Sun cold like the rock on my heart
I was disappointed by who I turned tobe

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up"

— Neil Gaiman | The Sandman

it-is-what-it-is-ing my way through the collapse of civilization

Tomorrow I'll cry for all the world, for all the things gone wrong. I will cry for every tethered bird, who has lost her
joyful song.
Tomorrow I'll cry for every heart, that has broken, like boughs, in two.
But today, my love you have my tears, today I will cry for you.

-Lang Lauv.

When I said I was "sad," what I really meant was that I was ready to scream, but depression was sleeping right next door, and I was too afraid to wake it up. It's like I had all this anger and frustration bubbling up inside of me, but I couldn't let it out because I knew it would just make everything worse.

And then you came along when I felt like I was barely holding myself together, like I was leaning on a broken cane that was about to snap. You somehow managed to take all those awful memories, those things I couldn't shake, and you tried to fix them, like you were taking them to the dry cleaners. But when it got to be too much, when it cost more than you were willing to pay, you left. And our "forever" that we had talked about, that we had nurtured together, it just withered and died.

And when I said I was "lonely," what I was really trying to say was that I was so desperate for some kind of connection that I'd literally look up at the sky, like it was going to send me a letter or something. Like, maybe if I wished hard enough, some kind of answer would just fall from the sky. I felt like I had gotten lost on the way home, and someone had taken away all my alone time, only to give it back to me, all wrapped up in a pretty bow. Except, now I didn't even know what to do with it. Me and my solitude, we just don't get along anymore.

I did what you said. I stretched out my hand, just like you taught me. I crawled out of my room, feeling shaky, and sat by the front door. And I just stayed there for hours, watching the world go by, waiting for something, anything. Eventually, sadness came, a familiar, unwanted guest, and it rested its head in my lap. I didn't even realize how heavy it was, how much it weighed me down. It was almost… comfortable, in a strange way. And it was wagging its tail, that thing, every time my eyes landed on it, like it was actually happy to see me.

The arms, they came like preordained instruments, moving with a clumsy, mechanical grace towards their designated target. A hug, they called it, a prescribed ritual of proximity. My body, a mere vessel, was suddenly encased, a fragile container within the confines of another. The pressure was there, yes, a firm squeeze, but it felt less like an embrace and more like a test, a bureaucratic assessment of my physical form. Was I responding correctly? Were my muscles sufficiently yielding?

And the warmth, the supposed comfort – it was fleeting, a mere phantom of a sensation. It barely reached the cold core of my being. Instead, I felt a strange claustrophobia, a sense of being watched, judged, cataloged. This temporary merging of flesh felt like a violation, an unwelcome intrusion into the carefully constructed solitude I had cultivated. The other body, once a distant entity, was now a tangible obstacle, an insurmountable wall reinforcing my inherent separation.

My breath hitched, a small, insignificant tremor in the face of this imposed intimacy. The space between us, once an intangible concept, now pressed down with a suffocating weight. The hug seemed to amplify the distance between us, highlighting the futility of attempting to bridge the gap of understanding, the uncrossable gulf of loneliness that divided us.

And as quickly as it began, the embrace ended. A sudden release, leaving me feeling strangely disoriented, unclean, as if I had been touched by some unseen authority. The space between us expanded again, cold and empty, reminding me, with a silent, relentless cruelty, that true I had to do this more often.

I need death sleep isn't enough anymore

Felt like I was drowning

I'm tired of romanticizing everything and being so nostalgic
there's no reason for me to keep a candy wrap, a piece of string, a washed out ticket, a single broken bead and 2 cents but here i am clutching my box of memories like my most prized possession

Let's normalise liying when ppl ask way too much questions

A gentle cannibal took a small precise bite from my heart. The expected agony, the searing pain, did not materialize. Instead, a peculiar warmth, a deceptive embrace, bloomed within me. It was a fool’s solace, and, with a misguided sense of gratitude, I termed him kind. The evidence, of course, was there, a crimson stain upon his lips, a silent accusation that my naive senses failed to register.

Curse the day I mistook his devouring hunger for the tender affections I so desperately carved.

What if I had it all, but all I wanted was you.

The memory of last night clings to me like a shroud, a heavy, suffocating weight. I can still feel the phantom sting of tears I cannot seem to staunch, a relentless torrent that defies all logic and reason. I, the one who prides myself on stoicism, the one who navigates life with a carefully constructed mask of composure, was reduced to a weeping mess. I tried everything within my limited arsenal of control: deep breaths, cold compresses, the silent mantra of denial I have perfected over years. But the tears kept coming, a betrayal of my carefully cultivated persona, a stark reminder of my own vulnerability. It is an anomaly, this outpouring, a glitch in the system I have worked so hard to maintain. I, the one who doesn’t cry, who holds back the floods of emotion that threaten to overwhelm, I was undone by some unseen force, reduced to a raw and broken thing.

And the worst part, the thing that twists the knife deeper, is the secrecy I maintain. I don’t speak of it, not even to the person who shares my life, the one who believes he knows me best. I am a master of deception, a practiced liar who paints a picture of normalcy, of a life untouched by inner turmoil. He sees the facade, the composed exterior, and I silently, painfully, allow him to believe it. The truth, this relentless torrent of tears that I can barely contain, remains a hidden thing, a secret shame locked away behind the impenetrable walls of my own making. I am normal, I insist to myself, even as the evidence to the contrary floods my vision, blurring the lines between reality and this agonizing, private torment. I will not allow him to see the cracks in my composure, to witness this unsettling display of my own fragility. I will keep this secret, this unbearable burden, locked within me, forever