annyssacrash:

Importância

Não é o quanto você gosta, é o quanto você se importa. Tudo na vida é uma questão de prioridades, e tudo começa a ter um fim quando deixa de ser prioridade.

There’s always something poetic about sadness. Like that cigarette you smoked at that specific place on that specific night. And you remember the air you breathed. You remember the way you felt. You even remember the smell of the things around you. It was a cold, fresh night and you were coming back from your class, or whatever it was. You were waiting for the bus and looking at the flickering lights on the street. At the mountains, far, so far away from you. You were sad. Not too sad, no. Somehow numb. It’s just a certain feeling that makes you feel good. Makes you feel like you’re special, different from the others. Not as shallow as them. The stars were almost invisible, the persistent fog was somehow present. And you didn’t wanna go home. Cause there was nothing left there. This was the place you wanted to be. Forever surrounded by this mysterious aura. You needed someone to figure out what you were thinking. Someone to just grab you and run. Run and laugh hard. So hard. Buy a bottle of wine and talk about life the whole night through, under those same stars you’re looking at right now. You wanted all of that so bad. But no one came. No one grabbed you and no one made you run and laugh hard in the middle of the street. Because that night wasn’t meant for that. Because all that night was meant for, was a pack of stupid dreams about some rebel friend who didn’t have to go home. And a cigarette.

jaygastby:

mentally i am living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere in the woods of oregon and it’s foggy and i am wearing a big sweater and baking banana bread