My very existence is a cliché. 

theraptorwhomurderedlove:

This is your daily reminder that self-indulgence can be a form of self-care.

That ‘because it makes me feel better’ is a completely valid reason to do something.

That if something makes you happy then it is not pointless or a waste of time.

That if doing something makes you feel better then it is not something that is unproductive to do.

And that doing things that make you feel okay is just as important as anything else.

Today I am my ugly self

but it does not matter

because no one can see me except myself and my housemates

and although these days I have started to admit that “I like girls too”

I do not want to fuck any of them.

The other night, I got dressed and put on makeup

only for my two sets of plans to be canceled.

“What a waste”,

I thought.

What a shame no one gets to see me looking so pretty

except my housemates

and me

I have learnt well

that I am only worth how I am viewed

and should not waste my pretty days on people who do not care how I appear to them.

I do not know which one is the real me,

only which me I prefer

and I do not waste her on myself.

But I do not understand why.

Jack Kerouac, a letter he wrote to his first wife, Edie in 1957

talkativolive:

“I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. It’s all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It’s a dream already ended. There’s nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born.”