Midnights Is Actually Just Folklore Dressed Up As 1989

Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that 18 years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn’t give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. I was at that age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind.

- Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

I can’t stop thinking about how perfectly Barbie portrays girlhood and growing up… How you’re born in a perfect pink world, where you make the rules and get to prioritise whimsies and friendship and beauty, and then you notice something has changed, you discover that something is wrong with you, and you’re offered an illusion of choice, but even if you’d rather keep wearing your heels and go home and be safe and comfortable, you have to choose the Birkenstock, you have to leave your home, you have to grow up. So you’re thrust into this gritty, unfeeling world, where you’re scrutinised and suppressed, where you want to disappear into yourself, because everything is harsh and big and you are tiny and fragile and inadequate. And as overwhelming and impossible as it seems, you survive it. You find truth in the things you believed in when you were young, the inherent good in humanity, connection and love; your friends who look at you while you are crying, and tell you that they cannot imagine what it is that you do not like about yourself.

Do not fall in love with people like me. I will take you to museums, and parks and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth. I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave, you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.

— Caitlyn Siehl

This will always stay an imagination 😔

Imagine being subject of someone's poetry ♡

I'm a prisoner to my addiction

I'm addicted to a life that's so empty and so cold

I'm a prisoner to my decisions

Prisoner by The Weeknd and Lana Del Rey

What's so upsetting is that the very thing which Qala wanted to prove her mom that women have ambitions of their own and are capable of achieving their own kind of gets lost in this seemingly unending effort.

Her mom believes that to sing in the showbiz is indicative of loose character and she... well had to go to extreme lengths to get where she was...

So in the process of proving her mom wrong she kind prolly went along the lines of why her mom said that. And it's so sad that she was always forced into this competition to prove all these notions wrong and in this unhealthy race had to lose her ideals and the One person she truly *cared* about

thinking about how henry is so superstitious that he put out a saucer of milk on his porch at night to ward away evil spirits. bro must’ve not realized that he is the evil spirit 😭

"damn, this movie is so relatable." and the movie they're watching is qala.

There is a stag in the snow. Blink and he will vanish. Was he a stag at all or was he something else? Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened? Or was he a deer, glimpsed amongst the trees and then gone, disturbing not a single branch in his departure? The stag is a shot left untaken. An opportunity lost. Stolen like a kiss. In these new forgetful times with their changed ways sometimes the stag will pause a moment longer. He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream. He waits now. For someone to take the shot. For someone to pierce his heart. To know he is remembered.

- The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist.