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“What it Means to Love”
“What it means to Love”
by Emraldae
Press your eyes a little tighter my dear, and I’ll tell you what it means to love.
You’re friends will come running to you with every little emotional paper cut and you will share some of the best moments of your life putting bandaids on each scrape and bruise. Everyone who you’ve ever picked up and dusted off will adore you (even if they keep it a secret) and many will count you as one of their best friends. They will tell you everything about themselves, sometimes things they don’t even know.
They will learn to depend on you. They will learn to come running to you in times of need and fragility. They will learn that no matter how badly they treat you, they can always come running back eventually.
But my darling, when you look for someone to turn to in moments of deep despair, often you will find those who turn to you are gone and only whispers of promises remain.
And it will be then that you will learn how to love with a fierce independence that frightens insecure men and intrigues others. That independence will give you a back bone of steel and flesh of quivering jelly. It will remind you of the dull ache of separation between you and the people who run to you. And even though it aches, you will be there to pick them up and dust off their emotional paper cuts.
This my child, is what it means to love. -
we are most alive in dreams: Spring: Almost Gone
An entire train of wrought
iron fences, keeps me nailed
to the tracks, always with
one thumb out and waiting
for a foolish stranger to
let me climb onto their back-Spines are good for growing
and mine just seems to, stretch
on: entire hospital wings kept
safe under these things -
Follow him on Tumblr here!
This is wonderful.
(via ex0skeletal)
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"…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’"
Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via shesanargonaut)
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Faulkner was a postmaster, Kafka an insurance agent, Brontë a governess. The day jobs of famous authors.
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"She was truly a beautiful girl. I could feel a small polished stone sinking through the darkest waters of my heart. All those deep convoluted channels and passageways, and yet she managed to toss her pebble right down to the bottom of it all."
Haruki Murakami (via pavorst)
