OH MY GOD SO NO FUCKIN BULLSHIT I SWEAR To GOD. I reblogged this an hour ago and IM NOT Lying My Tax Refund which I did in late march popped into my Bank Account, and it was a Decent sized amount……

yooooo

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it and heself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside - but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting world beyond - only a glimpse - and heard a note of unearthly music.

Anne Shirley was Hamilton long before Lin-Manuel Miranda—only without the music or Alexander’s tragedy. Like Alex, Anne wrote her way out. She wrote her way out of a life of mediocrity, she wrote her way out of Prince Edward Island (albeit briefly), and she wrote her way into the hearts of every person whose path she crossed. But unlike Hamilton, Anne never had to assume that she was the smartest in the room, because she actually was—and after realizing it, she never apologized, because why would she? As a kid watching Anne use her words and her writing to work her way through spelling bees and Avery prizes into Queen’s University, my own know-it-all tendencies seemed a little less extra. Hell, even as an adult, I think of Anne brazenly building her dream life and feel motivated to get back to work and stop wasting time. Plus, she stopped for no man: while childhood me swooned over the cuteness of Gilbert (obviously), my 31-year-old self loves even more that Anne never slowed down so he could keep up. Instead, dude upped his own ante to keep himself in the game—he was well aware he also had to work.

I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”

It was November – the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys of the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

I couldn’t live where there were no trees— something vital in me would starve.

Women should be someone and not something.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.