I shouldn’t feel like such a fucking burden to hangout with. I’m not a chore, don’t force yourself to hangout with me.
My problem is that I fall in love with words, rather than actions. I fall in love with ideas and thoughts, instead of reality. And it will be the death of me.
You can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
Anaïs Nin (I’m not sure where this comes from, probably her diary?)
((ALWAYS RELEVANT especially in apt for a life on the internet too))