“Introverts are collectors of thoughts, and solitude is where the collection is curated and rearranged to make sense of the present and future.”—Helgoe, Laurie. “Revenge of the Introvert.” Psychology Today. (via wordsnquotes)
“I was told the average girl begins to plan her wedding at the age of 7. She picks the colors and the cake first.
By the age of 10 she knows time, and location.
By 17 she’s already chosen a gown, 2 bridesmaids and a maid of honor.
By 23 she’s waiting for a man who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment”, someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely, someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed, someone who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen.
To be honest, I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing, I have no clue what my wedding will look like.
But I imagine the women who pins my last to hers will butterfly down the aisle like a 5 foot promise.
I imagine her smile will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps, and know exactly where our wedding is being held.
The woman that I plan to marry will have champagne in her walk, and I will get drunk on her footsteps.
When the pastor asks if I take this woman to be my wife, I will say yes before he finishes the sentence. I’ll apologize later for being impolite but I will also explain him that our first kiss happened 6 years ago and I’ve been practicing my “Yes” for past 2, 165 days.
When people ask me about my wedding I never really know what to say, but when they ask me about my future wife I always tell them her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I say she thinks too much, misses her father, loves to laugh, and she’s terrible at lying because her face never figured out how to do it correctly.
I tell them if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them if she came in a bottle I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. If she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her cover-to-cover, hoping to find typos, just so we can both have a few things to work on.
Because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need a little editing Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone? Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense? She don’t always make sense, but her imperfections are the things I love about her the most.
I don’t know when I will be married. I don’t know where I will be married but I do know this, whenever I’m asked about my future wife— I always say: …She’s a lot like you.”—Rudy Francisco (via creatingaquietmind)
“ethereal, adj. — You leaned your head into mine, and I leaned my head into yours. Dancing cheek to cheek. Revolving slowly, eyes closed, heartbeat measure, nature’s hum. It lasted the length of an old song, and then we stopped, kissed, and my heart stayed there, just like that.”—David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary (via thatkindofwoman)
“When he says
He doesn’t love you anymore,
Roll your shoulders back
And look him in the eye
Even when it feels like your ribs
Are breaking inward, like spider legs.
When he digs up old aches
That he swore he forgave you for,
And ask him why he didn’t leave you sooner.
Ignore the way the words feel like sandpaper
Running all the way up your throat to your mouth.
When he blames you
For mistakes that wear his face,
Do not scream.
Do not cry.
Tell him that there are boys
Who would be proud to say they’d loved you.
Tell him that in two years
You won’t even remember his name
And don’t let him see the way you can taste your own lie.
When he leaves
Ignore the howling in your blood
And do not get up after him.
Not even to lock the door.
Do not, do not
Smell his shirts when you box them up
To give them back.
Swear off dating when you realize
You’re chasing ghosts that wear his smile.
It’s okay to cry over him.
It’s even okay to forgive him.
But do not go back to him.
If he did not know how to love you the first time,
He won’t know how to do it the next.”—How To Pretend It Doesn’t Hurt, by Ashe Vernon (via mfblackmamba)