hopeless romantic with trust issues and a sex drive out the roof
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“No documentary can capture my soul, no movie will deliver my pain to the audience, not truly; the way my tears sparkle on my cheeks at night, how my heart dies with me in bed, how love always betrays me, how much I give and how lightly happiness sustains me. No documentary can explain my aching, my belongingness, my charisma, and my melancholy. No one could paint the world I carry in between my lungs. What kind of life I’ve chose for myself. How misunderstood I felt, how little I was. What kind of burden my heart was for me, how I prayed for another one. No one will tell my story like it was; like I loved too much and it got me nowhere, like I faked my patience. How mad I was that I was not like other women or that I felt guilty all the time. I never gave myself the time or kind words. It seemed childish. No documentary will portrait my loneliness. The training I constantly put my brain and heart through. Closing my mouth a little more, screaming in my head more. But I would lie in every documentary and in every biography for a little bit of attention, for a little bit of passion. ,”
— Cinematic by Royla Asghar
Listen. Cut your own hair. Dye it blue, then shave it off when you’re bored of it. Wear that outfit with those shoes. Paint your nails with all the colors of the rainbow. Get that tattoo. Go to the movies alone. Get coffee, then drink it at that special place you like. Mouth the words of the song you’re listening to on public transport. Put that thing on your wall. Bake. Draw. Dance in your underwear. Life is so much better when you don’t give a fuck
Do you ever wonder if you’ve ever been that random person that someone saw and couldn’t forget?
