" We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations. "
by Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947 (via fiercefolly)

(Source: hellanne, via fiercefolly)

46,304 notes • 2:38 PM
138,067 notes • 1:36 PM

It was late in September,
you were across the dining table.

The air, as I could vividly remember,
was as dead as the bodies lying
beneath our feet. My eyes were
restless that night. I was seeking
for the smile that first made me fall
in love with you. But that night,
that smile was nowhere to be found.

The dining table felt like an ocean.
And you and I were like foreign lands.
I was like a stargazer.
And you were like a distant star.

All I wanted in that moment was to be
close to you, to be intimate again. But,
all I could do that night
was to stare and stay silent.

It was late in September, but everything
feels like yesterday.

by (j.d.a)

(Source: dearestdaryl, via unlonely)