If Your Blog Doesn’t Have Room For Baby Jensen Holding A Puppy You’re Doing It Wrong.

7/? Favourite Supernatural Tumblr Posts

BULLET JOURNALING 

Watch the original video here ( x ) Before I saw this video, I always kept a book for my homework. I use grid paper and it’s perfect for BJ… Heh. After watching this, it helped me to start developing a system I’m currently satisfied with. 

To-do apps don’t work with me. It always just sits on my screen with a notification and swiping something doesn’t feel as satisfying as crossing it out victoriously with a pen. ^_^

LEGENDS ( you can also do it like this ) Helps you quickly figure out what certain tasks are at a glance. The colours are for my spiraldexes which I will not be discussing unless you guys request it. c:

Pages This is basically what my pages look like. I write the numbers at the lower corners.I also added sticky notes for extra stuff like memorizing my moral definitions. :p

Calendar  ( x ) If you watch the video, you’re supposed to list out the dates but I prefer both, so I draw a calendar and paste it in my book and list out all the really appointments/stuff I have to do in my drawn calendar and some not-important-but-still-worth-noting notes in my list-calendar.

Index Just write down the pages as shown in the video. Pretty simple. 

Other things you can include: I also stick some motivational images on the last page and stuff like that. Spiraldexes can be fun but they tend to be a little time consuming to draw or at least, I can seem to use them effectively. :c

Have pages especially for grocery lists/ grades/ etc. 

Page full of favourite recipes

Stick an envelope at the back cover and fill it with motivational inspiration!

Stick printables ( x ) ( x ) ( x ) ( x )

Start a goal/wishlist!

 Good luck! :* 

He was born a warrior

with shrapnel freckles and poison green eyes

One of million, sent to fight an unbeatable behemoth

Every other soldier kept a picture- a pretty woman in pigtails, a house made of carved sycamore- but this one had only an amulet

He wears it over his chest like it'll stop a bullet

and keeps a knife under his pillow

He barely speaks, sleeps, eats,

and the only thing the others could get from him is that he's waiting for a brother to come home

In the meantime, he fights like his life has no worth

fights like there's someone out there who's does

There's salt in his pockets

and he runs through fire like it should fear him

There's no rain in the desert

but the soldier speaks of California storms

Rumors whisper heartbreak but the man's only ever spoken one word

Sam

That's not the one they carve on his gravestone

If the Pilot was a Finale

Dean couldn't handle Sam leaving so he thought that maybe if he could love him just a little bit more then maybe he would stay, but he didn't and now Dean can't stop

everyone needs to watch this slam poem on female empowerment and the idea that girls are raised to believe that they need a man to complete them

Chinese magazines of Jensen have taken over my feed

ships without lanterns are lost to the sea

Dean’s been awake for a while when Sam’s labored breathing and thrashing limbs finally pull him from the nightmare they both know he’s having. For a moment, all he can hear is Sam’s pointed gasping directed at the ceiling. In this dark, anything could be there and they wouldn't be able to tell. Dean likes it that way. He thinks Sam does too.

“Do you think she would still love me?” Sam asks breathlessly.

Dean thinks of that week away from Stanford, with Sam in the passenger’s seat again, murmuring mindlessly along to Aerosmith. How he woke earlier than Dean and turned on all the lights while padding around the room, going through a half-awake routine of brushing his teeth and pulling clothes on. The way his eyes shone and the corners of his lips pulled up when he folded open his wallet to tip the diner waitress. That easy smile that Dean’s memory had almost forgotten, like a polaroid dulled and tattered at the edges, now back in vivid technicolor.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, voice hoarse from the tightness in his chest. It sounds rough in the quiet of morning, like someone's been rubbing sandpaper against his lungs. Like the words have been cutting up his throat where Dean’s been holding them hostage. 

“How can you be so sure?” Sam’s voice comes back from across the divide, so empty and unknowing. As if he can’t fathom how someone could possibly love him, just little ol’ Sammy. Dean wants to reach across the space between them, thrust his thumb onto the pulse there, hold Sam’s hand until he just sees, but even Baby can’t span four years of running in opposite directions. The gap between their beds has never seemed wider, not even when Dean used to still order two queens knowing that the other would go unused.

In the safety of the darkness he wants to say some sentimental shit like ‘you have mom’s eyes’ or ‘kinda hard not to with that laugh’ but he’s never been that type of person, hates that he doesn't know how to do this anymore. He bites his tongue until the pain is a sharp reminder in the dull, soundless room. He’s been quiet too long. The blood is bitter behind his lips. It reminds him that Sam’s would taste exactly the same.

“You’re you,” is what he says instead, and immediately regrets it, knows he said too much. Fists clench, sharp archs of pain where unkempt fingernails dig graves into his palm. The words were sharp in this paper-thin silence, slicing it open until all Dean can taste is blood, blood, blood. It pools in his mouth, his fingers, drips from the shadows pinned to the ceiling- pit, pat -until Dean can’t take it anymore and closes his eyes.

Sam stays quiet on the other bed, on the other side of the world. Dean can still hear his breathing, and knows he’s not asleep.

TILT YOUR SCREEN BACK AND CRY.

Spiralling

sometimes I wonder

if I am falling

or flying

into love....