Waiting For October, I Opened My Window Today. A Warm Breeze Touched My Face. I'm Waiting For October

waiting for october, i opened my window today. a warm breeze touched my face. i'm waiting for october to love you more. you're gonna be surprised by the amount of change i'll go through everytime it gets colder and days become shorter. beginning to love you in july gives off a summer-love vibe: passionate yet short and unfaithful, an illicit-affair kind of love. in october, i'm gonna hold you tighter, bake you ginger cookies and get lost in your oversized sweater. in november, i'm gonna watch gilmore girls with you and walk with my hand in your pocket. in december, i'm gonna make you coffee-milk, wear the mittens that you bought me, put up christmas lights, dance around the kitchen with 'cowboy like me' and read you my favorite poems by j. keats and shakespeare.

i'm gonna love you more in october.

I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean 'sugary.' It's dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain.

— Catherine Breillat

@academia-lucifer

I genuinely mean it when I say that life becomes at least 30% more manageable whenever you allow yourself to become obsessed with something that is a little bit silly

Ode to Melancholy

by John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

like there comes a point where you think something is fundamentally wrong with you. and then it turns out it’s just Friday and you haven’t washed your hair in three days and maybe you’re also just a little lonely and the combination of all three of those things is whittling a hole into your chest every time you breathe. but also the sun’s up. and you’ve survived everything so far, so you’ll survive this too, even if it hurts, even if you have to survive it many times.

Did you eat? (I love you) I bought the bread you like (I love you) I noticed you were upset so I brought you tea (I love you) I made this for you (I love you) I know you have a lot of work and can't talk now so I will leave this thing you like around (I love you) I did your chores (I love you) I will sit by in case you need anything (I love you. I love you. I love you)