A Koala reflecting on his sins, his triumphs, and the inevitability of death.

i just booked a flight to see Lily next weekend and I can already feel the butterflies in my stomach 

andersbrogaardadventures:

When you live in ugly London, its hard to imagine this beautiful place is just a 3h train ride away.

The Lake District is one of the most beautiful places in UK and i would not mind living there for a while. Would you ?

more and more lately i find myself thinking “people really need to just chill” b/c if they’re not chill pick up those non-chill vibes and then need to remind myself to chill and the whole thing is exhausting 

patshit:

SELLING MY HASSELBLAD FILM CAMERA FOR $1000 

2000FC, Carl Zeiss T* 150 mm lens

I can post anywhere in the world, but would prefer if you lived in Sydney so we could meet up and I could give it to you then. Message me if you have any questions. 

revenge-of-the-sock-puppets:

moonofficial:

just bc someone has low self esteem or has depression doesnt mean theyre not fucking disgusting and manipulative and i keep having to learn this lesson over and over

If someone uses their mental illnesses as an excuse to hurt you without apologizing you get the fuck out of there. My abuser would use it as an excuse and make me feel guilty for my hurt feelings because it wasn’t his fault he was cruel to me.

(Source: bratcore)

my parents are overseas and for the first time we’re communicating textually (through viber), and I’m realising how intimidating it is corresponding with someone who types everything very formally. i read everything they say as either impassive or judgemental (in that parenty kind of way). 

something about people who type solely with their index fingers makes them come across that way. i know it’s just a coincidence but i swear the stabby-fingers-method of typing seriously affects the tone of a message. 

as someone who has to consciously avoid reading implications and emotions that aren’t there, this is very distressing! textual communication is not  a medium suited to conveying nuances.

not to mention the whole different vocabularies. i’m used to peppering my correspondences with idk and w/e and emoticons!  i don’t speak your victorian robot language!

sometimes I feel useless but then I remember I breathe out carbon dioxide for plants

(Source: lillyvenom)

aspiration: where appropriate, greet every person like a dear friend

beesandbombs:

hello new followers!

here’s one from the archive >:)

beesandbombs:

hello new followers!

here’s one from the archive >:)

I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.

—Hanamoto Hagumi, from Honey and Clover (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: stephanericherthanyou)

rayvenbird:

shadow kisses. 5.13.14.

aislinaaaaaaaa:

dr-archeville:

Jon Stewart, The Daily Show, 2014-08-26, “Race/Off” [alternate link here]

"Race is there, and it is constant. You’re tired of hearing about it? Imagine how fucking exhausting it is living it. 

dokibots:

haha! have fun at highschool today NERDS. i’m gonna be doing cool ADULT stuff like sleeping WHENEVER i want and CRYING 

I’ve been feeling tired lately.
Tired enough to look at alternatives to living.
I weigh the options in my head in-between yawns.
Work or a bottle of pain relievers?
Leaving my bed or jumping off a bridge?
The thing of rope in the garage or what,
an education? A landlord to pay rent to?
Another day to fill?

What’s the point?

I say the words aloud, hoping they’ll make more sense.
Three syllables. Three clicks of the tongue.
What’s. The. Point?

I sigh.
Pull my clothes on.
Twist my fingers tightly into a ball.
I don’t know.

Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe this question will continue to circle
over and over and over and over again in my head, acting as the only marker that I am the same person in the same body, housing the same thoughts.

Six years old, I stared tearfully,
with head pressed to window,
at the blur of dead hills.
What’s the point? I asked.
Eight, I ran with face down,
sweating through warm streams
in the California heat,
catching frogs in-between my fingers.
What’s the point? my feet splashed.
Thirteen, wiping away tears in a public bathroom stall,
trying to press myself deep into the bus seat
to keep from being seen.
What’s the point? I cursed.
Fifteen, thinking I understood love songs
as my lips learned about kissing
behind the community center.
What’s the point? I giggled.
Sixteen, scratching his name out of my desk
the rest of the semester.
What’s the point? I spat.
Eighteen, all moved in,
listening to my friends
sloppily clink their glasses together
as I lay in the dark,
feeling lonelier than ever before.
What’s the point? I shook.
Twenty-one, no longer amused,
feeling too old to not
have these things figured out
and too young to be gentle on myself.

What’s the point?
I don’t know.

But a part of me
(that has perhaps existed longer than my questioning)
says,

No one knows.
We are all here to find out.

Making My Own Point | Lora Mathis