How many times have you looked at strangers and noticed small good things about them like “whoa the way their hair bounces is cute”, “she has such nice eyelashes”, “her hands look so soft ”, “those pants suit him well” etc? So many random strangers, you have been one of those for so many other people too.
now there’s something i understand a little better. hate, sadness, even joy. to be able to share it with another person… naruto uzumaki. from fighting him i learned that. he knew pain like i did and then he taught me that you can change your path. i wish that one day i can be needed by someone. not as a frightening weapon… but as the sand’s kazekage.
cassandra de alba // anne carson // like grains of sand, dir. ryōsuke hashiguchi (1995) // user rbhvleo
i hate when ur done crying and you pass a mirror and you check your puffy eyes and your cheeks and your body and try to catalogue if you’re pretty or not like dnfnznndnfjdkz male fantasies male fantasies
“So I went back to my inn, and as I walked through the dark streets I pondered this and that, as one does at the end of a days work. I pondered why it was that Mrs Seton had no money to leave us; and what effect poverty has on the mind; and I thought of the queer old gentleman I had seen that morning with tufts of fur upon their shoulders; and I remembered how if one whistled one of them ran; and I thought of the organ booming in the chapel and of the shut doors of the library; and I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse perhaps to be locked in; and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer, I thought at last that it was time to roll up he crumpled skin of the day, with its arguments and its impressions and its anger and its laughter, and cast it into the hedge. A thousand stars were flashing across the blue wastes of the sky. One seemed alone within an inscrutable society. All human beings were laid asleep - prone, horizontal, dumb. Nobody seemed stirring in the streets of Oxbridge. Even the door of the hotel sprung open at the touch of an invisible hand - not a boots was sitting up to light me to bed, it was so late.”
