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Do what your heart says, they say. But my heart yearns chaos and destruction, how can I ever fulfill its wish? What is there to do with a heart that longs for nothing but brokenness?
… And I learned that letting go isn’t always as hard as it’s made out to be. It’s just painful.
—  E. Grin
He calls you late at night, and you can’t help holding your breath, waiting for a drunk confession of love, because this must be the time that daydreams become reality.
His voice is barely an exhale, but you hear every syllable because that’s how you always listen to him: so very closely. “Can you come pick me up?” It’s slurred, though his voice is just a whisper.
He’s drunk, but he isn’t in love.
So you slip out of your house, and you start the car, easily agreeing because it’s him. It’s him and it’s him and it’s him, and that is any and every excuse you’ll ever need. Street lights pass in a blur as you get closer and closer to him, and you don’t know why it’s always like this—why does every road and every map lead to this boy?
You like to think that it’s fate.
Your road ends where it always begins, and you stop in front of a bright house in the dark night, and various bottles and different people are scattered across the lawn, and there he is, walking toward you, and he’s drunk and he’s exhausted and he looks like hell, but it’s him—it’s him and it’s him and it’s him. He gets into the car, and he slumps in the passenger seat, and you want to say something—you want him to say something—but silence swallows you whole as you start the car and pull away from the curb.
And you drive, and you drive, and you try to focus on the yellow lines in the center of the road rather than his ragged breathing or your erratic heartbeat, but the lines are blurred and your heart won’t still.
Finally, he mumbles something, and you wish that you didn’t hang on to every word he says. You wish that this wasn’t fate’s plan because this is not the ending you’d always dreamed of. You wish that you weren’t listening close enough to hear him say her name, to hear him mumble, “She’s beautiful, and I don’t fucking deserve her, but god, I wish I did.”
Because he’s drunk, and he’s in love. He’s just not in love with you.
—  H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #42

It was a beautiful late summer’s afternoon, so Algy flew out onto the rocks in the middle of the Bay of the Sand Islands, found himself a rather knobbly perch, and leaned back happily on the warm stone. The chilly north-westerly wind was admittedly brisk - in fact, it made his hair feathers stand on end - but the sunshine was exceedingly welcome, and the air was fresh and invigorating.

As Algy gazed at the gorgeous colours of the sea and listened to the sounds of the water as it swirled around the rocks, he felt exactly as though he was on holiday, like the many summer visitors to the area… and then realised that actually this was his home! He wondered whether the summer visitors had any idea what the Bay was like during the endless cold, wet and windswept days of the dark half of the year - but then decided to think about something else. Just now the Bay was bright and beautiful - and even comfortably warm in the sheltered spots - and although winter was not far off, it was not here just yet!

I kept my true thoughts of you hidden, locked away in the darkest parts of my mind. But every once in awhile, they would inch closer and closer to the front of my mind so I couldn’t ignore them anymore.
I started actually hearing what my friends said about you. The words rang so true that even when I tried I couldn’t deny them. They stuck and I found myself thinking of them over and over.
But when I started writing, that’s when they really came out. They flowed out like water and rushed out of my mind like a waterfall.
I couldn’t deny them anymore. They couldn’t stay hidden.
—  v.m
I want to be your
kind of Sunday morning
where you look forward to
feel, rise and touch the sky
as you drive your way home
where your heart really belongs.
I want to be the reason
why your Sunday afternoon
will become special and memorable.
I will be your musician that will
play all of your favorite songs
on a violin, even if I don’t know
how to play it. It’ll be special.
I want to be the pillow
that you will hug on
a cozy Sunday night
where you will find solace
inside these arms of mine.
I want to be the hot chocolate
that you’re excited to sip and taste.
I want to be the reason why
you will look forward to it
as you were a child all over again.
I want to be the reason
why you will remember
and love Sunday.
The Sky (Is Too Big Sometimes)

You’re the type
Who’s always wanted to be the sky
This grand, endless, all encompassing thing
I’ve seen you strive
To be bigger and bolder
Than the world could possibly allow
You’re desperate to fill up the space
To make your omnipresence stretch out
A vast glory to behold
Darling, if only you could see
How delicate and graceful you can be
When you’re not trying


When I say I love you, I don’t mean it to build walls and hopes for you to lean on and be your shelter every time you have nothing but yourself. I don’t mean it to make you believe that I am the one for you. I don’t mean it because you’re the only one that I want and that I won’t look for anyone better than you. I meant that I love you to let you know that you need me, and that I need you more than you think. I love you and you’re enough for whoever you are. I love you, and that’s all I have to say.
Compliments had always made me feel like I had the left shoe on the right foot; uncomfortable. I’m less than ordinary, I screw up from time to time, why would anyone be interested in me? But then I realized that everyone must feel like that from time to time so their words weren’t lies but just a way to go on and we deserve them, even when we think we don’t.
I’m here to tell you that the disappointment you feel, with your family, occasionally, is normal. They will fight with you, say brusque things and will force you to do things you probably never want to do but that’s family. I know you didn’t sign up for this, neither did we all, but I’ll ask you this: would you trade it for the world? Because I know I wouldn’t. Ever since I could remember, my dad used to urge me to talk to my sister properly, open up to her and listen to her. He always said, “She’s your sister. Your family. When all your friends will leave you, you’ll understand how she was the only one that stayed. She should be your best friend.” with this all knowing smile of his, which I never understood until probably now. Now I know, that no matter what you go through, you have the same blood, you are the same people and so they will be there for you as you will be, for them, until the very end.
—  Tanvi. R