My dad is a former US Army Ranger which basically meant that he is immune to feelings or anything projecting sentimentality. Yesterday, I asked my dad if he’d cry (I’ve never seen him emotional let alone cry) when I back out of the drive way for the first time. He said NO. I took the challenge and backed out of the driveway real slow and dramatic-like, all the while playing “You Raise Me Up” and I think, maybe, just for a split nano-second, there was a twinkle of sadness in his eyes.  

I know how hard you tried and how much time you’ve invested and I know it didn’t turn out according to plan, but don’t let that fire burn out. Don’t turn against the world. Learn, and rest, and come back, and try harder because I know you are meant for great things. Passion is pouring out of you so, for your sake, don’t lose that. Don’t lose that. You are meant for great things. Believe me.

diesoapscum:

Literally like the only way most men can think of a woman as a person who shouldn’t be raped and abused is by thinking of her as “someone’s daughter”, “someone’s wife”, “someone’s sister”, etc. They can’t just think of her as a woman unto herself who SHOULD NOT BE RAPED WHETHER OR NOT SHE IS A SINGLE ORPHANED ONLY CHILD, that would be weird. She must belong or be connected to someone in some way in order to be a person worthy of respect.

this is on a whole different level of gender inequality.

(via sotypicalme)

sooperderp:

It doesn’t matter if you’re pretty, good-looking, sexy, handsome or whatever. If you don’t have a passion for something, then there is no point in living.

(Source: soobypls, via faptron)

jesuschristvevo:

hungry isnt even a feeling for me anymore its become a personality trait

(via daphneemarie)

I don’t know whether it’s because I like the feel and sound of my keyboard, or that November is quickly approaching and it’s bequeathed National Novel Writing Month, or because I haven’t sat down and written in a long time, or an accumulation of all the aforementioned, but I have been writing all day and it feels as if I’m slowly emptying my brain and filling it with nothing but the smell of cinnamon infused candles and pumpkin spice lattes and my god does it feel jubilant and merry and the feel of the Autumn mist outside doesn’t hurt either and this is such a huge run-on sentence, but y’know - I’m happy. So, so happy.

It wasn’t you, it was the trains we rode on. It was standing under the yellow glare of the lights and watching the cross section of humanity travel with us across town. We were pushed up against each other — you in your pea coat, me in mine — sharing a pair of headphones as the train rumbled through the underground. We may not have said a word or we may have spoken novels into each other’s ears. I can’t remember. We finally exited and climbed up the grimy stairs into the cold, starless night surrounded by traffic and people and lights. And I was in love.

But it wasn’t with you, it was with the back porches we stood on while talking about science in a language no one else understood. The spring had burst in: raw, gray, and relentless, and just before dawn we crossed wet streets in search of a refuge from the rain. Were you holding my hand? I can’t remember. I do remember that the rain never stopped, so we sat under ancient crown moldings while the thunderstorm crashed in and pelted the city with a fury not seen in decades. I watched the sheets of rain, and I was in love.

But it wasn’t with you. It was with the sidewalks we tread in summer that lead to a crumbling apartment building. It was the rooftop we smoked on while we watched the lake turn purple and empty of people. Before we went inside did you kiss me to fill up the silence? I can’t remember. I do remember it wasn’t how you laughed and put on records, but how the room looked around you: the furniture clashed, the posters peeled at the corners, and the lights wouldn’t turn up past a dusky glow. I stood in that room, and I was in love.

As you might be able to guess by now, it wasn’t with you. You weren’t solid like the high-rises or reflective like the shop windows I passed on my way to work. You didn’t let me sit for hours like my favorite cafes did, and you didn’t take me across town like the trains did. Your seasons never changed, and your skies stayed the same, unlike the city’s. I walked with you under those skies — day skies, night skies, skies with colors I never knew existed, and skies with no color at all, and I was in love.

But it wasn’t with the shirt you wore, the joke you told, or the way you put your forehead on mine as we danced. It was waiting in line outside the unnamed bar with strangers all around us. It was leaning against a sticky countertop and ordering too many whiskey-and-cokes until we were jumping up and down to 90s hip-hop songs. We would get bored, change bars, order more drinks, and repeat before finally tumbling into a cab where the remainder of an urban nightscape passed gleamingly out the window. We would fall against each other in bed while the sirens and the sounds of the neighbor’s party lulled us to sleep in the infant hours.

When I woke up next to you with the sun tearing through the blinds I was already alone. My city was outside waiting for me to put my feet on its pavement and run my hands along its concrete walls so I had to leave and be with the one I love.

- Carrie Laski