Breathe Claire!

It’s hard when you love something (so fucking much) that it’s all you want and you spend every day (every damn minute of every day) breathing your soul into it (your sweat, your tears and oh, your blood sometimes too) it’s hard because there comes a time when you realise this thing you love will never love you back (because) you are so disappointingly, heartbreakingly average it’s so fucking hard (and I’m sorry).

I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible. Because one day, I might get hit by a bus. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands. But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate. And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care. We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans. We never know when the bus is coming.

Sometimes I wonder if we laid our stories side by side would they intersect in clear cut angles (X marks the spot there and there and there) or if a jumbled blur of words and glimpses of each other would dart from shadows because my moments with you are not your moments with me. I suppose we fill our stories with our own narratives oblivious to the narratives of those around us, characters slipping from backstage to the spotlight backs turned unaware of the audience there for someone else’s story. Do the things that make me think of you make you think of me? Do they make you miss me like they make me miss you? Do you even think of me at all? I guess I just want to know am I a supporting role or nameless extra in your story? And what are you in mine?

To accept that you are enough but to constantly strive for improvement, to better yourself To live with this contradiction Create the best version of yourself Try your hardest to truly live your life as the image of yourself you put out into the world But always know wherever you are with this You are enough.

to be inspired stand close not in their shadow but in the light they emit and let it seep into your soul let it rest there and with care nourish it so as time passes the spark swells and fills you until it spills from your skin and eyes and touch and then take care to notice those who stand close to you and take care to invite them out of the shadows and into the light to be inspired

Um excuse you but did you just?????????

why is a kink/porn blog discussing being wrong about the qualities of modern ballet among black dancers while simultaneously telling people not to be racist and being racist??!

watched the video in the source

Any Spartan who’s ever planked knows that they suck. They’re painful. They’re sinister. They are the evil half-brother of the burpee.