( Via )

i think love is when i put myself to bed even when im tired, and i carry myself up the stairs even though my knees ache. and i think love is when i buy myself a coffee when im broke, and i know that ill get myself back later. and i think love is letting myself love someone, even though i am so scared. love is a heavy thing that carries you as much as you carry it.

nothing to add to this you said it all..

“She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.”

— Neil Gaiman, Stardust (via surqrised)

I have no patience for negativity toward "boomers" anymore.

Almost everybody doing the work to restore ecosystems, grow native plants, and preserve rare species is 50 or older

The people I work with IRL have told me that my presence is encouraging because it means "the younger generation is getting involved with this stuff too." There's really not very many people my age

Who do you think was fighting this fight in the 1970's

First it was lonely but you get used to it… the silence, then you start to love it. I can hear the wind blowing over the rippling water on the loch… and the birds. I hear the world how it was meant to be heard.

Shetlands, BBC1

I see a lot of dark academia aesthetic involving the classics fields, literature and languages and theater and music, but can the STEM kids get in on this too? Where’s my dark science aesthetic at? where’s my STEM gothic?

•  It has to be a mistake, on the syllabus your professor e-mailed over yesterday. The lab class can’t possibly start at 8pm. Not that you’d notice the time of night anyway, considering that for some reason it’s held in a basement of the STEM buildings that you were sure was closed off. You’ve never seen anyone emerging from its depths, and honestly you’re not even sure how to get down there. But not to worry, your professor assures you when you reply with your concerns. He’ll send his TA to pick you up. Just try not to stare at their hand. Especially if it sparks. They’re still working out the kinks.

• The transparent lightboard you use in your apartment building for working out math equations that require more room is the only illumination piercing your otherwise dim living room. You’ve been working for hours, and haven’t noticed how late it’s become, mostly because you’re pretty sure that you accidentally just determined exactly when the world is going to end. Before you can grab your phone to tell everyone, there’s a knock at your door. “Well done,” the man and woman in dark clothes and glasses that reflect even the minor light so that you can’t see your eyes as they enter your apartment. “A little too well done, we think. You’ll be coming with us now.”

•   H2 = H 2 0 [ Ωm(1+z) 3 +ΩDEexp {3 Z/z 0 dz 1+z [1+w(z)]}

•  “We are doctors,” in heart if not yet in degree,” the neurologist teaching your afternoon class says, laughing. “We are the ones who stand between that looming reaper Death and all of our patients, scalpels and syringes in hand, and say “not today, old friend. Not this one.” But then the mirth fades from his voice, and his gaze drifts to the left of the lecture hall for some odd reason, fixed on some dark corner. “That’s why it hates us, you know. Death. All of us. We as doctors must be very, very careful in our everyday lives, because Death despises us for stalling its work time and time again, and it constantly has its eyes on us. Waiting for us to relax, to look away. There are rituals, as we get older and Death steps closer every day…” but then they come back to themselves, shaking their heads and laughing. “Not enough coffee for me today, apparently!” Shadows in the corner where no one sits seem to be shifting.

•  The chemistry majors always seem to know something that no one else does. They all keep tiny glass bottles of clove oil in their backpacks at all times, for some reason. You’re starting to wonder if it wouldn’t be smart for you to do the same.

•  The engineering majors know exactly what the chem majors think only they know, and they laugh when you mention the clove oil. “They really think that will protect them,” one future robotics pioneer says to you, shaking his head. “They really think they can stop what’s coming.”

•  Something in the forensics lab whispers at night, but only when a lone student is working down there alone. One of them snags you in the halls one morning and says, “I know you’re not forensics and you’ve never heard it before, but last night I was working on a paper down there and, well. It knows your name.”

• Your roommate is a biogenetics student. She keeps beakers brimming with bubbling fluids in the fridge, and she often seems restless and distracted. You’ve caught her stealing hair off of your brush before, and one night as you watch her mixing and stirring and taking notes as she’s hunched over her desk, you realize that a single blinking eyeball is staring back at you from the green fluid surrounding it in her glass tube.

•  The mathematics students have figured out what the chemistry students know, and what the engineering students have known for years. They all look anxious now, walking around campus and constantly looking over their shoulders. One of them suggests to you that maybe you should start stockpiling bottled water. Just in case.

•  An astronomy major comes barreling into one of your classes one dim and dying afternoon, slapping a star chart down onto a desk in front of a newly enlightened mathematics student, sweating and furious. “You weren’t even going to tell us, you bastard?! You were just going to let it happen while we sat around unprepared?!”

•  A week later. You sit up in bed and your roommate is gone. Their things are gone. Campus is still and quiet, the chem and engineering and astronomy and mathematics students having all cleared out save for you. The bio, forensics, and med students are left blinking, dazed. Clearly you’ve all missed something important, but your roommate responds to your text with assurance that it’s fine. You’ll all know soon enough.

A little in love with this video taken from my dorm window 🌩️

it’s time we start oppressing ppl that use the word “hubby”

Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breath in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

there's just something inherently holy about a girl vibing alone in her room