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"Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?"

-

~ Pablo Neruda

(via s-t-yling)

"When she is happy, she can’t stop talking, when she is sad she doesn’t say a word."

- Ann Brashares 

(via docilekiwi)

chevvybar:

*uses “u” and “you” in the same sentence*

(via fake-mermaid)

crrabs:

*tries to get eight hours sleep in 3 hours*

(via s-t-yling)

"I love the word ‘desi.’ It is so beautiful. I can go around saying it over and over again. I’m of the view that it is the best word to describe ourselves. Phrases like African Americacan, Asian American, Hispanic American, etc. are bureaucratic words that do not hold within them the revolutionary aspirations and histories of a people (categorized but not controlled). I prefer words like Black, desi, Latino, Chicano, because these words raise associations of struggles, such as the Black Power movement (‘Black is Beautiful,’ etc.), the Chicano struggles of the farm workers, of La Raza, and what not. Desi seems to be a similar word, one filled with so much historical emotion. And again, it is an ironic word, because it means of the homeland, but it does not say what that homeland is. We who use it do not hearken back to the ‘homeland’ of the subcontinent, because we are generally not nationalistic in that sense. Our homeland is an imaginary one that stretches from Jackson Heights to the Ghadar Party, from the rallies against Dotbusters to the Komagata Maru, from the 1965 Immigration Act to Devon Street. This is a homeland that we can relate to and it is what makes us feel like we belong in something of a collectivity. Hence desi."

- Vijay Prashad - “Smashing the Myth of the Model Minority” 

(via s-t-yling)

"There are two types of waiting. There’s the the waiting you do for something you know is coming, sooner or later—like waiting for the 6:28 train, or the school bus, or a party where a certain handsome boy might be. And then there’s the waiting for something you don’t know is coming. You don’t even know what it is exactly, but you’re hoping for it. You’re imagining it and living your life for it. That’s the kind of waiting that makes a fist in your heart."

-

(via uhtahee)

"My memory loves you; it asks about you all the time."

- Jonathan Carroll (via reasonstobe-missed)

(via golden-state-gaye)

kahiyoung:

Lots of emotions. 

(via kahiyoung-deactivated20140615)

how2beadad:

I’ve had a few people tell me I don’t look like a dad. I’m not really sure what that means. What does a father look like?
I prefer to look at fatherhood as a lens than rather than a look or an age. Every dad cares for his children with his own style of love and ferocity. Some of the greatest, most engaged fathers I know look nothing alike.
Children can level a man. And they can build him up to near invincibility.
But we all look a little tired. I’ll give you that. At least I do.
charlie, a photo of me

how2beadad:

I’ve had a few people tell me I don’t look like a dad. I’m not really sure what that means. What does a father look like?

I prefer to look at fatherhood as a lens than rather than a look or an age. Every dad cares for his children with his own style of love and ferocity. Some of the greatest, most engaged fathers I know look nothing alike.

Children can level a man. And they can build him up to near invincibility.

But we all look a little tired. I’ll give you that. At least I do.

charlie, a photo of me

(via roastedrosary)

All Roads Lead to Home

Just a few days ago, the roads around my neighborhood were re-paved.

For the ten years I’d known them, they were rocky and uneven, with little potholes. I remember coming to this house right before moving in, and the first thing I noticed was that the road definitely did not match the straight, clean lines of the house it led to. 

That’s changed now. A thick layer of tar has been put over it, and it’s smooth and perfectly even now, like a shiny new racetrack or the school blacktop. Not faded black and brown like the old road after years and years and years. It’s just black, and it looks even blacker next to the pale gray driveway. 

It makes my mom so happy. And the neighbors can’t stop talking about it either. So smooth, so nice! 

But I missed the old road at first.

Somehow it had been familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It was strangely comforting. I loved that it had been untouched since the 20th century, that it didn’t look like the roads in newer parts of town. I loved that I knew we were home the instant our car made a right turn onto our road and I felt it bump along. 

But then, on every family walk I’d discover a different crack in the road. I’d pretend the road was a tightrope and walk along it to see how long I could keep my balance. That road gave me an adventure.

I sat there thinking, what adventure could this new road possibly give me? It has no personality, no character. It’s so smooth and plain that it’s boring.

I don’t think I was really thinking about the road. 

Lately, I can’t stop second-guessing my college decision. I see pictures of and hear about people having new adventures in their new schools. Some far, far away from home. And lately I regret not doing enough research before I started applying to colleges. I didn’t push myself to explore ALL the opportunities out there. 

Am I too close to home? Should I have gone to a private school? A women’s college? A school in the city? Across the country? Is my school too boring? Will it keep me from challenging myself? From growing? From achieving what I want?

No. No. No no no. No. There can be dream schools, but there are no perfect schools. No school can have EVERYTHING, even if an Instagram picture and the school website make it seem like it does. 

The school I go to doesn’t change how hard I’ll work for the future. It doesn’t change the end goal. No matter the road I choose, it’s still going to lead to a career, a good life, and somewhere I’m meant to be. 

All roads lead to home. 

bookjunkie26:

samswittyusername:

alangwiggy:

madmothmiko:

acolytejezebel:

Impossible!!

How do you even…. ?

This is the type of stage pageantry that people pay hundreds to see. Imagine how long the costume designer took intricately put into making those dresses the people behind the scene are the true heroes of theater 

The one on the right is a true work of art

THEATRE

AH YES THEATRE

(via waking-up-laughing)