The Feminine Urge To Run Barefoot Into The Forest. To Read And Make Art. To Tell People How Much They

how do i make my entire life a love letter to the moon?

how to fall in love with life again

go cloud-gazing, lay down in the grass on a sunny day, or empty roads on a rainy day, stare up at the sky and let your mind wander.

read a book so complex that you don't understand anything, fill your arms with scrawled definitions.

writing poems and notes of kindness, hiding them for other people to find and pass along!

read passages of love in another language, untranslated and realise that love can surpass even the greatest of barriers.

find your favourite flower! hunt for it, research it, write an essay on why you love it and how much it means to you!

buy another copy of your favourite book, fill the pages with annotations and give it to a second hand shop for somebody else to experience it the way that you do.

fill a journal with moments of your life, even if you don't think they're very interesting.

listen to music whilst looking at the moon and stars, realising how beautiful life is.

visit an art gallery or a museum near you. become familiar with it, visit it until you know it inside out. make it your special place.

learn the little things about people, including yourself. find their favourite colour and why, find their music taste, their taste in books until you know them perfectly.

the small things! taking sips of warm beverages becomes the most comforting thing, closing your eyes for a moment on a bus and focusing on the lull of movement.

bake/cook your favourite treat. experiment and find the way that makes it taste simply ethereal.

concept: two indian high school girls fall in love, desi dark academia style. imagine them carefully braiding each other’s hair in the school restroom while discussing mughal history. sneaking an old ipod to school and listening to sufi and carnatic music together on the weary bus ride back home. doing everything together, they’re as inseparable as two girl best friends can get. going to book stores or libraries on weekends and spending hours reading sitting next to each other, and then having an intense discussion over chai and vada pav at a small stand. coming back from coaching classes in the evenings, holding hands as their jhumkas twinkle under the streetlights. texting each other at 5 in the morning while stuck on homework. holding hands, hugging ten times a day and cheek kisses are normal, and they never realize their feelings for each other until an accidental forehead touch in a doorway, glancing at each other’s lips and breathing heavily. not choosing to date for fear of ruining their academic careers and remaining best friends. finally getting together when by a stroke of good luck, they both make it to their common dream college and have a celebratory kiss when one goes to the others house to break the good news in person. just, two desi girls falling in love; enamored by the world around them, its knowledge and each other.

WE ARE *BANGS HEAD AGAINST WALL* NEVER EVER EVER *THROWS CHAIR* GETTING BACK TOGETHER *JUMPS OFF A CLIFF*

you know what’s really fun and in style right now? being kind and making others feel loved and valued

Geronimo Stilton was gay Thea Stilton was gay and the Thea Sisters were DEFINITELY all gay

I'd cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home.

— Andrea Gibson

“In college I had a physics professor who wrote the date and time in red marker on a sheet of white paper and then lit the paper on fire and placed it on a metallic mesh basket on the lab table where it burned to ashes. He asked us whether or not the information on the paper was destroyed and not recoverable, and of course we were wrong, because physics tells us that information is never lost, not even in a black hole, and that what is seemingly destroyed is, in fact, retrievable. In that burning paper the markings of ink on the page are preserved in the way the flame flickers and the smoke curls. Wildly distorted to the point of chaos, the information is nonetheless not dead. Nothing, really, dies. Nothing dies. Nothing dies.”

— Nicholas Rombes, The Absolution of Roberto Acestes Laing (via bobschofield)

Why do I always have to torture myself by replaying conversations and overanalysing every word I said