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To live abroad, particularly for work, particularly in isolation, inspires a particular kind of surrealism. I wake up around seven from the church bells clanging across the street; I brush my teeth, walk down the hill to work, spend all day with my colleagues and students. At night I go back to the gîte, smoke a cigarette off my balcony, and fall asleep feeling empty, alone, and strange. It feels rude to say I am sad here: there is nothing to be sad about. I am working a dream job, in a beautiful place. But as it is easy to be lonely in a crowd, so it is easy to be depressed in southern France.

Recommended Reading: Larissa Pham on Michael Cunningham’s The Hours. You could also read Holloway McCandless on the author’s By Nightfall. (via millionsmillions)
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jaclcfrost:

how i deal with my feelings

  • never talk about them
  • barely acknowledge them
  • hope they go away
  • i don’t, basically
  • that’s what i’m saying
  • i do not deal with my feelings
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turntable-thoughts:

glittergooch:

I hate when black clothes are a slightly different black and don’t match

we joke but this is an actual thing

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tatianazmaslany:

do you ever think about the first day you sat down to watch orphan black and how you had no idea that a girl named sarah manning would say “oh shit” and that would be the end of life as you know it

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