I think that I went through too much.
I heard too much. I saw too much. I felt too much. And because of that I think too much. And for as long as I can remember, it hurts too much. I blame it on these walls that surround me. They rock me to sleep and then start to close in on me. “It’s this house.” I’ll say. But it’s only the memories. It’s the mistakes i’ve made here. It’s the things I experienced here. Don’t misunderstand it’s not all bad, not all the time. But there’s just too much here.
“I like cancelled plans. And empty bookstores. I like rainy days and thunderstorms. And quiet coffee shops. I like messy beds and over-worn pajamas. Most of all, I like the small joys that a simple life brings.”—note to self (via antiquedvintage)