Latest Posts by hopelessromantism - Page 8

You come home. I welcome you with a kiss. I tell you how much I miss you, you chuckle. We sit on the couch, both holding a glass of wine, watching our favorite movie together. We know exactly what is about to happen, but we still watch it anyway, I think it's safer that way. I look at you, I can't believe you're here. I tell you I love you, you love me too. I never felt so happy in my life.

The movie ends and it's time to go to bed. You wrap your arms around me, tell me goodnight but I am already asleep. You smile to yourself. You have everything you want. You would never ask for more. I would never ask for more.

Another day, we're out. I made sandwiches, your favorite, you say, even though they taste terrible. We start to count the stars, as a joke. How far they all feel. I love you. I don't want you to go.

A new year. You come home. I welcome you with a kiss, and a smile. A strange smile, I may be crying. I can't tell. I put our record on. I take your hand. We sway. We dance slowly. Every night when you come home. In front of the window, dim lights, our song playing.

I love you. Forever. You never leave.

Every night. People of this town tell the story of the girl who dances alone by the window. The world stopped spinning, and the clocks stopped working for her. The girl whom nobody knows, they refuse to. Some pity her. Some accuse her of madness. But no one ever tells her. No one ever tells her that he stopped coming home for a long time.

my favourite trope ever:

two people are relaxing by a lake late at night, their relationship being strictly platonic. one of them smiles, “well this isn’t a bad way to spend my birthday.” the other one is taken by surprise and whispers “you didn’t tell me.” “I didn’t think it was important.” the other one reaches out to the food they brought, finds a cupcake and pretends to light it. “blow the candles and make a wish.” “thankyou for doing this” says the first one. they gaze into each others eyes till dawn breaks.

“Do you remember a night when I came along the dark passage to your room in a thunderstorm and we lay talking about whether we were afraid of death or not? That is the sort of occasion on which the things I want to say to you,–and to you only,–get said.”

— Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West written c. June 1933

Hunter S. Thompson // Sylvia Plath // N.M. Sanchez

“People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is “you’re safe with me” - that’s intimacy.” ──Taylor Jenkins Reid

good morning take this quiz and tell me

which taylor swift theme do you vibe with?

did the twin flame bruise paint you blue

wind in my hair, i was there

I just think you should sing no matter what you sound like and draw or paint no matter what it looks like

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

House carved into a stone by a 15th century Romanian monk 

Simz Art on Instagram / Tumblr / Patreon

There really is such a softness in knowing that you look up at some of the same stars as people who lived 5000 years ago did.

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

"We are a society of notoriously unhappy people: lonely, anxious, depressed, destructive, dependent — people who are glad when we have killed the time we are trying so hard to save."

-Erich Fromm; To Have or To Be? 

“and kneeling at the edge of the transparent sea i shall shape for myself a new heart from salt and mud.”

“i have only one thing to do and that’s be the wave that i am and then sink back into the ocean.”

THE SEA AS A PLACE OF BEGINNING AND ENDING

anne carson | geyser, mitski | rafael campo | ilya glazunov | slothrust | @ mild.moon on instagram | fernand braudel | bertil nilsson | a metamorfose dos pássaros (catarina vasconcelos, 2020) | fiona apple

looking for: somebody to go on long walks with

requirements 

willing to talk about our existential crisis

stop to pick up cool looking leaves, rocks and misc objects

will attempt to befriend any animals we might see

hold my hand so it doesn’t get cold

point out unusual cloud shapes

Wouldn’t be amazing if you could see all of your female ancestors at like age 25? All at once? Like you walk into a room and they’ll all in order there and you could talk with them all and see the story of your lineage? What were they doing at my age? What did they all look like? Would they be proud of me?

“Heartbreak is not always blood and crushed ribs and waking up in the middle of the night because you were choking on your own tears in your sleep. Sometimes it’s simply standing in the middle of the supermarket, trying not to throw up on the floor and attempting to stop your teeth from chattering and figuring out which loaf of bread you’re getting a better deal on at the same time.”

— (via extrasad)

“I love you the way my little brother can’t fall asleep unless the bathroom light is on and the way you touch your hands when you’re nervous. Sometimes I think you’re just a habit I should break. Sometimes you’re the only thing keeping me safe in the middle of the night and the only thing that keeps my breath from getting caught in my chest.”

— (via extrasad)

“The hours between 12am and 6am have a funny habit of making you feel like you’re either on top of the world, or under it.”

— Beau Taplin || the hours between.   (via exoticwild)

remember when you were a child and you thought the moon was following you in the car…gud times

‘where is the pen i was using like 3 seconds ago’ an autobiography i’ll never write because i keep losing the pen i was using like 3 seconds ago.

“I Can’t Remember Where I Put My Phone Two Seconds Ago But I Vividly Remember Every Embarrassing Thing I’ve Said Or Done Since 2008” a book written by me

my favorite relationship is the one between humans and dandelions. in childhood we instinctively blow on its little fuzzy seed carriers. we take the role of the wind, we help the dandelions in a crucial part of their lives, and in return we get a wish and a moment of happiness. this is how nature is meant to work. we are just as unaware of our goodness as the honey bees are, pollinating the flowers 

"Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it."

-Michel de Montaigne

“The night is for lovers, And the moon for poets.”

— a.y.

I wonder if someone has ever thought of me so much at night that they couldn’t sleep