I am sad again. for awhile I got to be someone different- cool girl, fun girl, always up for anything girl. like playing dress up I wore the persona of someone that was easy to love, easy to hold onto. now the air is icing over and I cannot be this person anymore- maybe I was never her or maybe she died at the beginning of the month, when the air was static silent for ten long days. i am sad again, but I know how to laugh and make others smile

I need a life that isn't just about needing to escape my life.

Those who wanted to sleep, not from fatigue but because of the nostalgia of dreams.

She loved the rain so much that she let it drown her

Studying is hot

I wish I was a cat. no calories. no worries. just meow

i think having a sword would fix me

Love others so radically they wonder why.

I nod, sip my tea, thinking about how hard it is to really truly connect with another human being.

Words, alas, are clumsy vessels for thought. The moment a thought leaves my mind and takes the form of words, it shifts, morphs, becomes something entirely different. Like mismatched socks on picture day - close, but undeniably wrong, misunderstood. That half formed thought, a fleeting shape is now in full glare. This is perhaps why I hoard my words, guarding them jealously. But when I do unleash them, I make them so raw, so unfiltered that those who are struck by them suffer. A swollen face from the blow of truth, a sour tongue from tasting the unfiltered core of what I really think. Then I'm forced to gulp the awkward silence that follows

A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.

I am calm. I am calm. (It is the calm before something awful.)

If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.

How miserable. You're touch starved and touch repulsed? What are you? Written by Dostoevsky?