1. „I desire to speak somewhere without bounds.“

    – Henry David Thoreau, Walden  (via butterflies-in-nets)

    (Source: feellng, via langleav)

  2. yourpersonalcheerleader:

    Reject the notion that you are supposed to be at a certain place by now.

    Don’t measure yourself to some colloquial set of social constructions. 

    (via anditslove)

  3. splantamello:




    Why was Oedipus against profanity?

    Because he kisses his mother with that mouth.

    I’m getting really tired of these motherfucking jokes.


    (Source: gymleaderkarkat, via thefuuuucomics)

  4. „I’m honestly not a bad person, my heart is in the right place; it’s just that my head isn’t.“

    Adam Zucconi (via wnq-writers)

    (via kellyesque)

  5. „Aren’t you, like me, hoping that some person, thing, or event will come along to give you that final feeling of inner well-being you desire? Don’t you often hope: ‘May this book, idea, course, trip, job, country or relationship fulfill my deepest desire.’ But as long as you are waiting for that mysterious moment you will go on running helter-skelter, always anxious and restless, always lustful and angry, never fully satisfied. You know that this is the compulsiveness that keeps us going and busy, but at the same time makes us wonder whether we are getting anywhere in the long run. This is the way to spiritual exhaustion and burn-out. This is the way to spiritual death.“

    Henri J.M. Nouwen, Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World (via feellng)

    (via kellyesque)

  6. dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

    n. the moment of realization that your quintessential future self isn’t ever going to show up, which forces the role to fall upon the understudy, the gawky kid for whom nothing is easy, who spent years mouthing their lines in the wings before being shoved into the glare of your life, which is already well into its second act.

    (via kellyesque)

  7. dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

    n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.

    (via splitterherzen)

  8. There I go again, idolizing pathos. Glamorizing sickness. Idealizing scars and stripes and plasticine rosary beads of hospital bracelets. Self destruction is honey on this tongue and I have been stung by every drone in the hive.

    Perhaps it is a symptom of this pervasive emptiness I feel, persistently like a delusion of persecution, within my bones.

    I am craving regression as if it were a nicotine rush or an unquenchable thirst. The clinging to the razor wire fences rimming hospitals like medieval moats and my mossy veins seem to beg to be ripped apart but I cannot bring myself to dig in deeply enough to end up at the inpatient unit’s doors.

    Not that I would want that.

    But I suppose one’s sense of identity can become heavily entrenched in the sovereignty of struggle. One can transmute into their pathology, sliding into the strait jacket of symptomatology as if it were a second, battle scarred skin. One can be impatient for inpatient stays as if they were wedding days or executions after long spells in reformatories. One can ache for the Auschwitz of day programs, sonorously penning rhetoric of coping skills like dotted Pacific blue needlepoint on the spinal tapped lines of theme paper.

    Because existence is so much more than pain, but when one is in pain, pain is all that there is.

    It is simple to dissolve. Easy to break apart pencil sharpeners and trip into gaping wormholes of relapse. It is easy to become tubes and cuts and bandaged mummies of meshed gauze breathing through the siphoned tunnels of triage tents while head psychiatrists stroke the stubbled mountains of their chins, unsure of the favoring towards life or death.

    It is facile to be stitched. To make oneself into a patchwork quilt of sutures and struggle like a dystopian flag. A dissonant anthem.

    But what’s to be done when you have grown tired of the grayness? Of picking over the dead issues and combing through the splinters of the wreckage? What else can be achieved when one is stuck in purgatory?

    Regression, of course, is so much more attainable. All I have to do is open arteries and slam doors and leave bite marks in my wrist to be heard. All I have to do is overdose or scream and suddenly I’m in hell again but it’s perfect bliss. It’s more comfortable to work towards sliding backwards when the future seems to be an uphill battle.

    How does one release the grip of their fingernails on the past?

    Existence s so much more than pain, but when one is in pain, pain is all that there is.

    I glorify all the wrong things.

    – (via beautyinthebellejar)

    (via eletheowl)

    • me: (thinks something mean)
    • me: dont be fucking rude
  9. „I just want somebody who will never stop choosing me.“

    – A.G. (via wallflowerrr)

    (Source: attractionns, via wallflowerrr)

  10. „You’ve become so damaged that when someone tries to give you what you deserve, you have no fucking idea how to respond.“

    – (via wallflowerrr)

    (via wallflowerrr)

  11. „I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone.“

    – Henri Barbusse (via splitterherzen)

    (via splitterherzen)

  12. I haven’t felt this unhappy and angry and insignificant in a long time I just want to yank out my innards and smash them against a brick wall.

  13. (Source: whathumansgain, via langleav)