I’m a little overwhelmed about the fact that I almost forget what it feels like to write stuff about myself. So weird. Closing all windows for a while just to leave the main door open. Inhale my surroundings while trying to exhale the particles of sweet memories that usually turn into dust. I was a little late to the party.
I like the way I look today, the way my body and mind has changed. I like how the last couple months have been good to me and it’s not just about good music, good coffee, good friends, or good ideas. I’ve been reading quite a bunch of shit that no one I know will ever read and it makes me giggle, wondering if they do the same with an admittedly clever, yet overboard arrogant smile on their face.
“So many people have asked me ‘How do I get over them?’ with absolutely no intention of even trying to get over them. And that’s the thing, if you don’t want to get over them, you sure as hell won’t.”—N.E.W.,My Perspective On Some Matters Concerning Heartbreak (via lookingforsomeonewhocares)
“But that’s the wonderful thing about foreign travel, suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most basic sense of how things work, you can’t even reliably cross the street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.”—Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe (via universesbetweenus)