ɐ.ˈmoɾ

it's just me and wild geese by Mary Oliver against the world

my first favorite hobby is yapping. second is being extremely quiet and not talking ever at all ever.

there’s something so admirable and poetic about girls on here who are obsessed with hockey men. like you took the sport with the least face visibility and most indiscriminate injuries by sharp hard objects and you thought this too is poetry. even blonde men with weird beards and no teeth can feel love

"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious

you’re going to love again, find a job again, create art again, do what you love again, feel powerful again. you’re going to be back on track. i don’t know when, but you are going to feel like yourself again, eventually. this isn’t the end. hang in there.