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some days it’s just *reads a single line of poetry and starts sobbing* *loses self in nostalgia* *endlessly writes emotional notes app poetry* *looks self in the mirror and asks for forgiveness*
tumblr isn't a social media it's actually my bed and u all are my plushies watching me talk to myself
when kafka said ‘you wouldn’t believe the kind of person I could become if you wanted it’ and when brontë said ‘if you ever looked at me with what I know is in you, I would be your slave’ and when Sartre said ‘if I’ve got to suffer it may as well be at your hands’
