where you’ll find me around this time every night.
Something in this image struck me as sublime. I feel like the light, softly against the skin is just perfect here. But, still, there is something more, something delightfully entrancing in this photo. Quite arresting.
| — | Hunter Reveur (via c-harientism) |
She’s probably the single most beautiful woman I can think of. She’s an athlete, and the way her muscles are strong, and the way she seems to flow in her movements makes me feel horribly small, and I’m fascinated with it, and I think it’s beautiful. I love the line of her biceps, because I can see power, and a solidity about her. I wonder if her body is an extension of her personality, an extension of a will and a purpose. I wonder what her hugs are like, and if they feel safe, if they feel reassured and like the person given them knows the score with the world. She’s quite extraordinary. Her abs don’t intimidate me, but they make me feel like she has power, like she has some force about her, the kind of vibe that make tornadoes seem quaint. She’s exceptional in every beautiful way.
I love collar bones for the way they feel under the ridges and joints of my fingers as they slide up and over shoulders to hold someone I love.
I feel loneliest, and most isolated at night. It makes a vague kind of sense, I suppose. I just wish there was a person next to me, after all. However, the lonesome sadness that befalls me brings in its wake an anger that I feel sad. I have no reason to, and I know people who do. People who I wish I could bring even a drop of happiness into their day for. Someone once said that I’m mad, happy, bored, frustrated, taciturn, withdrawn, outgoing, and every other emotion under the sun, but sad. They asked how I do it. The truth is I hate myself into happiness for feeling sad. I feel like I have no right to be sad. All the pain in the people I know and I’m sad?
