ars longa, vita brevis

I relate to Sylvia Plath because our mental health is both solely reliant on how satisfied we are with what we’re currently writing

I WAS MADE TO LOVE! I WAS MADE TO BE LOVED! IF I CANT GET THE RED OF ROSES ILL SETTLE FOR THE RED OF BLOOD

damn I think I’m too much of a lover girl

he’s so lucky I choose to be good to him everyday because I’m perfectly insane enough to be a toxic partner

I am such a slut for books where someone compares their lover to the radiance of the stars

in my self-love-but-remembering-that-self-acceptance-is-a-nonlinear-process era

true sadness is realizing the anakin can reconnect with his master, apprentice, and children, but not his wife

I really like just coming on here once every full moon, saying an outrageous sentence that absolutely no one can relate to, and disappearing until the next moon cycle

how many times do you think ahsoka checked republic obituaries after she left the order to make sure that her friends’ names weren’t in there

hot take but I feel like more hunger games books is the opposite of what the story was trying to say

I have main character energy but that main character is raskolnikov

you call it irresponsible driving I call it hot girl shit

I genuinely wish I had the intellect to read difficult classic literature but I fear tiktok has shrunk my brain