i. ii.
A living tragedy,
an apologetic mess.

I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything.
Maybe we’re from the same star.

—  Emery Allen

(via 5000letters)

8 . 22

'I no longer wish to be loved childishly. I want to be loved with the strength and charm of maturity. I don’t want to be smothered by the fear of jealousy and insecurities. I don’t want a relationship based solely upon shutting the world out and locking each other in. I want to be somewhere where I can breathe. Where, even in the midst of a million people with a million heartbeats surrounding me, I can still know the sound or even play the tune, or nod my head to the rhythm of the one I call “home.” I want to call you home.

—  

(via vendemiaires)

8 . 22

There’s so much more to life than finding someone who will want you, or being sad over someone who doesn’t. There’s a lot of wonderful time to be spent discovering yourself without hoping someone will fall in love with you along the way, and it doesn’t need to be painful or empty. You need to fill yourself up with love. Not anyone else. Become a whole being on your own. Go on adventures, fall asleep in the woods with friends, wander around the city at night, sit in a coffee shop on your own, write on bathroom stalls, leave notes in library books, dress up for yourself, give to others, smile a lot. Do all things with love, but don’t romanticize life like you can’t survive without it. Live for yourself and be happy on your own. It isn’t any less beautiful, I promise.

—  Emery Allen

(via contramonte)

8 . 22

Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on.

—  

Immigrants. First generation.


Ijeoma Umebinyuo

(via deeplystained)

8 . 22

8 . 22 

8 . 22

Stop calling me “someone’s daughter”.
I’m someone.
That should be enough reason not to hurt me.

—  Ragehound (via ragehound)

(via backshelfpoet)

8 . 22

ashleyfrostart:

“North Melbourne Study 20”
Oil on board
18x18cm 
University of Wollongong collection 2013
www.ashleyfrost.com.au

8 . 22

8 . 22 

8 . 22