“my Mind Turns Your Life Into Folklore” Is Such A Confession. It’s Taylor Admitting That Folklore

“Kat is back”

She is breathtaking 🔥

ctto: @barbieferrreira on ig

a country estate. with portraits and paintings and marble statues. great big dusty libraries filled with worn spines titled with embossed letters. gardens i can take walks around when my existence gets the best of me. flowers, hedges, pathways. nearby lakes. i wanna be rich not to be a modern socialite but to wear corseted dresses and take turns around the room. strawberries and champagnes and sunrises over the rolling hills. petrichor. dew. golden morning sunlight. fresh fruit. love, in every aspect of the word. 

eu não posso ser sua amiga, porque a intensidsde dos meus sentimentos me machucam. Você não é amigo. Você é amor.

I'll change every version of myself to fit in. I've been having a hard time adjusting. Had the shiniest wheels now they're rusting. My cheeks are growing tired from growing red and faking smiles. Are we only biding time until I lose your affection? Ive got a hundren thrown out speeches i almost said to you. I have a lot of regrets about that. I'm a mirrorball. They see right through me. I cut off my nose just to spite my face. I don't like anticipating my face in a red flush. Will you still want me when I'm nothing new? You are so much older and wiser. Lord what will become of me when I've lost my novelty? You tolerate me. I sit and watch you.

Obsessed with the idea of sacrifice in a book being a selfish act rather than a selfless one. Their lover screaming at them: “How dare you leave me in this barren world? How dare you take away my choice to die for you and leave me with this grief?”. They are dead, and their lover is left - a gaping wound - bleeding into the ground. Do they love them so much that they would die for them, or do they love them so much that they forced the other to live without them? Sacrifice as a bitter act. Sacrifice as something wildly violent; something tormentingly cruel — but always, always built on love. Perhaps, they are both martyrs in the end.

My spirit soars where the air goes thin.

life would be so different if i was a bookshop owner in a small village near some forest, who has a secret affair with the local poet

i am so much older than i thought i was. it's as if one day i decided to run too far from the sidewalk where my chalk drawings are and forgot to come back. now i wander around foreign cities because maps do not guide me home anymore. i dine in timeworn cafés and write poems on discarded grocery store receipts hoping to brush my fingertips over those stolen years, but it only drifts further away each day. tender is the spine that bears one's childhood ghosts and this misplaced sorrow thrashes beneath the very skin i can never step out of.

i don't understand much but what i do know is that people who read books and poetries are so attractive and they have the best vibe

In Greek, "nostalgia” literally means "the pain from an old wound”. It's a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn't a spaceship, it's a time machine. It goes backwards and forwards, it takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It’s not called the wheel, it’s called the carousel. It let’s us travel the way a child travels - around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know we are loved.

Don Draper, “The Wheel”