I don’t care. Shut up.
I’d never thought my name was beautiful until it spilled from between your lips for the first time. It was magic; the way you sung the L, tasted the vowels, dropped the letters like rose petals into my hands. It was the first time I realized I was special, and unique, because you thought so too. You sprinkled my name casually in between your sentences like you didn’t realize how much I loved to hear you say it. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you were magic; you certainly had me under your spell.
I like writing. Usually every night before I go to sleep I do something called free flow. It’s when you write without thinking. You’re not supposed to take your pen off the page or stop writing until you’ve finished. Sometimes there’s a determined time amount but I just go for as little or as long as I want. It sometimes turns out confusing but when it works it’s beautiful, and interesting. It’s strange to discover what’s inside your mind without you knowing it. I have a notebook full of free flow and soon I’m going to edit it and turn it into a script for my devised performance at the end of the year. I like writing. I think I do it rather well. Pretty much everything on my Tumblr that isn’t credited to a source is written by me. You can troll it if you want :) I feel weird talking about my talents.
And he might not think he can write well but he really does. And he’s inspired me, so you know what? I’m going to do it to. Take me with you I want to go. I’m going to walk in Paris, I’m going to shop in spice markets, I’m going climb mountains and jump out of planes and leap off bridges and learn to ride a motorbike and buy shoes that cost more than a thousand dollars and walk on the red carpet and watch a meteor shower and stay awake for forty-eight hours and most importantly, I’m going to ride horses. Anywhere and everywhere. All the time. All different shapes sizes breeds colors personalities names ages. It’s all I ever want to do.
Dear You (and you know who You are, even though you might not think I’m writing about you, I actually am),
We should write bucket lists of everything we want to do before we die and as we get older, do at least one together every year
Five years ago, I looked at year twelves and thought, “they know. They know where they’re going.” Year Twelves were immensely tall and beautiful, they always looked good, they were confident, they knew what they were doing. Now I’m in year twelve, and I have no idea what I’m doing. It’s a little annoying that I’ve finally become the enigma that I admired five years ago, and I’m doing a really bad job of living up to my name.
i enjoy posting pictures of cute animals, half naked people, blood, and interesting scenes. i enjoy riding horses and i especially enjoy when they snuffle you like you have some kind of hidden pocket where you keep carrots. i enjoy drinking tea and reading in the sunshine. i also enjoy the way you look when you’re engrossed in something. i especially enjoy when you smile at me.
It wasn’t until about twenty minutes ago that I realised how truly fucked up I am. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s mindset is as warped as mine. I haven’t even had a difficult life. Am I just a cliched poor little rich girl? I think I am and it makes me sick.
i keep forgetting everything i’m about to say or write, i could sleep for a thousand years, boys are stupid stupid stupid, and i really want floral patterned sheets.