(Source: claudiablonde)

I feel like I’ve constantly been borrowing time ever since I graduated. It’s as if I put on that final cap and gown of structure, marched pridefully through those sub-ivy league gates, and traded in a $40,000 a year room and board sweater for a stained “Hey, dad, could I just get another $100 for the month?” t-shirt. I don’t just mean money. If anything, I’ve been borrowing time. I came from a life where borrowing time wasn’t just the norm, it was nearly essential. Putting off homework assignments to the hour before they were due, trading a night of heavy drinking to set the paper writing to the side, or simply gazing into distant day dreams in lieu of studying for the final. Some would consider it the life of an intellectual brigand, but I suppose I’ve always subconsciously prided myself on the grimy glamour of procrastination. See, I always put it off, always waited at the last second, and what did I do? I made the A+ paper. I won the respect of professors with best presentation in the class. I got the fucking diploma. All that was fine, because I had deadlines to beat, and each came with a shiny badge of progress. Here in the real world, my gray shade ambition hasn’t aged a day, yet I often find myself wondering why the hell I’m trading all of the stress and scrambling for nothing. Make rent? Barely. I still have a roof over my head, but nothing has been gained. Did I pay my phone bill? Yeah, I can make calls, but no steps have been made on my road to success. If anything, I’m simply lacking progress. Inward and outward.

There was a time when I would soul search, and I’d really find myself in the shit of things. I confronted my inner-most demons and would emerge on the other side of the chaotic sea of melodrama. What I’d find was that I’d gained an inch. Even an inch in the world of self-revelation could build a mile towards the road to enlightenment. Nowadays the most I do is sit and drink and talk about things I wish I could do. I could do that quite well in college, and I was protected with the promise of “one day.” One day, I’ll travel to a far and distant country. One day I’ll finally get into boxing. One day I’ll write that goddamn novel. We’d share our goals, maybe even get misty eyed and triumphant in spirit. After that? It was back to losing games of beer pong and getting into inebriated arguments over tv shows. Business as usual, for the time. Now “one day” is approaching, and I really have to contend with the idea. I fear I’m falling into a trap, knowingly slipping into one of my deepest fears. A mediocre life is synonymous with failure in my opinion. Settling down, starting a family, hometown pride, and a beer on the weekend. It’s a fucking nightmare.

I’d apologize for this, I’d make a remark of how nobody is actually reading this, but I’m trying to shy away from typical Taylor Wilson. I’m quite happy. This is the first time I’ve written anything beyond a tweet in months. I think we all go through a cycle. The first is revelation. Everything is bright and shiny and new. Coldplay sings, we all have ice cream, and Mel Gibson has killed Lucius Malfoy to win the American Revolution. After that, we’re certain and complacent. We don’t need to continue the journey, we’ll stop in the pub for some pints. I’m quite certain I can handle that extra mug just as I’m sure that my newfound ideologies will forever stand the test of time. Then complacency sets in and clog the pipes. Our juices stop flowing. We get dried up. We rot. And then comes depression and despair. Then comes that hellish boredom that seems to clot up every pore. I think that’s where I am. I’m happy though. Because that just means it’s high time. It’s time for the bright lights. For revelations. For new hobbies and habits and adventures.

It’s time for a new me.

lendoro:

baddadsquad:

gentle-puffer-fish:

  • falling asleep on someone’s chest
  • wrapping your arms around each other
  • synching heartbeats and breathing slowly
  • falling asleep in big t-shirts and underwear
  • forehead kissies and murmured affections
  • naps
  • MONSTER TRUCKS

image

(Source: gentlepufferfish)

thesoundofthesun:

coolator:

i have never seen anyone fuck up this masterfully

Oh my gosh, I want to hug him though.

I laughed so hard at this.
herradurra1:

belovedlotus:

tiny houses are so sweeet

I would never get out of this bed OMG.
herradurra1:

belovedlotus:

tiny houses are so sweeet

I would never get out of this bed OMG.
herradurra1:

belovedlotus:

tiny houses are so sweeet

I would never get out of this bed OMG.
herradurra1:

belovedlotus:

tiny houses are so sweeet

I would never get out of this bed OMG.
herradurra1:

belovedlotus:

tiny houses are so sweeet

I would never get out of this bed OMG.

herradurra1:

belovedlotus:

tiny houses are so sweeet

I would never get out of this bed OMG.

(Source: tinyhousecanada)

(Source: popcornpeachy)

(Source: )

bravenheart:

princess3hunna:

immigra:

Why are the ‘world wars’ called the ‘world’ wars when it was only a bunch a white countries beefing over who gets to control and fuck up the world the most? Why does everything white suddenly become the world?

ah yes 

the world wars were white

remember the white countries japan, china, egypt, libya, morocco, iraq, brazil, the phillipines, thailand, vietnam, burma and ethiopia in the world wars

so white

study study study

bobzenub:

Charles and Erik finally reconcile