Recycled Storylines & Tacked On Happy Endings

"Arete" n. That To Which All People Aspire
See Also: Strength In The Face Of Adversity

More than rollercoasters, first kisses, drinking tequila and other fine thrills. 

More than ice cream, more than Skittles, more than hot chocolate. 

More than bouncy castles, more than ball pits, more than face painting. 

More than the wind, more than mountains, more than tall trees, more than cliffs over-looking the sea. 

More than tacos, burritos and nachos. 

More than Harry Potter, and that should have been impossible. 

—Things I Love You More Than, Karen Noble

Sometimes I fear I know you too well
(well enough to know the things I wish I didn’t)

On Friday, February 14, actress Ellen Page speaks about the brave decision to live openly and authentically.

(Source: hannahorvath, via tmonsod)

The man thinks of multiverses, of splits, of the momentous moments when there is a new reality created. He wonders about retroactive continuity and reboots, the opportunity, in comic books, to start with clean slates, to write fresh, to correct the mistakes that were made. He feels now, looking at the new Shopwise, that it cannot offer the same kind of happiness as Fiesta Carnival, that the rifts and tears in his reality are things he must accept, and that he is happy with the girl, in another multiverse.

—The Kobayashi Maru Of Love, Carljoe Javier

I am not writing poetry about you yet because I haven’t found language that is careful enough for your back against my fingers. In a room that is too loud, you are the softest noise I’ve known. If anyone was made for hands, it was you. If anyone was made for eyes, it was you. I want you to know that it doesn’t matter that we could only hold hands in the dark, that there were spaces made for us and they were in the awnings of shop windows in the rain when the owners had turned their faces away, or the back of a cinema, or a car park. I wanted to touch you everywhere, and I swear that I tried, in our stolen hours, to put my fingers anywhere that I thought they’d fit and it still wasn’t enough because I imagined your knees. And how the skin behind your legs is as soft as dawn, and how I would have pressed my cheek against them and kissed you there for hours and those would have been the way we tallied our moments together. The lipstick marks on your shirts and your fingers and that space beneath your jaw that feels exactly like the poetry I would write if I knew how. There are still spaces inside of me that are waiting for your hands. There are still parts of your stomach that I haven’t reached. I am in mourning for my collarbones and my hips, I am in mourning for all the parts of me that are still missing you and the night is wearing my skin and it is asking me ‘where is he and why isn’t he with you?’

—Azra.T “This is an open letter of apology to my skin.”

(Source: 5000letters, via breakoutofthemadness)

Our day will come
If we just wait a while