The times I type ‘I miss you’ because I’m afraid of what you’d say if I actually typed ‘I love you’
|Professor:||And please for the love of god, no papers on abortion or why legalizing weed is a good idea...|
|*My friend eyes me from across the isle*|
|Me:||My topic isn't about legalizing weed, it's about the benefits of Medical Marijuana on children with autism. Clearly different.|
So I read this blog post today. Inbetween the faceless black and white photos it carries a beautiful message that made me want to cry. Mostly I think the tears formed because I have never wanted so much of any thing as I want to be a mother. This day and age, motherhood can come in all shapes in sizes, meaning I don’t have to have the baby the old fashioned way, but who wouldn’t want that if they could?
I’m so very afraid that I can’t. I’m afraid that my body has betrayed me before I have even begun to try and I’ll never be able to say the things that this mother in her blog says with such grace and elegance. I’m afraid that if I don’t get to experience all of this, I won’t be able to really love my child. If some one where to ask me “what are you most afraid of in the world?” My answer wouldn’t contain things like heights or tiny spaces; instead I fear that I am incapable of loving something—someone.
Won’t you come on in and tug at my seams and send your armies in of robbers and thieves and steal the state I’m in, I don’t want it any more.
these three pictures being on the same page make me so happy it’s insane.
n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
I’m in love with him.
I really like this new guy. I don’t know why, I couldn’t explain it. But I like him. and he apparently likes me. and I’m very happy though I don’t get to see him all the time. but it’ll have to do.
hate being broke. I make amazing shirts I can’t even afford haha.
She was like the last twenty-two seconds of a song I never wanted to end. Unlike anything I’d heard before. Especially not like the trash that frequents the radio. There were no lyrics; at least not ones I could discern. Just a mellifluous musical denouement. She was as infectious as the riffs of…