[on The Verge Of Having A Complete Breakdown] I Need To Make Some Kind Of List Or Perhaps Sort Things

the best movie genre is heists where everything goes slightly wrong but in the last 10 minutes they show in flashbacks that actually everything was planned and they meant to break every bone in their body then go to prison or whatever

“The best tool a liar can have is a reputation for telling the truth.”

'shut up' but like flirtatiously.

Ache

When all the world sleeps, and stars sing in that inky sea, Do you find that your heart aches? Does it yearn? Do you reach out and grasp, As if to another, A beg unknown ready to tumble from your lips? Forgive me. Don’t leave me. Don’t be like the others. Stay here. Love me. Help me. Does your heart race, Your hands tremble, Pain festering in your eyes, Noiseless pleading on your lips? Is it from the desperation of someone long forgotten? From departing from a normality until it became foreign? Or a need to ask from the future with someone else? Friend, Lover, Family, It doesn’t matter. Solitude is not the worse thing in the world, There is a gift in it. No, Solitude is not the thing that claws at our throats, Makes beings beg into the night. Loneliness. Loneliness is what drives beings to madness, Drives us mad and carves out every vulnerability one has, Makes us tremble with the fear of being unloved. Darkening thoughts, Festering the minds with doubt, Leaves us gasping and trembling in the dark, Scorching lines of sadness down trembling cheeks. Do not listen to it’s lies, Do not believe the sinful words, The aching doubt, Do not listen as it tells you the lies of your self worth, Do not believe it when it calls you a Nothing, An Unloved, One who deserves nothing in this precious world. You are one of imperfection, A beautiful amalgamation of a uniqueness, Something formed over time to be what you need. Perfection is never the goal, There is no such thing, You do not go to a bended tree and call it imperfect. So too must you think the same. The aching will remain, For something unknown, Or something wanted, Coveted, But time will help ease the weight, For you can begin anew each moment. You cannot change the past, But you can change the future. - Moni

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher just being absolutely...astounded by the amount of knowledge this kid has on not only the socio-economic climate of literally every freaking country but the most freakishly good instincts of how each new politician that comes along is going to fare. It’s at the point he now has a secret cabinet of sticky notes on Alex’s off hand comments of each new public figure because God Dammit he always turns out to be right.

Give me Alex’s Riders politics teacher who stands up for him against others in the staff room because his essays provide the freshest viewpoints he’s seen in over 20 years. Ethics, politics, morality, social structures, negotiations, public figures, military influences and ulterior motivators; Alex Rider handles each topic with a grace and insight he hasn’t seen since university. Quite frankly he doesn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. He settles on curious.

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher who’s family served in the army, who recognises the shadows of war in those dark brown eyes even if he can never understand why. The only one that seems to notice that seeing Alex’s controlled, efficient steps through a boisterous crowd of school children is like watching a ballet dancer glide through a swarm of drunk seagulls.

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher who let’s the poor kid take a nap in class or snack when he wants to (partly because 50% of the time he looks ready to drop) but mostly because deep down they both know there’s nothing that he can teach him here. Alex had an already pretty unusual and impressive grasp of foreign affairs before his uncle died and in the years since then? Well, he’s pretty sure Alex speaks more languages fluently than he has fingers.

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher whose subject gives him more of a glimpse into his talents than most people are allowed to see; who takes one good look at his extra little piece of the puzzle and thinks yeah. This kid is brilliant.

sometimes a poem is just a poem and sometimes a poem is actually a confession and sometimes a poem is a person and sometimes a poem is a cardinal. sometimes art is just art and sometimes art is actually therapy and sometimes it’s a pipe and sometimes it’s also not a pipe. 

sometimes the text is “got home safe!” and sometimes the text is actually saying i already miss the way your hair feels in my hands and sometimes the text is a warning and sometimes the text is thank you for caring. sometimes you are on the phone with your friend and you’re talking about curious monkeys but you’re also both admitting how lonely you are but you’re also both talking about how love can be a bicycle and sometimes it is not a conversation it’s an intervention and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s a poem and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s an art piece and sometimes it’s just a conversation but more often it’s holding hands without touching

& sometimes you are in an argument about the dishes but none of the things you are mad about are about dishes, they’re about the stuff around the dishes and the hands and the soap and how he smelled on sunday of another girl. sometimes the dishes aren’t even dishes they’re blankets and sometimes they’re burnt food and sometimes they’re your favorite book. sometimes the song isn’t a song sometimes the song is a manipulation and sometimes the song is just bad and sometimes the song is stuck in my head from you singing it in bed and sometimes it is “i listened to this so i could learn what you like” and sometimes it is “i showed you this because i want to also show you my palm lines and my heart and the inside of my head.” 

sometimes you are dancing alone but you are not dancing alone because you are picturing seeing her in a green velvet dress across the room from you, and sometimes you are dancing with ghosts, and sometimes you are dancing with your mother’s voice. sometimes it is not a dance it is a walk and sometimes it is not a walk it is lying in bed and sometimes it is not lying in bed, it is not-dying, which is often good enough for survival purposes. 

& sometimes you say  oh, take a cookie with you when you go and you mean that i should take a cookie and sometimes you mean - take me with you, also. sometimes it is just burning something and sometimes it is burning something and sometimes it is burning a lot of other things first. sometimes it is just a shirt and sometimes it’s what you wore when you kissed her and sometimes it’s what you wore when you didn’t kiss her and sometimes it’s what you wore to the movies when you saw your last in-theatres movie without knowing it would be your last in-theatres movie. 

& sometimes the poem is just a poem and sometimes the poem is my earring in your hand and sometimes the poem is your smell and sometimes the poem is calligraphy and sometimes the poem is good lord you are addicting and sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is unfiltered yearning and sometimes the poem is an anvil and sometimes the poem is - can i write a home, can you crawl in, can we be like little ferns, all curled up in bed. sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is a dance and sometimes the poem is saying - no, i will skip showering, if you need me there, i’m coming.

i just want to feel like one of those beautiful breezy late summer afternoons where the sun is starting to dip low and everything is covered in a warm golden glow

i personally love to over analyze everything and suffer

@spanish speakers te amo feels weird to say??????