“They’re thieves! They’re thieves! They’re filthy little thieves! Where is it? Where is it? They stole it from us, our precious. Curse them! WE hates them! It’s ours it is, and we wants it! We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious. They stole it from us.”—LeBron James after the 2011 NBA Finals (via historysaidwhat)
Explosions in the Sky is pretty much the most amazing thing ever. Perfect music to write to, think to, daydream to. Plus it really fits my mood at the moment. So glad I finally got a couple of their albums.
Lately, my guilt-wracked self falls into a pattern of dreaming about the things as I wished they were, instead of the way things actually are.
It’s so easy to only remember the good things. It’s so easy to forget all the things that hurt you.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing okay, that you’re happy and safe. It’s your mom’s birthday today and I thought of her, even though I couldn’t wish her a happy birthday. I miss you everyday. It’s a constant, heavy battle with myself. I try to deny myself the joy of maintaining a small kernel of hope that someday things might actually work out. I’m trying so damn hard to let it go and be happy. But when you’re drowning, all you think about is air.
Impatience is not usually my weakness. But your letters torment me. They make me long to saddle my horse and ride to Frell, where I would make you explain yourself.
They are playful, interesting, thoughtful, and (occasionally) serious. I’m overjoyed to receive them, yet they bring misery. You say little of your daily life; I have no idea how you occupy yourself. I don’t mind; I enjoy guessing at the mystery. But what I really long to know you do not tell either: what you feel, although I’ve given you hints by the score of my regard.
You like me. You wouldn’t waste time or paper on a being you didn’t like. But I think I’ve loved you since we met at your mother’s funeral. I want to be with you forever and beyond, but you write that you are too young to marry or too old or too short or too hungry—until I crumple your letters up in despair, only to smooth them out again for a twelfth reading, hunting for hidden meanings.
Father asks frequently in his letters whether I fancy any Ayorthaian young lady or any in our acquaintance at home. I say no. I suppose I’m confessing another fault: pride. I don’t want him to know that I love if my affections are not returned.
You would charm him, and Mother too. They would be yours completely. As I am.
What a beautiful bride you’ll be, whomever you marry at whatever age. And what a queen if I am the man! Who has your grace? Your expression? Your voice? I could extol your virtues endlessly, but I want you to finish reading and answer me quickly.
Today I cannot write of Ayortha or my doings or anything. I can only post this and wait.
Love (it is such relief to pen the word!), love, love—
Char”—Ella Enchanted, Gail Carson Levine (via piecesofserenity)
“I’m riding on a dolphin, doing flips and shit.
This dolphin’s splashing, getting e’rybody all wet.
But this ain’t Seaworld, this is real as it gets.
I’m on a boat motherfucker, don’t you ever forget!”—Captain Ahab (via historysaidwhat)