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You’re going to fall in love
with a girl. Her eyes aren’t
brown and her hair is some
color between blonde and brown.

She will speak rhythmically and
her sighs sound like soft keys to
a song. She’ll stay up late listening
to that vinyl record you bought her.

When morning comes she’ll know
every word. There will be a cassette
labeled with every emotion thought
of, except love. She’ll sing too loud
and laugh inappropriately.

There’s bound leather she caries around
and she’ll scribble lines only she
can read. She’ll make a mixtape
for everybody, but she can’t make
one for you yet. When you’re not
looking, she will pull down the
sleeves of her shirt. Sometimes
when you hold hands her knuckles
will be rough and she’ll wince at
your touch.

She’ll want to be left alone at times
but doesn’t have the heart to tell you.
She’ll draw eyes repeatedly, only
the right though. She can never make
the left look symmetrical. She’ll keep
you up at night even when she’s not
laying beside you.

She’ll write about you
and find new ways to
describe your hair, your
skin, your breath. You’re
perfect poetry, and she’s
the writer who can’t
find the right synonyms.

There will be times when
her exterior breaks and
you can see inside.
She’ll push you away
while trying to mend herself.
And this is where you must
fight. Promise to love her cracks
and not fix them. She’ll thank
you one day. And when
she finally hands you your
mixtape it will say your name
and in parenthesis “love”.

You’re Going To Fall In Love (via gxxdvxbes)

Boredom is the fear of sitting in silence and being comfortable with it.

Rakishi, “things my father wouldn’t say.” cir. 1940 (via 1924us)

(via 1924us)

Creativity does not live in a cave inside your head. That shit’s gotta come out and play. It has to splash in rain puddles. It has to climb trees. It has to build a ground-to-air star-exploding laser out of Duplo blocks and a repurposed iPhone. You need to give yourself the time every day to do the thing that you want to do. Our days and nights get crowded as life bloats and swells to fill the spaces, so you have to — have to — push all that aside with a barbaric yawp and give yourself the time to be creative.This is both in the day-to-day and in the “scope of your entire life” sense — in the day to day, you need time with your creativity. And in the long term, your creativity needs that time to get bigger, get weirder, get more awesome. Plants need water. Alpacas need food. Creativity needs time. We’re all dying. Fuck stagnation. High-five creation.

Chuck Wendig (via writingquotes)

Normality is a paved road. It’s comfortable to walk along, but no flowers grow on it.

Vincent Van Gogh (via maxkirin)

We don’t need a list of rights and wrongs, tables of dos and don’ts: we need books, time, and silence. ‘Thou shalt not’ is soon forgotten, but ‘Once upon a time’ lasts forever.

Philip Pullman (via writingquotes)

The story is the only thing that’s important. Everything else will take care of itself. It’s like what bowlers say. You hear writers talk about character or theme or mood or mode or tense or person. But bowlers say, if you make the spares, the strikes will take care of themselves. If you can tell a story, everything else becomes possible. But without story, nothing is possible, because nobody wants to hear about your sensitive characters if there’s nothing happening in the story. And the same is true with mood. Story is the only thing that’s important.

Stephen King (via writingquotes)

Oscar Wilde said that if you know what you want to be, then you inevitably become it - that is your punishment, but if you never know, then you can be anything. There is a truth to that. We are not nouns, we are verbs. I am not a thing - an actor, a writer - I am a person who does things - I write, I act - and I never know what I am going to do next. I think you can be imprisoned if you think of yourself as a noun.

Stephen Fry  (via wordsnquotes)

(via aghettoyouth)

You come home with dirt in your
mouth and under your fingernails,
say
“Mama, it’s the war out there!
It’s the war!”
She smiles slowly and
sets the table for dinner
while you say goodbye to the fairies,
to the monsters in the trees,
to the soldiers with plastic guns
hiding in the bushes,
and it’s all okay when you go to sleep
because it will still be there
when you wake up.

You smear strawberries over your
mouth at a family party, try
to convince everyone that you’re bleeding
and they laugh because you can’t
stop licking your face and giggling.
“It’s the war! Look, I’m bleeding!” They all hear brave. They all hear child.
They don’t understand yet,
and you don’t, either.
No one tells you about the war
growing inside of you, the one
you’ve been carrying like a small
country.

Now, though.
Now, you’re older.
Now, you’re 20
when you come home with
dirt in your mouth and under your fingernails, say
“It hurts, mama. The war, it hurts,”
and it’s not what you thought.
It’s not how you imagined it.
It’s quieter, more solitary.
It’s inside of you and
your body feels like a traitor,
like a home you left when you were
eight,
and how could you have ever
seen this coming?
How could you have ever been anything but a soldier?

Of course it’s the war.
It’s always been the war, sweet child.
Carry it well. Try.

Caitlyn Siehl, The War (via alonesomes)