Quarter of a century old.


I’m finally turning 25th at the end of August and for some reason all I can think about is how I really want to make it count with being happy. I’m craving an excessive about of hugs, flowers, and an excuse to go somewhere that requires me to wear a nice dress.

I want 25 to make me feel cute.

Shit I’m weird.

She is not “my girl.”

She belongs to herself. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night.

How much more blessed can I be?

Avraham Chaim, Thoughts after The Alchemist (via petitedino)


(via ppeanutttt)