And It Pisses Me Off To Not Have More Than 24 Hours In My Day. I Want To Watch Every Movie That Made

Remember when Fleabag said, ""I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear EVERY morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, who to love and how to tell them."

The last line made me think about this a lot. It's okay to be dependent for a bit, rest ourselves on someone else's shoulder without feeling like we are living a cliché.

actually, growing up is feeling like i turned sixteen two days ago. i’ve been eighteen for years. fifteen year olds seem so young. wasn’t i fifteen just a few weeks ago? all my friends and i are still twelve. i’m closer to thirty then to being a baby. i never got to be a kid. i never grew past eight. i can’t talk to my mom. i want to sit in her lap forever. the week is going by so slow. an entire year has passed. i want to decide everything for myself. i need someone to tell me exactly what to do.

leave me alone, i am self diagnosing my mental illnesses

"So if I asked you about art you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo? You know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientation, the whole works, right? But I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. Seen that. If I asked you about women you’d probably give me a syllabus of your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You’re a tough kid. I ask you about war, and you’d probably, uh, throw Shakespeare at me, right? “Once more into the breach, dear friends.” But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love you probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone could level you with her eyes. Feeling like! God put an angel on earth just for you…who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel and to have that love for her to be there forever. Through anything. Through cancer. You wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting’ up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term visiting hours don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, because that only occurs when you love something more than you love yourself. I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. I look at you; I don’t see an intelligent, confident man; I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you’re a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine and you ripped my fuckin’ life apart. You’re an orphan right? Do you think I’d know the first thing about how hard ! your life has been, how you feel, who you are because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally, I don’t give a shit about all that, because you know what? I can’t learn anything from you I can’t read in some fuckin’ book. Unless you wanna talk about you, who you are. And I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t wanna do that, do you, sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief."

-Sean Maguire, Good Will Hunting

there are days when my name lingers on the inside of your mouth; too reluctant to be explicit, too obvious to be discreet.

and it makes both of us tiptoe around each other till you say, "one last time" and spend the night in my dad's t-shirt that i always forget to bring back home. we have a hard time returning things, you and i. we make a home out of borrowed items because the reality of owning something that's just ours is scary; we are not who we wanted to be and if any of us got any closer to what we prayed for, i am not sure we'll recognize what we see. right now, i see you with my blurry vision because i can't find my glasses again and you have no idea how to look for things. you once told me you only started missing your grandma after she was buried. you do that; confess bizarre things just after coming. i don't mind it but i think i love you only when you are falling asleep beside me. the rest of the time we spend together, i nurture a mild hatred towards you so that we don't promise each other a forever we will grow to resist. well, even our hypotheticals are a calculated risk. there are days when your name lingers on the roof of my mouth so i just shove my tongue down yours so that we can never talk about anything real; reality bites, i'm sure you've noticed.

You ever see a pretty dress, a well-organised notebook, a peculiar balcony or read one line of poetry and get the overwhelming urge to reinvent yourself

“my child is fine” your child has been listening to achilles come down for weeks on end

repeat after me: i will not make myself small for other people's convenience.

it's so important for your health and well-being to get overly attached to a fictional man who is both deeply amoral and unbelievably, pathetically sad

Why is everyone asleep? Why must we be quiet and resting when we can be sleep deprived and be (.) this close to finding something truly breathtaking on some forgotten, neglected corner of the internet or finally have that one conversation with our estranged partners that we have dreaded for too long and be over with the anxiety? Why must we not stir the excitement within when we see someone talk about our favorite tv show which hasn't been watched by many yet? Why are we sleeping? Why are we not holding hands and kissing and confessing our love for one another? Why are we not telling the people we love how difficult isolation was and that every moment of it was lived with a flickering hope that after all of this is a little better we will get to touch, be touched again? Why are we pretending we weren't touch starved? Why are we sleeping when we should be making each other cute keychains that have a picture of our favorite place printed on them?

"I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal."

Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf