I just want to be loved the right way. I want to come home to all of the windows open, the curtains swaying in the wind and the scent of apple pie drifting down the hall. I want to be loved even when I’m quiet and deep in thought gardening. I want a love that admires simplicity.
Give me a love that is two cups of coffee gone cold because we decided to make love on the kitchen floor. Show me a love that fills the spaces between my ribs with passion.
A love that doesn’t fade in the night but whispers “forever” as we fall asleep.
”—where the romance never dies and the roses never wilt - dah (via whisperingbones)
“…the thing about literature and music. You use it as a way of defining yourself. You use it as an extension of your character. Somebody else’s words writing your thoughts. And I think everybody who relates to music is kind of isolated. It’s lonely. Everyone who uses the creative side of their brain is that much removed from reality. They are looking for answers wherever they can find them.”—Laura Marling (via seabois)
“Her little shoulders drove me mad; I hugged her and hugged her. And she loved it.
‘I love love,’ she said, closing her eyes. I promised her beautiful love. I gloated over her. Our stories were told; we subsided into silence and sweet anticipatory thoughts. It was as simple as that.”—Jack Kerouac (via lovequotesrus)
having anxiety and depression is like being scared and tired at the same time. it’s the fear of failure but no urge to be productive, and it’s wanting friends while hating socializing. it’s like running a marathon with the willpower of a corpse because you want to get to the end but you also want to sleep and evaporate into the soil and become compost for snails and flowers because then at least you’re useful
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”—Franz Kafka (via aestheticintrovert)