If I could write a whole story about people swearing at/with each other while telling absolutely nothing of importance, I would.
I like swear words more than any other kind of words.
They’re beautiful. 

So. Here’s the deal right? I write words and I write them together. One after the other in neat little lines, in neat little blocks, in neat little thoughts. So I do this, right? I do this with ease or not, I do it well, or not, I don’t know. I never really know anything, and whatever, it’s not really relevant right now. 
So I do this, for I don’t know how long. Because, fuck, what else would I be doing? And I look over the words and I want them to mean something. I desperately want them to be more than lines and blocks and black and white and whatever the fuck else words are.

Except, I don’t know, and so they don’t know and what does that even mean? How do you build a story and how do you make them count?

I don’t want them to be empty, but how do you make them full if they’re only tiny little lines, full of angles and spaces, on a flat ocean. There’s just a big pool at the bottom of the page, where the meanings go to die. Horrible, painful deaths I hope, because they fucking deserve it. And I don’t know, and sometimes I don’t fucking care. I feel like one of the Danaides, forever trying to fill something full of holes, forever trying to find meaning, to write something meaningful, to tell something, just something, anything, it doesn’t even have to matter, it doesn’t. And why am I even writing this? It doesn’t even make any sense. 

(Source: souloftheocean)

(Source: why---not)

I’m such an ungrateful girl.

Thank you for letting me stay in your house. Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for paying for this trip.
But actually, I just want to sit by the sea, go to the national park, read, listen to audiobooks, and type stories on my laptop.
And I don’t want to talk to any of you if I don’t have to.  

I knowingly let myself get a sunburn today. I think I wanted to see if I could burn. Also, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I was sitting high on slated grey rocks facing the ocean. The air full of salt. The seagulls flying and dipping. The tides coming and going. 
Why would I care about anything else? Why should I?
Let my skin burn, I had bigger things to think about. 

Found a new lover today. He came out of the sea on his hands and knees and bled red over the dark grey rocks. His eyes were dark and wild.
He was made of salt and mist.

I looked at him while he let himself dry under the sun.
I didn’t blush.
I never do.
 

theevildead-:

by zaliazolyte

You’ll always fear it. It’s normal. The thing is not to stop being afraid, but to do things EVEN THOUGH you’re afraid.

Sometimes, you just have to take a risk.

It’s not easy. It will never be easy. 

You have to decide whether you want to try and see, or wether you want t leave things as they are now. The thing is though, you won’t know how he feels until you actually ask him and he tells you.
Never try to guess or pretend you know how someone else feels, let them tell you. 

lesfoudres:

week 6 (by ashley ⧓ moe)

cavetocanvas:

Ivan Aivazovsky, The Shipwreck, 1864

(Source: moonandtrees)

no, I’m actually very rarely completely sad. 

I’m filled with longing a lot, and I get maudlin a bit sometimes, sometimes I’m lonely or I miss someone that is dear to me.
But sad? no, not often. 
Not at all. 

seabois:

Children with gifts from the Berlin Airlift, photographed by Hank Walker, 1948