wanderlust

403. PMA. I ride bikes. Sleep > everything. stay cold.

Six types of Love

Eros

a passionate physical and emotional love based on aesthetic enjoyment; stereotype of romantic love

Ludus
a love that is played as a game or sport; conquest; may have multiple partners at once

Storge
an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, based on similarity

Pragma
love that is driven by the head, not the heart

Mania
obsessive love; experience great emotional highs and lows; very possessive and often jealous lovers

Agape
selfless altruistic love; spiritual

(Source: Wikipedia, via ashlotus)

wdrlst:

No matter what you’re full of shit.

I guess my life hasn’t always been happy, or easy, or exactly what I want. At a certain point, I just have to try not to think too much about certain things, or else they’ll break my heart.

—Jonathan Franzen (via absea)

(Source: emptieds, via absea)

Here’s what our parents never taught us:

You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.

You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.

You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It’s okay.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.

You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.

All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.

You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.

One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.

Molt.
Don’t be afraid.

Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out
against the windowpane.

You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass will break through often.

But it’s okay. I promise.

Remember,
a stranger once told you that the breeze
here is something worth writing poems about.

—Shinji Moon, Here’s What Our Parents Never Taught Us
(via absea)

(Source: commovente, via absea)

But that’s the wonderful thing about foreign travel, suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most basic sense of how things work, you can’t even reliably cross the street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.

—Bill Bryson, Neither here nor There (via 33113)

(Source: cold-winter-days, via kellybrooke)