Perfect in her own Imprfection

She looked like she was made up in a dream, everything about her was mad and marvelous. And every time I look at her I question my sanity and her eyes tell me that I am far far away from safety.

I firmly believe in small gestures: pay for their coffee, hold the door for strangers, over tip, smile or try to be kind even when you don’t feel like it, pay compliments, chase the kid’s runaway ball down the sidewalk and throw it back to him, try to be larger than you are— particularly when it’s difficult. People do notice, people appreciate. I appreciate it when it’s done to (for) me. Small gestures can be an effort, or actually go against our grain (“I’m not a big one for paying compliments…”), but the irony is that almost every time you make them, you feel better about yourself.

I’ve always loved the idea of not being what people expect me to be.

Surround yourself with the dreamers and the doers, the believers and the thinkers, but most of all, surround yourself with those who see the greatness within you, even when you don’t see it yourself.

How many times do we say we don’t care but deep down we fucking care so fucking much.

If you constantly have to tell someone the same exact thing about how you feel and they don’t change it, understand they don’t respect you.