chest pains aren’t fun at all. I mustn’t dive backwards
If there’s a hole in your heart, go to the one who opened it. Meet them.
Smoking is borderline nihilism.
To fathom what cannot be undone is to learn from one’s shortcomings.
What is the point of rest?
Sleep is the indulgence in temporary escapism.
Have I lost feeling? Am I going mad?
Deter yourself from becoming a slave to an idea.
Love has taught me that it’d be wrong to try an open a door I’ve lost the key to.
To be born in a first-world country is a privilege in itself.
The forgetfulness that ensues amidst fun is a curse in itself. The emotional toll it takes is immensely difficult to pull out of.
In trying to recall a distant memory, I often bring myself to tears. What kind of masochism have I indulged in.
We’re all just much older kids.
Bliss with a little bit of chaos amidst love. Caressed with sunburnt ignorance under the guise of romance. Left with wounds that fail to close.
Your song, which I can only imagine would sound like an open flowerbed in the dusk of summer. The kind you’d often find yourself frolicking in where the air is clean and the petals stretch multiple miles, far outside the reach of vision.
Your song sounds what a tropical forest smells and some odd way taste like, with all its fruit and rainwater bliss. The kind that is rich and flavorful. Wildlife and all.
Your song, to me, is what I’d often catch myself playing on repeat to the end of all my days; a wonderful tune.