This is people’s response to me saying we are doing long distance.
Is that a real question? What can I say other than “Yes”?
Do you want me to tell you how I have already worn out his smell from the his sweater he gave me? Or how every morning I flip through photos of us counting down the days until we’re reunited and I can tuck myself under his chin? Or that my heart aches when I know I can’t share my summer with him?
I miss him as often as you breathe, blink and ask questions that you can’t even begin to understand.
Our late night phone calls will be what get me through long distance.
"When someone tells you, “I love you,” and then you feel, “Oh, I must be worthy after all,” that’s an illusion. That’s not true. Or someone says, “I hate you,” and you think, “Oh, God, I knew it; I’m not very worthy,” that’s not true either. Neither one of these thoughts hold any intrinsic reality. They are an overlay. When someone says, “I love you,” he is telling you about himself, not you. When someone says, “I hate you,” she is telling you about herself, not you. World views are self views—literally."
—
Adyashanti (via iloveyoulessthanpunk)
I’m diggin’ this and the whole
“What Sally says of Susie
Says more about Sally
Than it does about Susie.”
(Source: harpocrates37, via earth-ling)
Yeah so I’m far behind in my life and poor at posting anything other than reblogs onto my tumblr. But I’ll have you know it was all in my favour, being so absent! My GPA, and my life essentially, has never been better. I worked hard and things are paying off. May I be proud conceited for a second? I received an actual, legitimate, no hoaky fake punk-ass grade of A freaking + on a science research paper. I know, I know… I’m just waiting now on my Nobel Peace Prize. I’ll alert you all when I get around to posting again first thing!
"At the end of their relationship she asked if they could still remain friends. His face was expressionless until he said “No. Because we put friends in boxes. You see them once in a while, or even a lot, but still they have their box in your life, their specific place.Their *category.* That’s one of the great things about being someone’s love— you have no box in their life because you’re part of all their boxes. You’re their friend, their lover, their confidante— all those things. I don’t want to be put in one of your boxes and I don’t want to shrink you to fit into one of mine."
— Jonathan Carroll (via browndresswithwhitedots)
(Source: facebook.com, via lessofself)
The “L” word. The boy and I felt it, mean it and said it. I cried and cried. He loves me. I love him.
"
“Sometimes he is too quick on his feet. Something will excite him, and he’ll leap up and hurtle his form through space and time - and it’s not a small form, after all.
He spots a Mississippi kite hawk through the window, and within a second he is across the room for his camera.
I tell him there’s pie, and he zooms into the kitchen in the blink of an eye.
He hears me yelp when I stick my thumb with an embroidery needle, and he’s in the doorframe of my sewing room, panting, ready to be a hero.
So I’m frequently nursing a scraped knee, jammed fingers or a bang on the head.”
"
— http://boniverotica.tumblr.com/page/2#0
