Capture it. Remember it.

★ Hi! Steph here. 19.Dreamer.Writer.Fan Girl. I find solace in music && coffee. ★
Twitter | Instagram | Blog

It’s always scary to me how easy it is for me to fall in love with someone when it turns out that there’s a human underneath all of the society we wear.

— The Whiskey Writer (via the-whiskey-writer)

One thing I have learned is that you never truly know anybody. A person is only however much they choose to show you of themselves.

— (via poetic-rain)

Anonymous asked:

Prompt: some people never recover from their sadness

five--a--day answered:

Excerpt from an extended piece I wrote last year:

"I don’t know who I am if I’m not a little broken inside. I don’t know what to do if being lonely isn’t an option. I am a patchwork quilt sewn together with a hundred different personalities, but of them all, the Sadness was there first. The Sadness must have grown alongside me in my mother’s womb like a twin, a dark shadow the doctors dismissed. At three years old, I spent Christmas Day hiding under my sister’s bed. I couldn’t stand all the chatter, the noise, the liveliness spilling from one room to another. It was too much. Made me nervous even then. Made my mother tell the visiting relatives in a measured voice, ‘don’t mind her, she does this sometimes.’

At six, my mother had the phone in her hand ready to call the police after I’d been missing for some four hours. Just as she’d been about to connect the call, my brother had gone screaming down the stairs that he’d found me. I’d been sleeping in an old, eight foot cabinet with the cat, the both of us curled up upon piles of folded linen. At eleven, the school had my parents come in to tell them I kept disappearing for an hour every lunch-break and when I turned up again for the next class, I wouldn’t tell anyone where I’d gotten to. At seventeen, I faked sleep-overs with friends to spend a night camping in nothing but a sleeping bag next to an out-of-use railroad track.

I wasn’t looking for attention like they all assumed. Wasn’t looking for anyone to help me. I just wanted to be left alone with myself. Wanted to wear the darkness as close as a bathrobe. Slow-dance to the sound of crickets. Listen for my heartbeat and try to hold the pulse in my mouth.

My sad story isn’t really a sad story.

I’m not sorry to be this way. I’m not looking to get better. I’m comfortable in my Sadness. Feel at home in my Sadness. Trust it, more than anything else, not to leave me on my own.”

"Perhaps I am holding you back," she said finally.

And then after a little while, in a small voice:

"Perhaps you are holding me back too.

"Because that’s what people do when they’re in love as hell but they’re not compatible," she said, "they hold each other back."

— Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #65 (via blossomfully)

Older →