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 up of layers, cells, constellations.

Anaïs Nin (via observando)

(via everythingzembarrassing)

me: *sees a Dog*
me: !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! WOW! !!!!! !!!!! WOW!

hedidntunderstandmeme:

The world is a beautiful place, but we have to make it that way. 
Whenever you find home, we’ll make it more than just a shelter. 
And if everyone belongs there it will hold us all together. 
If you’re afraid to die, then so am I.