papermagazine

Here’s who it’s not okay to share a bed with:

Anyone who makes you feel like you’re invading their space. Anyone who tells you that they ‘just can’t be alone right now.’ Anyone who doesn’t make you feel like sharing a bed is the coziest and most sensual activity they could possibly be undertaking (unless, of course, it is one of the aforementioned relatives; in that case, they should act lovingly but also reserved/slightly annoyed.

Now, look over at the person beside you. Do they meet these criteria? If not, remove them or remove yourself. You’re better off alone.

wordsnquotes

You know how the color white is all colors combined and illuminated by each other that it gives you this pale slate.

My theory is that it is the same with emotions.

Emotionless, I don’t think is the absence of emotion, rather the opposite. Emotionless is the color white, it’s all the emotions aggregated and staggered together that you no longer know what you are feeling.

Those who are emotionless are the most emotional, I think. because they feel everything at once without having the luxury to decide one feeling over the other.

humansofnewyork
humansofnewyork:

"She taught me how to dance. We actually met at a graduation party. I was the only one not on the dance floor, and her friend bet her that she couldn’t get me to dance. I’d already said ‘no’ to ten girls, but she talked me into it. We were together 55 years. She died eight years ago, but I still dance every day."
(Mexico City, Mexico)

This warms my heart 💗💖💓💘💕

humansofnewyork:

"She taught me how to dance. We actually met at a graduation party. I was the only one not on the dance floor, and her friend bet her that she couldn’t get me to dance. I’d already said ‘no’ to ten girls, but she talked me into it. We were together 55 years. She died eight years ago, but I still dance every day."

(Mexico City, Mexico)

This warms my heart 💗💖💓💘💕

thatkindofwoman
He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know who reflected your own light to you? People were more often—he searched for a simile, found one in his work—torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?
Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (via thatkindofwoman)