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Journal writing over Andrew Wyeth Follow my insta: @affectioms

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So,“ A friend of mine begins, "I take it you still love him?”

I sigh, “I do, and I think I always will, in a way.”

“Why is that?”

“I mean, think about it,” I say, “we never quite made it to be lovers, we got close, but never got there, and because we never lit a flame, there was nothing to blow out. We were just two perfect matches that never got the chance to be set fire, and so I guess without a flame, there is no smoke to clear.”

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The Lumineers - Sleep on the Floor

“  And when we looked outside Couldn’t even see the sky “

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b&w edit

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You’re the only person I’ve ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing.

Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out (via wordsnquotes)

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let me tell you something: no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered and think - damn, you are beautiful. no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and assemble them into a beautiful whole. hell, you won’t even look at yourself and think - I made broken look beautiful. you know why? because all those writers lied to you. yes, all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and blood dripping down chins, pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like hurricanes. liars. so you and i, we are going to make a plan. you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror, you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you but still writes about you. here is what you are going to romanticize instead: you are going to romanticize the first day of spring, its gentle hands all over your body, lifting you up until you are as light as a feather. you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love, no hurricanes, but sunshine that builds you up from within, that helps you make it through the worst days. you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend in yours, telling you that it is going to be okay. because it is. and don’t trust poets, we’re no good, we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality - there ain’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls. you know what is beautiful, instead? the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile, scars and all. music that makes your soul flow like a river, books that offer comfort, families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm, friends that give you strength when you can find none, lovers who make you laugh through tears. baby, from now on you are going to romanticize healing; honey dripping down your fingertips, August nights that stick to your skin, the day you find your purpose, long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now. bad news: no one is coming to save you. good news: you can save yourself.

Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers)

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