I had a dream where you missed me terribly. I was on a boat in another country, maybe I was in a train or car... I don't remember, but I remember how it moved with the agonizing slowness of a dying clock. The rain, a ceaseless, cold drizzle, clung to the windowpane, blurring the world into a watery smear. My fingers, stiff and unresponsive, ached with a numbness that echoed the hollowness within. Your name was spoken with an infuriating nonchalance, a careless flick of the tongue that should have shattered my bones. Yet, a smile, brittle, weak, and thin as ice, stretched across my lips. A performance designed to conceal the raw, pulsating wound that burrowed beneath my skin.
It was a lie, this smile. A grotesque mask concealing the truth: that my heart was being ripped apart by your unwelcomed yearning. I pulled this smile as if each muscle and sinew were torn asunder. Like my spine, a scaffold of despair, wasn't bound with the heavy chains of an unspeakable sorrow. Like a sharp and unforgiving blade wasn't grated against my ribs.
And then, I was back. Back in the confines of your vehicle, a cage of memory I wish would be devoured by time. Windows down, hands on my thigh, and oh, the promises, so many promises that were launched. The music, the very music I had so desperately wanted you to understand, became tangled with your laughter that I had once found so endearing. Now it mocked my own pathetic hope, it rings with a cruel irony, but I swear you would have loved them if you ever gave them a chance. If you gave us a chance. A word as flimsy and ephemeral as smoke. A chance, a possibility, a flicker of light extinguished by the sheer weight of your indifference.
Helpless, no. That word was too weak, too tame to describe the vast chasm into which I had been cast. It was a falling, an endless plummet into the abyss of your rejection. I was left, adrift, adrift in a sea of unanswered calls, of unacknowledged existence. I, a discarded thing, was tossed into the unforgiving cold of a vast, indifferent ocean. I tried to breathe, to fill my lungs with the familiar air, but the water, a monstrous, suffocating weight, poured into me. Your scent clung to my very being, was washed away, but it did not vanish, did it? It festered, a constant, malignant presence in my soul. So, in a desperate act of self-immolation, I turned to the flames. I set my skin alight with a desperate, futile hope that I would not see your reflection wherever I turn toward the mirror, a constant, painful echo of what had been lost.
I had a dream, but I was out of the endless ocean. I was in a bookstore wearing the black scarf you gifted me on the thirteenth of October. And in that dream, I meet a man. He was everything I was meant to want, his eyes as gentle as a summer rain, his hands capable of lifting me from the floor of my despair, his very essence an echo of home. Yet, even in this fabricated paradise, a void remained. This ideal being, this creation of my deepest desires, could not fill the gaping wound. I wanted you. The unshakeable, illogical, and ultimately self-destructive want for the architect of my own desolation. A labyrinth of desire, a prison of the self where the only escape is found in the continuation of the pain. I wanted the garden that is filled with dying flowers, I wanted the empty jar of love you left on the highest shelf, I wanted the late replies and all the dumb excuses, I wanted the scent of ashes on me again.
I had a dream, but you were not there. Why?
-polkadot
It was a lie, this smile. A grotesque mask concealing the truth: that my heart was being ripped apart by your unwelcomed yearning. I pulled this smile as if each muscle and sinew were torn asunder. Like my spine, a scaffold of despair, wasn't bound with the heavy chains of an unspeakable sorrow. Like a sharp and unforgiving blade wasn't grated against my ribs.
And then, I was back. Back in the confines of your vehicle, a cage of memory I wish would be devoured by time. Windows down, hands on my thigh, and oh, the promises, so many promises that were launched. The music, the very music I had so desperately wanted you to understand, became tangled with your laughter that I had once found so endearing. Now it mocked my own pathetic hope, it rings with a cruel irony, but I swear you would have loved them if you ever gave them a chance. If you gave us a chance. A word as flimsy and ephemeral as smoke. A chance, a possibility, a flicker of light extinguished by the sheer weight of your indifference.
Helpless, no. That word was too weak, too tame to describe the vast chasm into which I had been cast. It was a falling, an endless plummet into the abyss of your rejection. I was left, adrift, adrift in a sea of unanswered calls, of unacknowledged existence. I, a discarded thing, was tossed into the unforgiving cold of a vast, indifferent ocean. I tried to breathe, to fill my lungs with the familiar air, but the water, a monstrous, suffocating weight, poured into me. Your scent clung to my very being, was washed away, but it did not vanish, did it? It festered, a constant, malignant presence in my soul. So, in a desperate act of self-immolation, I turned to the flames. I set my skin alight with a desperate, futile hope that I would not see your reflection wherever I turn toward the mirror, a constant, painful echo of what had been lost.
I had a dream, but I was out of the endless ocean. I was in a bookstore wearing the black scarf you gifted me on the thirteenth of October. And in that dream, I meet a man. He was everything I was meant to want, his eyes as gentle as a summer rain, his hands capable of lifting me from the floor of my despair, his very essence an echo of home. Yet, even in this fabricated paradise, a void remained. This ideal being, this creation of my deepest desires, could not fill the gaping wound. I wanted you. The unshakeable, illogical, and ultimately self-destructive want for the architect of my own desolation. A labyrinth of desire, a prison of the self where the only escape is found in the continuation of the pain. I wanted the garden that is filled with dying flowers, I wanted the empty jar of love you left on the highest shelf, I wanted the late replies and all the dumb excuses, I wanted the scent of ashes on me again.
I had a dream, but you were not there. Why?
-polkadot
❤3
When they stay up late at night to text you ... do not feel special, everybody has a messed up sleeping schedule nowadays
The mirror is a cruel accomplice. It offers no solace, no distortion to ease the jagged edges of truth. When I meet my gaze in its cold, unwavering surface, the charade crumbles. No victim is staring back, and no innocent soul is is caught in the crossfire. Only the hollow sockets of a liar, eyes that have spun webs of deceit and betrayal. I see the architect of this devastation, the hand that wielded the blade, the mind that hatched the plan. My own heart, yes, I shattered it, but it lies bleeding amidst the wreckage, an inconvenient detail in the larger tapestry of ruin. It is your heart, the one I swore to protect, that is strewn on the floor, scattered like broken glass, a grim testament to the darkness I carry within. This act, this final, irreversible severing, is not an accident. It is a deliberate execution, and I, the butcher, stand here, unflinching, in the aftermath. The mirror confirms what I already knew. The only villain here is me.
_polkadot
_polkadot
🔥2
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Let's just put this here because it made me choke
"Having always lived in fear of being surprised by the worst, I have tried in every circumstance to get a head start, flinging myself into misfortune long before it occurred."
— Emil Cioran
— Emil Cioran
🔥2
Alison, I'm lost
Alison, I'll drink your wine
And wear your clothes when we're both high
"Alison", I said, "We're sinking"
But she laughs and tells me it's just fine
I guess she's out there somewhere.
VS
Richard, who's lying by your side?
Your love and all start to melt.
Richard, I fell inside your lies
Richard, this world is not your home / Richard you slowly felt your fear.
The silent life falls apart
Your life succumbs, sun is dry
Richard, your soul's all I know
Richard, I'm cold and out of hope / Richard I'm falling out of touch.
Your life it all sounds so wrong,
Richard your light is so raw, / Richard I’m lying on your arm
In might your soul's not you own, / In night, your song is not your own
Oh Richard I'll miss you when you're gone.
You loved all the signs to see
Richard I know it's hard to pull without a goal,
Richard and all your friends, you'll see us all again,
Richard I know you left your heart.
Alison, I'll drink your wine
And wear your clothes when we're both high
"Alison", I said, "We're sinking"
But she laughs and tells me it's just fine
I guess she's out there somewhere.
VS
Richard, who's lying by your side?
Your love and all start to melt.
Richard, I fell inside your lies
Richard, this world is not your home / Richard you slowly felt your fear.
The silent life falls apart
Your life succumbs, sun is dry
Richard, your soul's all I know
Richard, I'm cold and out of hope / Richard I'm falling out of touch.
Your life it all sounds so wrong,
Richard your light is so raw, / Richard I’m lying on your arm
In might your soul's not you own, / In night, your song is not your own
Oh Richard I'll miss you when you're gone.
You loved all the signs to see
Richard I know it's hard to pull without a goal,
Richard and all your friends, you'll see us all again,
Richard I know you left your heart.
❤1
In another universe far from here, I would have punched you in the face instead of saying it's okay. I'm fine
Forwarded from Unresolved Issues
Love tastes better at a distance. Like a faint perfume or a soft silhouette. It's better when its a gentle caress and a barely there kiss. Love is better when imagined, embellished by hope and shrouded in delusion. Love is better when its a small breeze moving the curtains on a quite evening.
Love is better when you can't see my flaws and I can't see yours. When I'm a little far away, just hazy enough for you to see a shape, an outline of someone you can love, somone perfect.
The moon looks pretty from down here, the craters a charming hue, a trick on the eye, a play of lights and shadows. But were we close, were we on the surface, those craters are mountains to climb and valleys to sink into. They're no longer beautiful. They're a nigthmare. A challenge. A burden.
So love me from a distance and let me do the same. I don't want you weary of climbing the mountains of my ego or the valleys of my anger. I don't want you exhaused and cursing the ground you walk on or the skin your fingers trace. No, I want you on earth. Far far away. Looking at me on a chilly October night while lake water swishes beneath you. Let my flaws captivate you from afar, their edges softened by distance. Let me be a vision you're trasfixed by or a dream that leaves you in awe. Let me be a phantom you can never catch but can't help but love.
#fiction
Love is better when you can't see my flaws and I can't see yours. When I'm a little far away, just hazy enough for you to see a shape, an outline of someone you can love, somone perfect.
The moon looks pretty from down here, the craters a charming hue, a trick on the eye, a play of lights and shadows. But were we close, were we on the surface, those craters are mountains to climb and valleys to sink into. They're no longer beautiful. They're a nigthmare. A challenge. A burden.
So love me from a distance and let me do the same. I don't want you weary of climbing the mountains of my ego or the valleys of my anger. I don't want you exhaused and cursing the ground you walk on or the skin your fingers trace. No, I want you on earth. Far far away. Looking at me on a chilly October night while lake water swishes beneath you. Let my flaws captivate you from afar, their edges softened by distance. Let me be a vision you're trasfixed by or a dream that leaves you in awe. Let me be a phantom you can never catch but can't help but love.
#fiction
❤1
Forwarded from Scattered skull.
What encourages me to write?
Is it my parents?
Or maybe my embarrassing high school fling?
My clumsiness, my awkwardness, my insecurity?
The strict people pleasing?
Or the bullies who mocked my loud breathing and dark skin?
I don’t know.
Maybe I call myself a “writer” only because I analyze myself too much,
Because I write about the things that have happened to me.
And honestly, I’ve only written a handful of things that don’t connect
to those parts of me.
Yet somehow, the pieces tied to those painful moments
are my favorites.
Not the ones I imagined, not the ones I reached for.
Why is that?
I feel so disconnected, so open.
I keep trying, but writing isn’t helping me like it used to.
Everything I create feels unfamiliar
I hate what I say after I’ve said it,
I hate what I do after I’ve done it.
I’m not just lost
lost is too simple a word for this.
I wasn’t here to begin with.
I am a facade
and for that, I am sorry.
there is nothing in the back.
Is it my parents?
Or maybe my embarrassing high school fling?
My clumsiness, my awkwardness, my insecurity?
The strict people pleasing?
Or the bullies who mocked my loud breathing and dark skin?
I don’t know.
Maybe I call myself a “writer” only because I analyze myself too much,
Because I write about the things that have happened to me.
And honestly, I’ve only written a handful of things that don’t connect
to those parts of me.
Yet somehow, the pieces tied to those painful moments
are my favorites.
Not the ones I imagined, not the ones I reached for.
Why is that?
I feel so disconnected, so open.
I keep trying, but writing isn’t helping me like it used to.
Everything I create feels unfamiliar
I hate what I say after I’ve said it,
I hate what I do after I’ve done it.
I’m not just lost
lost is too simple a word for this.
I wasn’t here to begin with.
I am a facade
and for that, I am sorry.
there is nothing in the back.
Forwarded from Sosina
'Born to be an artist, desiring to be the muse.'
An artist is supposed to paint or write poem or novel whether there's a muse or not. But when the muse comes that's when the artist crates that masterpiece. That piece is what he'll be remembered for. Oh how wonderful must it be to inspire the artist to create a masterpiece. How full of life the muse be to shine through the art forever.
Thinking about this makes me wonder if l am an artist or a muse. But then I remembered how deprived of colors I am and know for sure that I'm not the muse.
If I'm not a muse then I must be an artist, right? But if I am an artist I should be expressing or reflecting the way artists do. I'm not doing that either. There should be a third category for me. An audience. Watching the artist reflect and admiring the muse. I'm an audience.
20 Nov, 2023
An artist is supposed to paint or write poem or novel whether there's a muse or not. But when the muse comes that's when the artist crates that masterpiece. That piece is what he'll be remembered for. Oh how wonderful must it be to inspire the artist to create a masterpiece. How full of life the muse be to shine through the art forever.
Thinking about this makes me wonder if l am an artist or a muse. But then I remembered how deprived of colors I am and know for sure that I'm not the muse.
If I'm not a muse then I must be an artist, right? But if I am an artist I should be expressing or reflecting the way artists do. I'm not doing that either. There should be a third category for me. An audience. Watching the artist reflect and admiring the muse. I'm an audience.
20 Nov, 2023