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Pen and paper.
The moment I pick you up
Everything fades to background noise
And we wander together
Through mental corridors
Grey matter labyrinths
Imagination stretching to infinity
Spiraling thoughts chasing
through my nervous system
Bleeding ideas in black and white
The silence deepens and darkness falls
Worlds crumble, skies fragment
Chaos returns, this infinite chaos
Forever circling back to the same places
These places where it feels good to hurt
Because it means I’m feeling something.

I want to live a creative life. I want to have a crazy, adventurous, beautiful, brightly colored existence. I want my heart to explode every day or at least every other day and I want it to regrow softer every time. I want all of this and I want more and I am absolutely fucking done asking for permission for this from anyone. Guess what, world? I WANT TO BE A WRITER. I want to paint my walls with my words and cry every day because everything fucking hurts but it’s also so beautiful that I don’t know what to do with myself and I want to read, read, read everything in the world but mostly things written by Steinbeck because damn, that dude understood. I don’t want to be logical. I don’t want to be an accountant or a nurse or a lawyer. I literally don’t give a damn about mitosis or supply-and-demand or what should be in a thesis statement. I care about the human condition and how much it aches to exist. I care about words and shaping them so that someone sleeps a little bit better at night because I promise, you are not alone in the pain you feel. I’ve spent all of college trying on different hats so that I could tell people at dinner parties something that would make them feel comfortable- doctor, therapist, teacher. Name a mold and I tried to stuff myself inside of it. But why? Why, why, why, when I’ve known since I was 5 years old that I wanted to be a writer? Why do we left the world tell us that we can’t do what we’re passionate about? Why do we listen to any voices other than our own?
I don’t know anymore. Suddenly, it’s much more exhausting to try to be someone else than it is to accept myself. So this is what I have to say to myself and to all the other creative souls in this world trying to be true to who they are: I love you. You are beautiful. It’s okay that you don’t care about the stock exchange or which bone in the body is the strongest. It’s okay that you want to scribble in notebooks or draw on walls or play your guitar until your fingers bleed. It’s better than okay, it’s fucking beautiful. KEEP BEING BEAUTIFUL. Keep pouring your heart into the universe. We need you. We need you so much. Stop asking permission. I know this is hard but you don’t need the approval of strangers at cocktail parties or your high school guidance counselor or even your parents. You only need your own because you are the person who has to lie down at night with your decisions and you are the one with this life in your hands, this glorious, aching life and you are the only one who knows what you want to do with it. Go after the things that make your heart hurt in the beautiful way. Spend your days creating whatever makes this life mean something to you. I know it’s hard but I know you’re brave. As far as anyone knows, you only get one life. So go. Fucking do what you want with it.
Fortesa Latifi - my mother told me to stop asking for her approval and it’s the most freeing thing that has ever happened to me (via madgirlf)

Oh… My heart…

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