moonlight-driive:

"Her blonde hair was part of an attempt to to start over and adopt a new persona, following her first suicide attempt in August of 1953." Plath, who had spent six months in psychiatric care following the suicide attempt, had seemed to improve greatly by the the summer of 1954. This period of time has been lovingly referred to by her biographers as her “platinum summer.”

(via langleav)

This, this is not angst.
This is me calmly telling you I am not entirely happy with my life as it is, and this is me reminding you, who is?
Don’t you dare call this angst.
Don’t attribute it to my melancholy nature, don’t brush me off with a word not meant to be used as a joke just because I have the audacity to point out the feelings we all share but are too scared to share unless the lights are dimmed and the voices hushed.
Do not call this angst.
I am fed up with awkward teenagers treating depression as a taboo and hard questions as a social turn off.
You have to understand that there are things worth talking about-things more important than who is dating who or which party to hit next- and those are the things that are hardest to talk about.
Don’t equate my inclination to talk about just how small we are in the world to “negativity”.
Don’t call me melancholy and say it’s a joke just because you can’t handle thinking a little harder than you usually do.
If you were really counting, I’d think you’d realize that the poets and the artists are the ones who smile more than anybody else.
Because we know.
We know how terrible this world is, but also how beautiful.
We know how the masses jostle around in crowds and achieve nothing in a world that is never in their favor but we also know there is an infinite amount of stars in the sky-more than maybe there will ever be human beings- and that every second a star is born and a star collapses magnificently like a heaven folding in on itself, falling asleep into the dark arms of the fabric of space.
Do not call me “angsty” because I use words like “death” and “sadness”.
That’s elementary vocabulary.
But I guess this is typical of the American school system, teaching vocabulary words that students know the definition of but never really come to understand.
I know you know sadness.
I know there are are nights when you fid it hard to fall asleep, when you find an emptiness in your heart you cannot seem to quiet.
So if you know sadness, why do you not understand it?
Don’t you know sadness and love come hand in hand?
That to be in love is to recognize the mortality of things?
To love is to remember that the spring must pass into winter and to realize there are only so many hours in a day.
Loving is hard. Loving causes so much pain. Love comes with taxes and worrying and children who look at you with empty eyes like they have come from a very far away place.
But at the same time, love invented the constellations because at some point some human loved the stars so much they started to connect them to make art and stories other humans could understand.
Why are you so 2-dimensional?
Your words are flat and so are your emotions.
Calling me melancholy because you are unsure how to deal with the worlds that are refusing to be born within you.
I am tired of “angst”.
I am tired of emotion being bottled up into a genre. I refuse for my words to be marginalized as “deep” and “depressing” instead of true.
Because if you really can’t handle me, the sad one is you.

This is me smiling when I think about you, and this is me looking away when our entire generation can only live trough photographs.
I have so many photographs of you, but I don’t think either of us know what it means to live.
This is me, sitting alone, thinking about all the times I’ve told you that I’d do anything for you if you would just say the word, and you not knowing that saying was just code for me asking you to love me.
Just say the word.
You never realized that that word could be my name.
And everytime you said it to call me, I’d get butterflies.
Or I used to.
Now, I’m sitting here trying to piece myself together wondering, with a hot glue gun in my hand, when I let myself fall apart.

charleskinbote:

cringes here’s a comic I guess

everything freaks me out and everyone is lonely

(via kelvinsoup)

In the Heights – Breathe (505 plays)

lettertomybrother:

tasting-thestars:

Breathe | Original Broadway Cast

Story about a girl from the Barrio who escapes her small town to get into Stanford, and comes back home because she doesn’t feel like she’s good enough.

"I remember kissing a lover for the first time and my most immediate thought was, ‘world peace’. I remember thinking, ‘I want everything to taste like this’."

Te’ V. Smith & Patricia Kihoro When Lips Calm A Warring Heart (via tevsmith)

(via nayyirahwaheed)

(Source: cuddlinqs, via silverliningapproach)