YOUR SELF-HATRED IS THEIR CHRISTMAS BONUS.
YOUR FEAR IS THEIR SUMMER HOUSE IN THE HAMPTONS.
YOU’RE WORTH SO SO SO MUCH INFINITELY MORE THAN THIS JUNK.
Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via observando)