a commentary on art, happiness, and tranquility derived from a creative-fuck formulating new definitions of home.

 

Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording —all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.

Sylvia Plath  (via oh-girl-among-the-roses)

(Source: raccoonwounds)

expectations of summer: going to the beach every day, water fights, parties, random day trips, barbecues

reality of summer: moving your laptop so that the sunlight doesn't reflect on the screen when you're trying to blog