People raised on love see things differently than those raised on survival.

Sorry I took time typing. I was trying so hard not to appear weird or smth

Books are time travel. True readers all know this. But books don’t just take you back to the time in which they were written; they can take you back to different versions of yourself,they can tear you apart and put you together,they can leave you staring at the wall for hours,make you experience things you won't experience in this life time.

Old habits die screaming.

sometimes I'm outside doing my little chores with a little frown and then i see a kitty and i meow at the kitty and the kitty meows back and suddenly life is worth living

You wake up, stretch like a lazy cat, and—of course—check your socials before even thinking about prayers. Priorities, right? Then, you eat breakfast, hoping it magically turns into pancakes, but nope—same old ፍርፍር
If you woke up on the right side of the bed,You’re in a great mood, ready to conquer the day. But if you woke up on the wrong side, well… let’s just say the whole house knows it. Suddenly, your tea is “too cold,” “too hot,” or “too tea-ish.” Basically, nothing is right, and somehow, it’s the teapot’s fault.
Even though everything seems right, Knowing the fact that the day is Monday will automatically makes your day bad.

When you ask me to spill the tea prepare yourself for 20 mins of voice messages cz hell yes m gonna spill it in every single details w the exact tone

I'm done living. Gonna be a tree and be productive

no matter how much you repress it you'll always go back to your roots, it was never a phase

You're always haunted by the idea you're wasting your life.

The finest souls are those who gulped pain and avoided making others taste it.

We never met but I learned to love your absence.

"You are what you eat,"
.
You are what you consume
.
You are what you read

But what of me? I am not what I read, though the words stain my soul like ink. I am not the soaring sonnet. No, I am the discarded page, the footnote lost in the margin.

Sometimes, the stories sing a song I can barely hear, a melody of heights I can never hope to scale, depths I dare not fathom. Unattainable, unreachable, a siren's call from a shore I am forever forbidden to touch. A hot sand that flow between the cold tips of my finger.

And even if, by some miracle, those heights were within my grasp, I would refuse. I will not be reduced to a blunt line, a predictable rhyme, a neatly packaged piece of literature. I will not be confined, defined, entombed within the cage of someone else's words.

Let them have their poems, their novels,their art, their perfect, polished prose. I choose chaos, I choose imperfection, I choose the messy, unwritten truth of my own existence. Let them devour their stories; I will remain hungry and starved.

I still don't know how to hug someone without breaking them or pick them up from the floor with out making it worse

Iloveyou; I wrote it with no spaces so there's no room for anyone else.

Idk made me smile.

I never felt open in any way. I would never impulsively ring people and assume that they'd want to see me, or just go 'round. I always had to sit down and think very hard before I knocked on anybody's door. And consequently, I never really knocked.

I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

If you know too much, you'll get old too soon. Maybe that's what happened here