new playlist i am way to proud of: 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bUP2scIYTgiX0Y4rSYKCs?si=m9Zq4JE3Q0Kf1JT7WGBp5A

playlist aesthetics

sitting in the parking lot of a local supermarket underneath a yellow streetlight, blasting music with your friends, everyone screaming at the top of their lungs, with stolen glances exchanged between you and your crush as their hand slowly begins to drift over the steering column towards yours 

lying on the grass on a perfect late summer afternoon, listening to the birds and smelling the scent of new flowers as the wind blows over the hills, your legs rubbing up against your love’s, preemptively mourning the season and the warmth as the year begins to turn towards autumn 

driving down the twisting roads of new england, past farms and rock walls and rivers, the trees all different shades of orange and yellow and red and brown as the sunset, the smell of woodsmoke and decay on the breeze as it blows through your hair and across your face, promising the cold and the winter to come

drifting off to sleep alone in a cold bed, staring out the window as cars pass through street lights and the wind hisses through the cracks in the drafty room, staring at the end of the street and wondering what’s to come, and if it’ll be good or not, just wanting to find peace. 

twirling around in the arms of your love as the fiddle plays a soft, lamenting tune, their arms warm around your shoulders, their scent swirling around the two of you, smiling as you look up at them, knowing that everything is fleeting, even though it feels amazing in the moment

emoji spell to attract positive outcomes

💛🕊✨🕯☀️🕯✨🕊💛

like to charge, reblog to cast

peak dumbass gay influencer elf being an asshole, wearing white to a wedding, we stan

my take on the queen, phoebe bridgers. 

i know the end, punisher

my first attempt at terrible art: moonshine cybin 

playlist concepts

you’re in an old car, driving away from your home towards a new adventure, drinking iced coffee with the love of your life in the passenger’s seat, planning where you’re going to stop to see the sunset, and dreaming your adventure to be something amazing

you’re in your best friend’s room, blasting music, singing along to all the words, venting about the latest asshole in your life and commenting on the inevitability of heartbreak and now you’re actually free of the expectations of assholes

you’re sitting by a camp fire, it’s cold and a little windy and you’re drinking mulled apple cider and you can hear your friends laughing in the backgroud, but all that you can focus on is the fire and the feeling that you were meant to be doing something bigger

you can’t sleep, you’re on the verge of tears, and all you can think about is the melancholy ache in the pit of your stomach and how there’s a haunting melody filled with acoustic guitars that you can’t place your finger on

blasting music through the car stereo, wearing cheap sunglasses with your hair down, turning down the road towards the ocean and screaming the words in time with the music so loud with the only intention that even the sea could hear your words

everyone was like: the roaring twenties were bc of WWI but now we know it was bc they finally outlasted a pandemic

find out which of my playlists you are

https://uquiz.com/UWM3Su

Lonesome.

         That was the word that Maggie had settled on to describe Birch Hills after a week on the property almost completely isolated, save her parents’ wolfdog, Norman, and the ghosts of her grandparents, who seemed to be lurking behind every corner she turned.

         She had come to this conclusion one afternoon, lounging out on the back porch, its wood slightly damp from the rain the night before, staring as Norman rolled around in the fields behind the house. Maggie had left her grandmother’s ghost in the kitchen, watching from afar as she rustled the old faucets around in the big farmhouse sink, a spectral white figure in the dim afternoon light of an overcast November day.

         Lonesome.

         That was the word that flitted through her head as she stood next to her grandfather’s ghost at the edge of the birch grove the house was named after, pondering what she should do with the decrepit fences and fields in the spring when the weather would be better. Her grandfather had always pestered her older brother and cousins to repair it for him, so that he could buy the flock of sheep that he had always wanted. They had never quite gotten around to it, and slowly the wood had begun to rot. The leaves crunched under her boots and her grandfather’s ghost gave her a knowing look, one that read, “Please, Grete, get me my sheep.”

         Lonesome.          That was the immediate thought she’d had after her mother hung up on her, a month after she’d arrived at Birch Hills. They had tentative plans for Christmas, for the whole family to come back home and be together, shaking the loneliness out of the old bones of the house, and giving Maggie slightly more sanity than Norman could provide. Her mother had been confirming their plans, promising the arrival of people into her life again.          “Now, Margaret, we must talk about next year at some point,” her mother had begun, and then the fighting had started. It hadn’t ended until her mother had hung up the phone, cutting Maggie off in the middle of the sentence.          Norman had picked his head up at the noise, and then placed it back onto the hardwood floor, staring straight ahead towards the door. Maggie realized, at that moment, that there are been a point when this had been her biggest fear. That she would be alone, without anyone to keep her company. And now, and now after a month alone, there was something comforting about it. About the quiet that had fallen on Birch Hills when the first flakes of Maine winter fell from the skies onto Maggie’s awaiting tongue and Norman’s wagging tail, her grandparents’ ghosts standing in the open doorway, staring out over the rolling fields of their property.           Lonesome.          That was the churning in Maggie’s chest as she laid awake at night in the dark, warm, alcove of the attic that she had chosen to sleep in. It was a gaping hole in her chest, a cavern filling and emptying with every breath she took. The dog slept at the foot of her bed, and she gazed out of the small window onto the winding road that lead towards town, the only light in miles the light hanging off of the garage wall, flickering as her grandfather’s ghost stared out at the driveway, kicking gravel as he had almost every night when he’d been here, with her.           The sadness in the pit of her stomach sometimes took a concrete form, when she laid in bed at night and thought about calling Wilder and asking him how his semester has been. Thought about reaching out to the person who had known her better than anyone else, who had held her when she’d found out about her grandmother, had wiped the tears off of her face when she dropped him home for the last time. She hadn’t talked to him since she’d arrived at Birch Hills, not necessarily on purpose, but because he hadn’t seemed to ever call her. That was the first seed of loneliness for Maggie, before it had blossomed into a beautiful bloom of lonesomeness. The kernel planted when Wilder didn’t call her, didn’t text her back as often as he once had.          Lonesome.          Maggie had written the text that she sent to Wilder a million times before she actually sent it, telling him that she was at Birch Hills, and that she felt at peace in the loneliness. She’d debated the medium through which she should send it, wondering if an email or voicemail would be better than a text. But, in the end, she had settled on a text.          She had sat at the kitchen table, the entire room glowing in a yellow light as she stared at her phone, the stairs creaking under the weight of her grandfather’s ethereal feet, composing her text again and again and again.          “hey wilder, its me. im alone at birch hills. ive been thinking a lot about you. i miss you and i love you. please text me back.”          That was what she had settled on, after half an hour. He hadn’t responded when she went to bed that night, trying not to think of the lack of notifications on her phone. The whole house seemed gray and empty, larger than it ever had before. Six weeks alone, six weeks into her self-imposed isolation, and she felt as though she hadn’t made any progress. The only thing that Maggie had made progress on, it seemed, was by identifying the swirling black whirlpool of emotion in her gut and labeling it:          Lonesome.          That was the feeling jolted out of her when the doorbell rang, three days before her family was supposed to come up for the holidays. Norman beat her to the door, barking aggressively and wagging his tail, his nails skittering against the hardwood floors as he made a beeline to the front door. Maggie followed, tentatively, pushing a piece of hair that had escaped her bandana behind her ear.          Wilder was standing there, a bag dropped on the step next to him, staring at her in the mid-afternoon December sun, its weak light shining through his auburn hair. He hadn’t texted her back, after she’d sent him that text the week before, and everyday Maggie had assumed the likelihood she ever heard back was decreasing. But, nevertheless, here he was, dressed in green fleece and jeans, a tentative and small smile falling across his lips.          “Hey, Mags, I…”          She didn’t let him finish as she threw herself into his arms, hugging him as though she needed to prove that he was not yet another ghost there to grace Birch Hills. It took him a second, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her just as tightly as she had held him.          “Can I stay for the holidays?”          Maggie just nodded into his chest, as if she was worried that her vocal cords would betray her, betray the immense relief that had come with not feeling so completely and utterly alone anymore. Maggie let go of him, opening the door and ushering him inside.          And suddenly with Wilder seated at the kitchen table, drinking tea from a mug and grinning as he began to tell her stories of his first semester at school, Birch Hills didn’t gray. Color began to seep back into the room, the pinks and purples in her grandmother’s rose and lilac drapes becoming brighter, the wood furnishings become a warmer tone.          With Wilder there, Birch Hills had begun to thaw.

ive recently started my first semester of college in maine and even though i was slightly hesitant about it, i am now slightly in love with this state. here are some photos from my first semester in maine.

playlist concepts: 2019

you’re outside and it’s warm, but not sweltering and you’re listening to your friend chat about something that you don’t particularly care about but is so totally, utterly mundane, but you enjoy your friend’s voice and think about how beautiful the utterly mundane is

it’s dark and you’re driving home from something that made you think far too much but you don’t understand how to feel yet and so you turn up your car’s stereo and follow the contours of the roads and wonder what would happen if you got on the interstate instead of heading home

you’re crying and you’re not sure why, but there’s something so sad about just existing and you want to scream but instead you drink a cup of tea and read poetry and think about everything and nothing

it’s summer and it’s bright outside and there’s a slight breeze and you’re in a car, on the way to the beach, with your hair down, feeling cute as fuck and smiling as you sing the words to songs that you should’ve left back when you graduated the 8th grade

dancing around in your socks and underwear, smiling because you have some cute clothes to wear and you’ve got a new book to read and you’re just plain old optimistic about the future, and you’re invincible in that moment, so nothing is ever going to bring you down

you’re driving past a field of tall grass that seems to be run down and you can’t help but wonder what kids used to play in that field, and what dogs ran around, and who goes out there now to look out on the surrounding land, and what are they looking for on the horizon?

“it’s the end of the world”

            i say

“what’s left without him;

            without everything we’ve done;

                        without everything we were together,”

 “don’t be stupid,”

            you say

“there’s always tomorrow”

the street lights dim

and the headlights blur

until all i can see clearly

is you