It Was All A Dream

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This cabin, this picture, this place holds a dear spot in my heart. I found love in this cabin in the woods through the stories we exchanged under the warm covers, over the fire, and over the smokes we had on the porch. A heightened degree of love I never knew was possible to feel. The drunken bar around the bend is where we spilled it all out like word vomit, stumbling back and drowning in each other’s skin. We’ve been a different kind of “inseparable” ever since, an emotional inseparability. It was a weekend for the history books and hopefully like most history, it will repeat itself. 


Frida Kahlo (1907.07.06-1954.07.13)

Well said. 

(Source: confessionsofaformerteenybopper, via yelyahwilliams)


…something somewhere went terribly wrong.

"I only write when I am falling in love, or falling apart."

- e.s. (via selectables)

(via demonistic)


I don’t care that you got into drugs for three months straight, or how much sleep you lost in that period. I don’t care that you went home and fucked that person and woke up at 6am hating everything about yourself, or that you smoked so much you sounded as though your lungs were giving out.

You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.

You’re just human, and being human means you need to survive and you do so whichever way you deem fit, fuck everyone else.


- "you’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness" 

(Source: stayygone, via tm--g)