we do not grow absolutely, chronologically. we grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. we grow partially. we are relative. we are mature in one realm, childish in another. the past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. we are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
written by anaïs nin  (via infantgirl)

(Source: considerthishippie, via unena)

My dear, I don’t know what to do today, help me decide. Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me afterall. Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage. Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but? Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? Falsely yours.
written by Albert Camus (via weepling)

(Source: seabois, via unena)