I want to paint my life with mistakes and memories. Bright and burning like the most exciting of books. Every page a meaningful tale to tell. Every page multicolored. Every page worth remembering, for the sad or the happy for the bad and the worst. I want to live not merely exist anymore. And I’m tired of the misconception that people get from arguments like this. I don’t mean drugs or sex or alcohol. I mean road trips to unlikely places and campfires and jotting down constellations in the middle of nowhere were the loud city lights won’t dim the night sky. I want to go to a concert and lose my voice with the vigor of the crowd. I want to go on color runs and curse at myself when my hair looks a weird mix of green and pink for a week. I want to stay up all night talking about the universe. I want to ride a Farris wheel and not close my eyes when it hits it’s highest point. I want to live life at its fullest without it being associated with alcohol or drugs or sex. And I want to do it now with my parents trusting me. Not at 18 when I’m bitter and angry and do most of it out of rebellious causes because fuck, I spent all my life locked up in my room.
untitledadolescent (via wnq-writers)
