With Pen and Paper

With Pen and Paper

think about things. somethings, every things, most things, a few things, confusing things, simple things, stupid things, hurtful things, loving things. think.

“ One day, you’re 17 and you’re planning for someday. And then quietly, without you ever really noticing, someday is today. And then someday is yesterday. And this is your life. ”

—    John Green (via asdfghjkllove)

(via luvdancingqueen)

“ Before you know it it’s 3 am and you’re 80 years old and you can’t remember what it was like to have 20 year old thoughts or a 10 year old heart. ”

—     Unknown (via psych-facts)

(via choicebananasandselfesteem)

“ Stop perceiving me as weak because I am gentle. ”


it’s eight o’clock in the morning and i ask you if
you love her
and you say “um” and
i just kind of grimace because it’s so early and
hearing you still stutter over the places
she left burning on your skin
as if you were her ashtray
just makes my heart chug like a steam-powered train
and god help me but i know i’m barely more
than a speck of dirt to you, some kind of
decomposer so your death doesn’t have to be so slow,
some kind of fungus that’s grown up between your toes
but you’ve kept around because you like how it
hurts you know once you told me
“i feel like mold gets a bad rap”
and i feel like the mold that’s growing over all the
damp fingerprints she left behind

i mean you choke on the bits of her
still left in your throat
how are you supposed to even say my name
when you can’t even get air to your lungs i mean
i was supposed to be your something-special
and most of the time i wake up and find
you’re at the other side of the bed,
nightmaring about her again

and god, i don’t know,
it’s eight o’clock in the morning
and you still make me think the kind of thoughts
that belong to
3 a.m.

—    Be careful or he’ll turn you into a toadstool /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via mangled-passion)

“ If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating. ”

—    Sylvia Plath (via introspectivepoet)

(via wolfishly-hungry)




This one time I painted a living room with a girl.

This was a handful of years back. It was about eight months before the huge, flame-out of a breakup. That day, though? That day we painted the living room? It was pretty uneventful. We painted my parents living room for $50 between us and a pizza. That was it. I think we watched Anchorman or something after that.

But it still holds as on of the most indelible memories I have. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not still in love, it happened, it was good, it ended, and we’ve both moved on. But I’ll never forget that day. Because it’s never, in the long run, about the grand gestures. You can fly across the world and show up on her doorstep with a rose in your teeth and a ring in a little velvet box but I can guarantee you that - more often than not - she’s going to remember the time you built the birdhouse in the back yard, or what have you, a whole lot more.

Life wasn’t meant to be taken in large movements. The next day will inevitably arrive, you’ll sleep, and the moment will have passed. But when you have a hundred thousand small moments, you can step back and appreciate the picture a lot more than metaphorically blowing your load on some grand moment that, in all honesty, look, you’re not Bruce Fucking Springsteen, you’re not going to be able to blow everyone’s mind every single night. You’re not Romeo and/or Juliet. There’s no reason to drink the poison together in some flame-out gesture. So that leaves us with the small stuff. It’s all about the detail.

That’s what love is. Attention to detail.

And the moment will end. And then things will get boring. And it might get a little quiet. And it might all end horribly. And you might hate eachother at the end. And you might walk away from eachother one day and never speak again. But that’s just how it goes.

But she’ll remember the time you held the door open for her on your first date.
She’ll remember the time you laughed at her impression of the landlady.
She’ll remember the time you stayed up all night that first time.
She’ll remember the small things a lot longer than the big ones.

But everything ends. And I’ll tell you why you have to make the small things, the small moments count so much more:

One day, probably a while longer from now, when old age takes ahold of someone, she might just only remember your smile. Everything you ever did together, every second, every moment, every beat, every morning spent in bed, every evening spent together on the sofa, all of that - gone. Everything you ever did will be reduced to the head of a pin. She won’t remember your name. She’ll just remember your smile, and she’ll smile. She won’t know why. It’s a base, gut reaction. But she’ll smile, uncontrollably, and it will come from somewhere so deep as to know that you touched her on a primal, honest, and true level that no scientist, scholar, or savant could ever begin to explain. There is no more. There is nothing else. There is just this: She’ll remember your smile, and she’ll smile.

And you know what? That’s all that really matters in the end.

I just cried at this

(via garden-goth)