"But what if you fall in love with me?"
"I loved you once, I got over it. I can love you again and get over it, don't you worry."
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Every night I dress up in your shirt. Your smell fills my nostrils and slowly overwhelms my senses. My mind calms down. I close my eyes and imagine you beside me as I fall asleep.
- Lady With A Handbook
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One second was all it took for him to press send and an eternity was what it took me to forget...
-M
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10.
J’adorerais ne parler d’amour que comme cela, en ressassant à l’infini les plus belles histoires que je connais. Il existe une parenté étroite entre la pulsion amoureuse et la pulsion narrative, et je n’ai jamais pu résister à une bonne histoire. Tomber amoureux, c’est avoir la sensation de traverser la page ou l’écran, et voir à l’œuvre dans sa propre vie tous ces mécanismes et ces procédés hautement jouissifs qui, d’habitude, sortent du cerveau génial d’un bon écrivain ou d’un bon scénariste. De même, lorsque je referme un roman qui m’a tenue en haleine pendant des jours ou des semaines ou lorsque j’arrive au bout d’une série que j’ai particulièrement savourée, après m’être débattue entre la tentation de dévaler les pages ou d’enchaîner les épisodes et celle de les économiser pour faire durer le plaisir, j’éprouve un sentiment proche, par certains aspects, de celui que procure une rupture amoureuse : la nostalgie, l’impression de quitter un univers enchanté, de déchoir d‘une forme de privilège pour être rendue à un quotidien morne et sans intérêt, la sensation qu’un état de grâce se termine – un état de grâce qui, tant qu’il durait, interposait une couche protectrice entre moi et tout ce qu’il peut y avoir de dur et de blessant dans le monde et dans la vie.
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Days like this, the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that I will someday, again, be stupidly, intoxicatingly reckless with my heart.
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Why did a horror podcast capture my views on love better than literally anyone in my life so far
[Image Description: Transcript from The Wrong Station by Alexander Saxton: She would take it the wrong way, think he meant some confession of love; but love, the way that people speak of love, was nothing close to what he felt, unless we say the warming wind feels love for maple buds unfurling at winter's end.]
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WHISPERED HOPE
Last night you told me you were fine
But, lately you've been acting distant,
I told you that, 'You'd be mine',
And your smile was gone that instant.
You said that you don't trust love,
It's all pain, not much gain,
We took ten months to remove that
Thought from your else wise brain.
One day you saw the disaster,
When a heartbreak set to work,
That love just needed a plaster,
While the shadows started to lurk.
You'll realise this one later,
It only hurts when unrequited,
Being content for the other,
Love hurts less when reciprocated.
No need to word it out
If, things start to get hard,
I know you are full of doubt
When it comes down to your guard.
Will be here right by your side
Till, you feel like it's worth it,
Your problems, they dont have to hide,
Just please don't think to quit.
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I used to have these wild recurring romantic dreams of an anonymous shadow person/energy appearing to me in like sick amounts of joy, whom in my dreams made me feel complete and loved and seen head to toe. I never wanted to wake after such dreams, they seemed so fucking close to perfect. It drove me mad not being able to recognize who it was, thought then it was my own self-love meeting me. I didn't have another explanation for it. But since early springtime, they have completely vanished. I think I know why, but can't say for certain.
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How could I ever love someone else?
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