what is there to say. i'm nothing to write home about. i am a pawn trapped in the war, the smell right before it rains. i am just passing through this place; trying to leave my mark in an unmark-able world.
I am winter, but I wish I was spring.
I used to dream of love, but now I dream of nothing.
I thought I wanted to find you, but now I just want to be found.
I am growing numb to love, when I wish I was warmed by it.
I don’t know anymore.
T.B. LaBerge // Unwritten Letters to You (via tblaberge)
Henri Matisse (via observando)