I Would Recognize Them Thru Post Alone, By Type; I Would Know Them Iconless, By The Tags They Write And

“Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.”

— Anais Nin

oh, i am finally old enough to know why my parents took so long to grab their coats. why they would ask us to get ready to go only to sit down for another round of coffee. what would i tell myself, at 10 years old? it’s okay. sit down with them too. take in the extra hour with your friend and her family. when you get home, write down every moment in your diary. one day you will be older and you will be waving goodbye to your best friend, and you will turn the key to start your beat up little car engine, and you will look back over your shoulder. her hair will be blowing in the wind and she will be beautiful and you will be, for a moment, struck by all of it. what you will feel is so wide and nameless that it will engulf you. and you will think of being 14 and kicking her under the table in math every time you wanted to whisper something behind the teacher’s back. you will think about how long the days felt, and how you could hold her hand whenever you wished, but you didn’t. and you will think about all of the people you could have lingered with. and you will wish, more than you have ever felt a wish, that the universe just gave you that - more time to linger. more time to say - i love you. i know i need to leave, but i don’t want to leave you. and when i go, i am leaving a piece of my heart that lingers too. 

one more round of coffee. the days are so short, and you are so lovely.

Jung’s architecture of the psyche

Eugene Taylor, The Mystery of Personality

Charles Bukowski, "no title," from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk through the Fire

“𝚆𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛; 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.”

— 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚎

moving far away to a sunny place.

𝖨𝖽𝖺 𝖱𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝖮𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 🧚 <3

Look at your wrist, see the blueish veins? The blood flowing through them contains hemoglobin, a protein that has four iron atoms incorporated into its structure. Iron is only naturally produced in one place, it can only be forged in the core of dying stars.

Every time you look at your veins, remember that you are built from, and kept alive by, pieces of stardust.

it’s like insane that an ancient writer knew the words i needed to hear a thousand years on and could see me through all that time but also. it’s not surprising in the least bc they felt as i felt and they sang as i sang and they did everything i’ve ever done there is no state of being which they have not already passed i am nothing new i am not alone and that is a great joy to know

I'm such a sucker for tragedies, like yes please stomp all over my heart, go absolutely feral you have all the permit!