what do you want? to feel awake when my eyes are open

salternates:

face studies aka i am trying i swear

illuminirk:

kirk to enterprise — here to say that mister spock’s ears are the craziest things i’ve ever seen (seriously man they’re weird can i touch one) and he has the best hands i’ve ever seen and he hugs really well (oops i think i wasn’t supposed to tell you that) and also he’s super brilliant and strategic and could plan my funeral with the right touch of horror and would beat me at chess but mind-melding is the absolute best thing i’ve ever experienced and makes me soft in the heart. kirk out

repeat after me; you are not a burden for being alive.  you are not a burden for needing support.   you are not less.  you are not inferior.   you are stars bundled into skin and bones.  you are valuable simply by reason of your existence.  you are allowed to value your life.


“I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.” charles bukowski said that and it reminds me a lot of dean

empaathic:

im

yeah

yeah

staarlert:

just—space:

In the Center of the Lagoon Nebula. [1749x1273]

queenrhaenyra:

An endless list of fictional or historical “characters” I can’t help but worship→ Edmund Pevensie (The Chronicles of Narnia)

cuddlefeyrac:

if there’s sassy gay friend can there also be sarcastic asexual friend

#jo

A  l  w  a  y  s

coffeeandcheesecake:

You read Vonnegut for the first time
when you’re sixteen years old, and
after that, every time you stab, slice, shoot,
every time you throw a match
into an open grave, you think,
so it goes.
It makes you feel good,
a little fuzzy, like
you’re unstuck, and you think, it’s okay
you’ll just be dead for a while.

Your father dies on a hospital floor.
Your brother bleeds onto your hand, his hair
in your mouth, pressed against your neck.
People die in your arms, people who leave 
the battlefield behind, who don’t
wake up in bed five minutes
twenty years later and live.
People don’t just get to be dead
for a while. This isn’t fucking Tralfamadore.
So it does not fucking go.

Vonnegut tells you that time
is pearls on a string.
Every moment has already been and will
always be. You say, “Fuck that.”
You cut the string.
Pearls before swine.

Your headstone will read It was ugly 
from beginning to end, 
and it hurt like hell every second.

Vonnegut dies when you’re twenty-eight.
He falls down the stairs.
So it goes.
There is no such thing 
as an honorable death.

look how they shine for you
abigail. 19. theology and psych student. "you've got to believe that there are some things worth your life." light gathering + healing + hope.
(softly, fiercely) the stars
codes by
pohroro