I spent the last hour trying to track down a poem I read in high school, but I can’t fucking remember the name of the piece or poet. All I can remember is a line that really stuck out to me. That poet voiced my current sentiments in ways infinitely better than anything I could ever say…  

Death is unprejudiced. He’s impartial. He doesn’t care who you are or what you do. He pays no mind to what will happen to your parents, your family and friends once he takes you. He doesn’t take into consideration how long you’ve lived or whether or not you’ve even begun to live your life to the fullest. He has no interest in human affairsand will come for you without a second thought. In this way, he is cold, unfair, and remorseless.

As we live our lives, we tend to forget that one of these days, death is sure to come knocking. The event is tossed into the back of our minds, and eventually, something that is an inevitability becomes the unimaginable.

But when you’re holding the paper in the palm of your hands, and it reads, “Three people, including a 16-year-old girl, died in an early Saturday morning crash…” The words seem to shout out at you, “He took not one but three lives from us!” And in the pit of your stomach, you feel that horrible twisting feeling as the reality hits you all over again. But it’s not fear you feel. It’s shock, sadness, denial, and resentment all warped into one. 

RIP. 

In a 1933 letter to his 11-year-old daughter Scottie, F. Scott Fitzgerald produced this poignant and wise list of things to worry, not worry, and think about – the best father’s advice since John Steinbeck’s letter to his son on falling in love and this beautiful letter to 16-year-old Jackson Pollock by his dad.

From F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Life in Letters.

(via explore-blog)

(via explore-blog)

i don’t like it when people throw who they are in your face. it’s like, i get it. you got your 4.0 gpa this semester. you smoke L’s … everyday. you’re fabulously gay. you party so hard. you’re in a band. you’re with the band. you’re a model. you’re a photographer — SHUT THE FUCK UP.

to adhere to a given identity limits you, constrains you, and entraps you within that identity. people are more than what they think they are. 

fuck this.