I Sometimes Forget That This Is Everyone’s First Time On Earth Too. Like. This Is My First Time Seeing

There isn't any scent in this world as comforting as the scent of a mother's duppata.

the least you can do is be kind!!! we're all horrible human beings love is the only hope out there

home is the first grave

@filmnoirsbian x (from @willemdafoegf 's post // catherine lacey // chen chen // silas denver melvin // aloha from hell, richard kadrey // courtney love prays to oregon // @heavensghost // st. lucy’s home for girl’s raised by wolves // x // taylor swift’s “my tears ricochet” // this post @ceemetery

buy me a coffee

21 January, 1926 The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf (1924-1941)

"The story of Layla and Majnun"

i made an alt where i ramble even more thank you very much

unfortunately, to my parents’ disapproval, the one thing i truly dream of is having a home. i know i am supposed to dream big and “shatter the glass ceiling," and i do, but really, this is as close to my heart. i don't imagine the number of rooms and how big or small the house is, but i do dream about the sunlight coming through the windows, the quiet summer afternoons in the courtyard, the plants and flowers that are to be grown, along with the groceries to be bought. i dream of a gentle life with my beloved, where there will be no slamming of doors and neither of us will go to sleep with quiet resentment in our hearts that grows every day. i'll be able to hear the laughter of the children playing down the street, reverberating off the walls, and tell them stories—from the undying devotion between two lovers to the ventures of the fellow knight—while drinking tea on which too much money was spent for sugar, which leaves ring marks on the kitchen table. i dream of the books that are to be read, which will adorn every shelf and corner, and the paintings that are to be hung.

My loved ones are always welcome, irrespective of whether they want company, help, or words of kindness during trying times. i dream of the mehfils that are to be held, the ghazals that will be sung, and the shayeris that are to be recited. there will be winter nights spent huddled around the fire with my friends, where the courtyard will witness us dreaming aloud and revisiting old jokes. there'll be new recipes i'll learn, cupcakes i will bake, a favorite song i'll hum, and movies i'll watch. after all, some dreams are not about leaving legacies or achieving success in boardrooms; they do not call for applause, shine under spotlights, or get remembered in the pages of history. some of mine are more fragile, steadier—ones that have the comfort of a voice that calls for dinner, the creak of familiar wooden floors, the smell of fresh bread and candles of jasmine, with the last note of the serenade lingering in the air.

watched Jab We Met and started crying

i love you fairy tales i love you folklore i love you myths i love you stories as old as humanity itself i love you oral traditions i love you characters carried through time on my ancestors’ tongues i love you story i’ve seen a million ways and want to see a million more i love you archetypes i love—

you unstable ahh bitches, here's a hug 🫂💌 it scares yet comforts me that so many of you feel the same

they should invent a yearning for love that is tolerable btw