He makes me so vulnerable. He knows about my insecurities — but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe in any one of them. He makes me open up about things and feelings I normally wouldn’t tell anybody else. For the last sixteen years I’ve been able to cope with many tragic events in my life — deaths, sudden illnesses of family members and friends, occupational hazards, whatnot — but I find myself now unable to withstand even his rejections and simple non-forgiveness. For the first time in my life the strain of everything I’ve been through is finally going down on me, and I can’t seem to do anything about it. I’m beginning to wonder if he has caused this sudden weakness in my spirit, and that makes me feel more connected to him than ever. That is, until I remember that he still hasn’t replied, and that he still positively detests me.

You know that moment when you’re reading a book and you just have to stop and bite your lip and squeal or sigh or close your eyes and wrinkle your nose and forehead and press the book against your heart and just like sit there and try to soak up the gorgeous literature via osmosis?

That’s my favorite part of reading. 

(Source: tommyshawsboots)