Find Solace Here
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About: I write these words for us: Find solace here. They are written in the hope that you are not alone. Find solace here. They are written in the hope that I am not alone either. Find solace here. It is in these words that we will find a haven. That we will find hope. That we will connect across the distances, and maybe be understood. For you and I, find solace here.

If you are looking to follow my personal blog because I've followed you, please go to Thanks for visiting.

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You’re asleep right now but thank you for being exactly the person you are. I think everything about you is amazing.

(Source: titusandronicats, via brokenmachine)

(via anditslove)

“I’m with you. No matter what else you have in your head I’m with you and I love you.” —Ernest Hemingway, from The Garden Of Eden  (via anditslove)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via anditslove)


“You can’t control the Universe. You are the water, not the rock.” 


“You can’t control the Universe. You are the water, not the rock.” 

(via brokenmachine)

You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?

“The Glass Essay” by Anne Carson (via loveyourchaos)

(Source: seabois, via loveyourchaos)

(Source: life-fleeting-and-not-eating, via whitened)

“A long time ago, when you were a wee thing, you learned something, some way to cope, something that, if you did it, would help you survive. It wasn’t the healthiest thing, it wasn’t gonna get you free, but it was gonna keep you alive. You learned it, at five or six, and it worked, it *did* help you survive. You carried it with you all your life, used it whenever you needed it. It got you out—out of your assbackwards town, away from an abuser, out of range of your mother’s un-love. Or whatever. It worked for you. You’re still here now partly because of this thing that you learned. The thing is, though, at some point you stopped needing it. At some point, you got far enough away, surrounded yourself with people who love you. You survived. And because you survived, you now had a shot at more than just staying alive. You had a shot now at getting free. But that thing that you learned when you were five was not then and is not now designed to help you be free. It is designed only to help you survive. And, in fact, it keeps you from being free. You need to figure out what this thing is and work your ass off to un-learn it. Because the things we learn to do to survive at all costs are not the things that will help us get FREE. Getting free is a whole different journey altogether.”

Mia McKenzie, creator of Black Girl Dangerous, author of The Summer We Got Free (via etiquette-etc)

i think i gasped a little when i read this because it’s almost word-for-word my therapist’s explanation of why i learned to be anxious as a child (“if your dad might blow up at any minute then your anxiety protects you”) and why it’s not helping me now (“he’s not here anymore”). 

(via dorightwoman)

Ooh my therapist talked about talking about my life as exploitation and I went bone silent

The things we we learn to survive don’t always make us thrive

(via guyanapeace)

wow. this is hittin home for me in so many ways~ Wishin everyone good luck on their journey of unlearning~ (via kenyabenyagurl)

(via now-at-punkwarren)

We are more than the worst thing that’s ever
happened to us. All of us need to stop apologizing
for having been to hell and come back breathing.

Your bad dreams are battle scars.
What doesn’t kill you cuts you fucking deep
but scars are just skin growing back
thicker when it heals.

—Clementine von Radics  (via 24ribs)

(Source: itsserenwrap, via loveyourchaos)


(013/365; 03.02.13)

inspired by this


(013/365; 03.02.13)

inspired by this

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Monica’s Flower Petal Ceremony, McCarty’s Cove, Marquette, MI on Thursday, April 5th, 2013. 

Photos by Kristen Koehler, The North Wind, Northern Michigan University.

I’m here. Saying goodbye to someone I love very much. Letting her go.

I’ve been told that it’s National Poetry Month.

I’d love to write one for you,
but the only poem in my head is the way
your chest rises and falls beneath my fingertips
while you are sleeping.

(Source: yaritzalikeszombies, via brokenmachine)

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