“I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible. How it can actually ache in places you didn’t even know you had inside you. And it doesn’t matter how many haircuts you get, how many gyms you join, how many glasses of wine you drink with your girlfriends. You still go to bed every night going over every detail and wondering what you did wrong and how you misunderstood. And how in the hell for that brief moment you could be that happy. And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he’ll see the light and show up at your door.”—The Holiday
“I can’t feel bad about being who I am, just like the girl next to me can’t feel bad about being who she is. Because a rose can never be a sunflower, and a sunflower can never be a rose. I want to encourage women to embrace their own uniqueness. Because just like a rose is beautiful, so is a sunflower, so is a peony. I mean, all flowers are beautiful in their own way, and that’s like women too.”—Miranda Kerr
Always persevering on unattainable love; the significance of you. The natural course of breathe stops at the sound of m-m, and my heart leaps through the sound of your voice as my compulsive eyes devour your neck.
“I don’t pretend to know what love is for everyone, but I can tell you what it is for me: love is knowing all about someone, and still wanting to be with them more than any other person; love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things you might be ashamed of; love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile at you.”—
“”Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.””—Cecil Beaton
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”— Jack Kerouac