Continuously questing myself.

Twitter: @AliaKhaled

Curled up in the corner of my bed contemplating my life and couldn’t help weeping. It hit me that I’m fucking twenty. Twenty. Why am I even here. Why can’t I be truly living. Am I destined to do this for the rest of my life? I wanna leave. So badly it tears my heart apart everyday, the thought that I may never will. The thought of how hard and sacrificial it would be If I tried, the battle I’m gonna have to go through risking everything I have to something I have no clue how it would turn out to be. It kills me how helpless I happen to be. How weak and fragile. It’s breaks me to know I can’t do anything about it. There’s one thing I’m sure of; If I was spending this night out there in a cold street on the pavement of an alley in a city where I know no one, I would’ve been more fulfilled. And much happier.

The Wonder Years  (via disorder)

(Source: hqlines, via timid)

It scares me sometimes, the emptiness I see in my eyes.


Pages from my diary in December 2013

(via cherry-and-also-bomb)

(via elsharbatle)

(Source: bandar-khader, via nadafarag)

أنت تقرأ مئات الكتب لتفتش عن ذلك الكتاب، تلك الصفحة، تلك الجملة التي ستقلب حياتك رأسًا على عقب، وتدمّر كل قناعاتك دفعةً واحدة

 Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via leafamina)

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.


My eyes grew weary, my heart went heavy, my smile seldom came to light and The Smiths became my favourite band.

I’d love to fast forward to the part where I move to NYC for good already.