(Source: vronbabyy)

polishmaid:

I guess the hardest thing to comprehend is time doesn’t last

and hate is only an opinion of the past

were taught we should respect others opinions and doubt

but how we take it is a different matter I wont shout

distraction:

love this book

distraction:

love this book

(Source: c0untessbathory, via polishmaid)

Delete her number. 

Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.

Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.

She loves you.

She has been in love with you for too long.

So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.

Forget her.

Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.

Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.

Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.

What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.

Doggedly loyal to you.

That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reach out to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?

She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.

Right now.

But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.

circa; 2008; lying in a hospital bed.

i think giving up is a really hard thing to do. many people argue against this and say that it’s the easiest option. however, i disagree.

when i was lying in a hospital bed six years ago, i could feel my body giving up. i could feel my heart battling with my lungs, unable to pull through and i had to make a conscious decision as to whether i was going to ask my body to fight or whether i gave in to the pain and let it kill me. i really didn’t want to die. i knew that much, but feeling like a grievance to your family-watching them in pain, as you are carted off into intensive care, wires coming out of you, a machine breathing for you, was an experience that i did not want to prolong. i am unaware of whether i romanticise the experience of lying in a hospital bed, dying, as all i really remember, clearly, was the pain. not just the physical pain of your lungs drowning, unable to breathe, not just the pain of being unable to articulate what is happening to you, to the countless ‘professionals’ and not just the pain of hurting your family as they watch, helpless by the sidelines, but the most incredible pain of recognising that this might be it; this might be the moment i die and i have to be okay with that. 

Although i don’t remember actually waking up, the relief of waking up was something that i will never forget. seeing my family. knowing that i was probably going to be okay. 

the flashbacks started as soon as i woke up. i can safely say that my trust will forever be tarnished by the nights events, when a doctor stabbed needles into my feet, into my legs and into my arms, without a word, without an explanation. when the nurses were holding me down and telling me to stop screaming.  i couldn’t see my dad. i couldn’t see my mum and in that moment, i felt so alone. i felt violated and indescribably vulnerable. this feeling of loneliness has now haunted me. i constantly need reassurance that my family and friends do love me. that they willbe there. that they mean what they say. this is such a desperate and selfish standard to set for the people i love, but it is this one painful experience that has tainted my life, for good. 

I am yet so see the positive [aside from being alive] that this experience has given me. six years later and i still have flashbacks. six years later i still see the doctors, the shining lights, everywhere i go. six years later i am still paranoid that people will leave me without warning. six years later, my anxiety is so high that i will always assume the worst of myself and everyone around me.  

and you tell me that i give up to easily? you tell me that i am too awkward?  you tell me that i am too negative? 

you have no idea.

can you hear me?
when I’m crying out for you
I’m scared, but when you’re near me
I feel like I’m standing with an army of men armed with weapons.

when you say you love me, know I love you more.
and when you say you need me, know I need you more
I adore you.

(Source: itsxplacebo, via tiger-cub)

I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer.
At night I fell asleep with visions of myself, dancing and laughing and crying with them.
Three years down the line of being on an endless world tour, and my memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times.
I was a singer - not a very popular one,
I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet, but upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken.
But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.
When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I’d been living, they asked me why - but there’s no use in talking to people who have home.
They have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people - for home to be wherever you lay your head.
I was always an unusual girl.
My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality; just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean…
And if I said I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying…
Because I was born to be the other woman.
Who belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone.
Who had nothing, who wanted everything, with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about it, and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.

"Our story has three parts: a beginning, a middle, and an end. And although this is the way all stories unfold, I still can’t believe that ours didn’t go on forever."

— Nicholas Sparks, Dear John

love does not change. people change. circumstances change 

(Source: thotcentrall, via paintedwhit3)

Does she know not to talk about your dad?  Does she know when you’re sad, you don’t like to be touched, let alone kissed? Does she know who you are? Do you laugh? Does she know your lips shake when you’re mad? Does she notice when you’re sad?

Does she know not to talk about your dad?
Does she know when you’re sad, you don’t like to be touched, let alone kissed? Does she know who you are? Do you laugh? Does she know your lips shake when you’re mad? Does she notice when you’re sad?