"Sleep tight, my little burrito."
- Amanda
"Expect there to be difficulties of understanding. Expect there to be times when what you consider a “normal” amount of socializing proves to be too much in a way that is difficult to empathize with. But prepare yourself to love this person regardless of the minor inconveniences that love might present. Because the love you share with someone that other, less deserving minds would deem “shy” or “weird” is something that is offered up every day, something that takes effort and conscious compromise on their part. For an introvert, letting someone into the small space which you have forever claimed as your own to protect your most basic needs of comfort is a huge risk. And they love you for having taken it. Never forget to show them that you love them back, and that you’re more than happy to let them be alone with their tea for a little bit if that’s what they need to do most."
When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value. Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy. Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess. Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust. Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it. Enjoy your body; enjoy your partners’ body. Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure. Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens. Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul. Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair. Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself. Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode. Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless. Save the expectations, take each second as it comes. Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego. Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.
(Source: zuhriamira)
:3
I’m just going to take a moment to appreciate my girlfriend. If you want to skip the cheese, read no more haha.
I’ve never been with anyone more compassionate, caring, thoughtful, rational, passionate and above all, simply happy. We don’t argue, but we can discuss if there’s a disagreement. We don’t judge, we aren’t jealous, we can talk freely and openly about our thoughts/problems/fantasies/goals/needs/etc. We support each other. We have fun staying in, we have fun going on dates, we have fun in groups of each others’ friends. We take care of each other.
Some guy named Steve Hall said ”The truest form of love is how you behave toward someone, not how you feel about them.”
Now, I don’t know anything about Steve Hall, but that sentiment resonates with me. I’ve been with a few people, and some of them said they loved me. But then they behaved in ugly ways that I didn’t want to associate with the notion of love. And I behaved in ugly ways as a response to those feelings.
Finally I’ve met someone who surpasses my every expectation of what being in love should feel like. I am the happiest.
This girl right here makes me the happiest person in the entire fucking world and I don’t think I could ever find a better fit. You are the best fit, in my arms & in my heart.
And I love the shit outta ya.
What Moving On Is Like « Thought Catalog
Moving on is not like a birthday, you can’t count down the hours ‘til it arrives and you can’t mark it on a calendar and you can’t call up your friends to help you celebrate. You can’t plan for it and you can’t conclude it by blowing out a candle. When moving on happens there will be no announcements, no notifications, no congratulations. There will be no parade; only you will know. Moving on is like aging that way, if aging happened backward. If the passing of days made you new and young, if your condition only had room to improve. Instead of a throbbing pain in your right knee forcefully, increasingly making its presence known, first with a whisper and then with a mumble and then with a shout, ‘til you can’t move, ‘til you can’t walk; moving on is gradual like that except when it’s over, you can walk just fine. You can run, even.
Moving on is like this: one day you forget the taste. The next, you forget the smell. Then the touch. Then the laugh. Then the smile. Then the jokes. Then the eyes, the hair, the hands, the feet. You forget the socks. You forget the fingers, the toes, the sex. You forget the pulses, the beats, the rhythms and how you sometimes felt like they all belonged to you. You forget the words; finally, you forget the voice that spoke them. Moving on is like one day, you’re walking or reading or drinking the sun and one of those footprints, one of those artifacts will creep into your consciousness, “already seen,” the French call this, déjà vu, and you won’t know where it belongs or how it got there. All it takes is a familiar laugh, a recognizable word and you are transported to who knows where. You are a confused paleontologist now, scrambling to make sense of things left behind, trying to reunite the right dinosaur with the right bones. The scar from his burst appendix goes here, the part of his leg that doesn’t grow hair belongs there, I think this is his morning breath but maybe it belongs to someone who came before him; some other ghost, some other relic. His taste is an aftertaste now, his crow’s feet a souvenir with no place to call home. That’s what moving on is like.
Moving on is not like beginning a new chapter, it’s like beginning a new book — with each turned page, the last story you read fades into the background. A fairy tale that becomes just another book on a shelf; folded corners and underlined words the only reminder of how you used to touch and hold and love it. Moving on is when you begin to forget the intricacies of a character you knew intimately, you forget what he did for a living and the way he prepared grilled cheese and the nickname he had for his first girlfriend. You forget how he lost his virginity, you forget his middle name.
Moving on is waking up without a sour feeling in your stomach, looking at a familiar menu and ordering something different, taking the direct route to a destination and not the one that crosses a path you once set in stone. Moving on is when you think about him and don’t punish yourself for it, when he begins to evoke more of a scientific response than an emotional one, like “This is a 6’0” blonde-haired person who exists,” and not “This is a person I wish I’d never met; this is a person who has made me less of one.” Moving on is not to destroy or to combust or to set ablaze, it is simply to move, to advance through space and time, to leave behind the familiar dull of heartbreak for the new, the unknown, the strange. Moving on is a bird flying south for the winter who decides maybe the warmth isn’t so bad, who decides maybe he’ll stay there for awhile; moving on is like freedom, is what moving on is like.
"In studio singing about frightening freedom and lightening love."
- King Charles
"Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point."
- Blaise Pascal
"I didn’t want to kiss you goodbye — that was the trouble — I wanted to kiss you goodnight. And there’s a lot of difference."
- Ernest Hemingway
In love. Actually almost exactly what I’ve been picturing in my mind when building my ideal home.
Why Do Good Girls Fall In Love With Bad Boys? They Don’t. - by SummerYasmin
I’m going to make this quick.
On my way home from work today I was thinking about how I’ve been treated by others over the last twenty some years. I started with the most recent issues and walked backwards down the staircase of my personal history. By the time I hit the last (or first) step, I had come to a conclusion; the way I’ve been treated is a) my fault and b) has a source.
The source is my family. These are the people I love more then love itself. And the love I have for them exists regardless of everything else I’m about to say. But here are the facts. Childhood is where we set the foundation for a healthy emotional state. Being loved is how we learn to love and your first love is your parents. These are the people who introduce you to the emotion of love. In essence the first definition of “love” we write into our subconsious dictionary is the one our parents display for us.
Now my parents are two of the most loving people I have ever come across. And I’m not just saying this because they’re my parents. I have seen these two people do things for others that even Saints would hold back on. They have sacrificed every aspect of their beings for others. Although this self sacrifice is commendable, it has also destroyed them emotionally. For each part of themselves that they chipped away and gave to someone else, there was a price to pay. The more they gave, the less they had of themselves. And that resulted in two emotionally exhausted human beings who now had the task of raising emotionally needy and dependent children.
So here’s what ended up happening; they fought, fought about everything; from money to what went on which shelf in the refrigerator. On the good days it was incessant bickering, on the bad days it was fists and broken glass. They yelled at each other and at us, their kids. Either they yelled more then they spoke to us, or they just wouldn’t speak to us at all. And thrown in among these near constant fits were odd, guilt ensued bouts of insane generosity; a new bike, a stereo system, that flat screen for my room. And then we hit that financial crisis, resulting in a back log on the retail therapy. But that didn’t stop them from laying their emotional doormats at my feet to make up for last night’s fight. Only difference was that instead of buying me stuff, they would do ridiculous things for me, that I definitely didn’t deserve.
So at an early age I learned 2 things; 1. Keep my mouth shut, hold it in, because no one was gonna hear me above the shouting and 2. the people who I love and who love me are also the people who cause me the most distress. And that’s when everything went awry. Now love was synonymous with distress. Sounds stupid yes? Well when your’re a child and you have no alternative definition you obviously accept what’s in front of you as the norm. So by age 10 I had pretty much decided (on a subconscious level) that love felt like distress. If it hurt, its gotta be love.
One can only imagine what the next several years looked like. I waltzed my pretty little teenage self right past a whole line of good guys only to fall drastically in love with an absolute jerk. Sounds typical? It is. A lot of girls do it but not many turn back, seek to understand why, figure it out, slap themselves for their stupidity and turn all the shit around. But it took a mighty long time for that proverbial light bulb to go on. Probably because all my mental/emotional energy was being eaten up by that hurt-love-guilt game I was always playing. Not to mention the fact that my family situation had conditioned me to stay quiet in order to avoid conflict. So I ended up throwing away those beautiful years over one person who very cunningly took advantage of my weaknesses, kept me close when he wanted, pushed me away when he wanted but always dragged me along for his convenience. So why did I allow him to do this for so long? Because I fancied myself in love with the idiot! And I wasn’t the only one. Everyone around me told the tale of my epic, self sacrificing love. This only fueled my fire., for me love was hurt, and he was hurting me so much that it definitively had to be love. But in reality we were all wrong (except him, he was a genius); it wasn’t love. It was my subconscious mechanically adhering to the cause and effect training I had been raised with: pain is love.
I have finally realized why I get drawn to people who hurt me, or on a lesser level just treat me unjustly or with indifference. Because my mind automatically tells me that I’m falling in love with them. This doesn’t just apply to men, it also works for friendships, and relationships with relatives. I keep giving and they keep taking. The taking exhausts me and I start to get upset, and as soon as that “upset’ sets in, my mind tells me “it’s love!”
But it’s not love..
It’s an illusion that I have finally found the wisdom to see past. I know a lot of people who have grown accustomed to my emotional subservience will not like that I’ve made this discovery. looking back on it, some have tried their damnedest to keep me in the dark for their own advantage. But how long can one continue to live like this?
I’m not crazy for writing this. I have the maturity to admit my flaws and wisdom to change in order to save myself.
I’m not pathetic for sharing this. I have the foresight to know that I’m not the only girl whose been through this and I’m willing to sacrifice my dignity to help pull someone else out of self destruction.
And if your’re one of those jerks who are reading this and laughing…thank you for proving my theory.
Give it a couple of years..you’ll see my name on the bestseller’s list ; )
(Source: summeriswriting.blogspot.com)
