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stop talking about the USA. I have heard enough about that wretched place

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most unstable girl you know: i need to get a masters degree

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reading something by e. lockhart is knowing something's wrong but you can't stop it because it's written in the stars. Like watching your best friend slowly loose themselves but you can't help her because it's fate.

why did i just see this omg it is so true tho sry

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"I wouldn't want to bother anyone," I say as the thing inside of me eats me alive.

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You know, ten years ago, I loved a fictional guy called Tobias who had four fears and hence called himself Four because trauma. And now, ten years later, I hate a fictional guy called Tobias who has four grandsons who are traumatized because of him. Funny how times change. Call it a full circle moment.

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hey man I found a piece of your soul stuck in the text messages of old friends you don’t speak to anymore. do you want it back

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Started thinking about how maybe the reason Kaz sleeps so little is because after he escaped the Reaper's Barge he must have been terrified to go to sleep in case he was mistaken for dead again

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I'm not a cuddle person. I'm more of a put your leg on my leg kinda person.

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reject booktok culture. go to the library and get a weird little novel you’ve never heard of in your life and read it all in 2 days like god intended.

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One mans “annoying female” is another mans “damn baby where you been all my life” don’t forget that.

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i miss jameson winchester hawthorne

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how i really wanna leave here.

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Melancholic skies and miserable dreams;

Love isn't a dream but our meer memory

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Sunrise

by Louise Glück

This time of year, the window boxes smell of the hills, the thyme and rosemary that grew there, crammed into the narrow spaces between the rocks and, lower down, where there was real dirt, competing with other things, blueberries and currants, the small shrubby trees the bees love— Whatever we ate smelled of the hills, even when there was almost nothing. Or maybe that’s what nothing tastes like, thyme and rosemary.

Maybe, too, that’s what it looks like— beautiful, like the hills, the rocks above the tree line webbed with sweet smelling herbs, the small plants glittering with dew—

It was a big event to climb up there and wait for dawn, seeing what the sun sees as it slides out from behind the rocks, and what you couldn’t see, you imagined;

your eyes would go as far as they could, to the river, say, and your mind would do the rest—

And if you missed a day, there was always the next, and if you missed a year, it didn’t matter, the hills weren’t going anywhere, the thyme and rosemary kept coming back, the sun kept rising, the bushes kept bearing fruit—

The streetlight’s off: that’s dawn here. It’s on: that’s twilight. Either way, no one looks up. Everyone just pushes ahead, and the smell of the past is everywhere, the thyme and rosemary rubbing against your clothes, the smell of too many illusions—

Between them, the hills and sky took up all the room. Whatever was left, that was ours for a while. But eventually the hills will take it back, give it to the animals. And maybe the moon will send the seas there, and where we lived will be a stream or river coiling around the base of the hills, paying the sky the compliment of reflection.

I went back but I didn’t stay. Everyone I cared about was gone, some dead, some disappeared into one of those places that don’t exist, the ones we dreamed about because we saw them from the top of the hills— I had to see if the fields were still shining, the sun telling the same lies about how beautiful the world is when all you need to know of a place is, do people live there. If they do, you know everything.

The hills are terrible, they hide the truth of the past. Green in summer, white when the snow falls.

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shout out to girls who feel anxiety in their chest instead of their stomach. we truly have it the worst, don't we?