The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.
Everybody talks about cutting people off but nobody really talks about the grief that comes with having to stand firm on that decision knowing it’s not what you wanted but what was necessary for your well-being
Right now life teaching me detachment. Nothing’s really mine. People come and go. Moments pass. Love shifts. It’s all temporary. I’m learning to enjoy things without gripping them too tight. To accept when energy changes. To let go when it’s time.
I’m so embarrassed by all the pathetic and desperate shit I’ve done in an attempt to feel loved, and I’m more embarrassed that nothing has ever worked.
Eğer bir erkek seni istiyorsa, gelip seni alacaktır. O zamana kadar spor salonuna git, kendi paranı kazan, hayatının tadını çıkar ve seni hak etmeyen şeylerin peşinden koşma.
aimless wandering, sitting in the woods to be alone even when you can be alone at home, staying out too late dancing, staying up too late just to talk to them about nothing and everything, making each other playlists, sharing earbuds, staying out in the rain, laying in the grass, stupid inside jokes, intentional boredom, kissing just to kiss, driving just to drive
They aren’t being nicer; they are just reestablishing their preferred way to engage in the dynamic. You were doing all of the work, so they didn’t have to. Now that you aren’t doing the work, they are temporarily doing the work to get you sucked back in. If you didn’t over give, you wouldn’t have to detach.