In My Sylvia Plath, Tortured Poet, The Lakes, Jo March, Dead Poets Society, Albert Camus, Folklore, Evermore,

books?? amazing. paperbacks?? soft, cozy, may fit in your pocket, cheap so you don’t feel bad for taking notes in them. hardcovers??? beautiful, pristine, ground you into the world they hold by making you grip them tighter, the stars of every bookshelf. ebooks?? convenient, cheap, always with you, a vast library that you can hold in your palm. new books?? crisp, the smell of wood, ideas waiting to imprint themselves upon the world. old books?? objects transcending history, sweet smelling, enriched by the hands that stroked their pages. books.

I want to run away. Just completely disappear, tell nobody, and become someone entirely new. I can start my new life with my favourite and best person I ever met. I wanted to romanticize things with my best person. I wanted to visit museums where I can dress in pleated short skirts and blazers, be coy and mysterious enough that everywhere I go people are intrigued and charmed by my mere existence, only to vanish as quickly as I arrived. I want to be known yet unknown. Leave behind my past so I have enough secrets to fuel a thousand rumours about who I am. Maybe that's good material for being lonely, but is that not how all the best people live and die?

i want to be your favourite hoodie. i'll make you feel warm and comfortable, i promise not to scratch your skin or be stained with lies. i want you to wear me all the time, around the house, out to dinner, to the movies or even while you sleep. i want you to wear me in front of your friends and families and in front of strangers, because i am your favorite hoodie and you want everyone to know that.

the thing is, i knew i was going to lose you and i knew it was going to hurt. however, i often find myself up at night, thinking about what could have been.

Spilled coffee on old letters written to old friends. Half burned pages left on the table. Listening to soft nostalgic music with a wicked smile. Sitting near the rear window while it rain at 3 am. Not shivering to the thunderstorms sound. Candle burning near the table when you type yet another aching poetry lines. Perfect distortion. Perfect melancholy.

my problem is that i cannot stop reading a book i don’t like without feeling guilty about it.

either i’m not interested in the story or the writing is bad, i cannot put the book down because then i’m a failure who doesn’t actually like to read, just pretends she does.

this is exactly why i stopped reading at all for years and i don’t want that to happen again but i cannot put this book down because i need to finish it, it was expensive and i’m just wasting money if i don’t finish it.

I can’t help but wonder if those possessed in Fear Street were kind of like passengers during their individual sprees. Like they had to watch it all happen and feel everything that was happening to their body but couldn’t actually do anything to stop it. Nobody was strong enough to over come it until Sam briefly managed to near the end of 1666. Like I just keep thinking of Tommy being trapped in his own mind as he massacred his friends and the kids that he was supposed to be looking after.

the fact that i'm not in some alternate universe where i go to this school wearing pretty clothes, i'm creeping down it's hallways on a rainy day and me and my friends are dancing in circles as fellow students sing pretentious poetry and this pretty stranger is falling in love with me because i'm constantly saying strange and unpleasant things (which are a part of my charm) is so fucked up.

“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴?”

-𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘉𝘶𝘬𝘰𝘸𝘴𝘬𝘪

As a child i already had a longing for a life that wasn't mine. I thought it was the future. Now i sit at my desk and there are sunbeams on the floor. I cry because they look like how they used to in our old living room when i was 5. I long for a past unlived, dreamt away, filled with hope for something that already happened almost unnoticed, but at least it was bathed in honey and sunlight.