Didn’t get that job, or that grade, or that promotion you wanted? Fuck it. Fighting with your lover? Fuck it. Feel fat today? Fuck it. Losing control of everything and everyone? Fuck it. What matters now won’t matter soon; the truly important thing is that you are alive, and that you have the capacity to do absolutely anything with this beautiful, crazy coincidence of being on this earth.” —Gerard Way (via loveyourchaos)
Postmark: Newport, July 3, 1819
Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday
My dearest Lady — I am now at a very pleasant Cottage window, looking onto a beautiful hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is very fine. I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I might have in living here if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me.
Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.
-John Keats to Fanny Brawne.
Here’s to the women that don’t need men to complete them.