I should stop reading soul crashing, devastating, frustrating,n hope snatching books...now i need to go and see ppl being Munchy!
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when the melancholy and yearning hit you while you're in the middle of studying(please, please stay within the schedule. You can't and could not do this to meeeeeee~)
Forwarded from Unresolved Issues
What this weekend has made me realise is that being active is not for me. My social (and physical) battery runs out wayyy faster then I expected. I'll take my life stagnant, indoors and with a side of bedrotting. Please and thank you.
I could get over you, sure. I mean, emotionally detaching isn't impossible. But think of the ART! The raw, agonizing, self-pitying ballad I'd have to abandon! The tortured poetry I'd never write!
You're basically my muse, albeit a muse that makes me want to punch a wall. But still, art! It's a burden, really. I'm sacrificing my happiness for the sake of future generations who will weep over the sheer brilliance of my (completelyt fictionalized) heartbreak.
So, yeah, getting over you would be easier. But where's the drama? The angst? The potential for a platinum album? Consider yourself a patron of the arts. You're not just breaking my heart, you're funding my creativity. You should be getting a tax write-off for this, honestly.
You're basically my muse, albeit a muse that makes me want to punch a wall. But still, art! It's a burden, really. I'm sacrificing my happiness for the sake of future generations who will weep over the sheer brilliance of my (completelyt fictionalized) heartbreak.
So, yeah, getting over you would be easier. But where's the drama? The angst? The potential for a platinum album? Consider yourself a patron of the arts. You're not just breaking my heart, you're funding my creativity. You should be getting a tax write-off for this, honestly.
As someone who falls in love with flaws, arent you way too much obsessed with perfection?
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Forwarded from Anony Messenger
You carry a gentle soul, guard it carefully every soul deserves to be happy as do you, so stop suffocating yours by chasing the empty.
Only you hold the key to your peace, perhaps also.. many others aswell
You carry a gentle soul, guard it carefully every soul deserves to be happy as do you, so stop suffocating yours by chasing the empty.
Only you hold the key to your peace, perhaps also.. many others aswell
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Why didn't you reach out, even once, when I vanished into the pea-soup fog that clings to your town like a forgotten shroud? Did my absence not register? Did the silence I left behind not echo loudly enough to warrant a simple, "Are you okay?" Or was I simply not worth the effort, not significant enough to break through the fog of your own life? Ironic, isn't it, that I've painstakingly learned to mend broken connections, to unburn bridges I carelessly torched, yet I've somehow forgotten the exact steps, the precise alchemic formula required to undo the damage.
I no longer seek my reflection in the pristine, unforgiving surface of mirrors. I've grown weary of the flawless facade they demand. I am, after all, all grown up now, burdened by the weight of choices made and paths not taken. Instead, I rely on the ripples of water – a rain puddle, a stagnant pool, the swirling eddy of a stream – to glimpse my own image. It's a distorted view, fractured and shifting, never quite clear, yet somehow more honest, more representative of the person I've become. I take a step, then another, always with a hesitant glance over my shoulder, perpetually searching for something solid to grasp, something unwavering to tether myself to in this ever-shifting landscape of uncertainty. I've come to believe, or perhaps desperately hope, that home is not a fixed location, but a state of being, a place I can always return to, regardless of how far I've wandered or how long I've been gone, a sanctuary where I will never be a stranger. That's how I imagine it, at least, though the reality might be vastly different. The sight of carefree, happy faces on the streets still pricks at me, a sharp reminder of the joy that seems perpetually out of reach.
But there have been small, quiet victories. I befriended a stray cat, coaxing her closer with gentle words and offerings of food, patiently earning her trust until she recognized my footsteps and greeted me with a soft, insistent meow. I was even granted the privilege of raising her, providing her with shelter and care – a responsibility that felt strangely grounding, a fleeting glimpse into the realm of motherhood. But, as with all things, it was not meant to last. Now, my sadness doesn't manifest as a sudden storm or a violent tempest, but as something far more insidious, far more pervasive. It resembles the clear blue sky – seemingly endless, deceptively calm, yet stretching into an infinite expanse of emptiness. Or sometimes, it appears as the sun itself – a burning, unwavering force, the only thing that serves as a constant reminder of my own humanity, a stark contrast to the hollow shell I often feel like.
#shit [when did i even write that]
I no longer seek my reflection in the pristine, unforgiving surface of mirrors. I've grown weary of the flawless facade they demand. I am, after all, all grown up now, burdened by the weight of choices made and paths not taken. Instead, I rely on the ripples of water – a rain puddle, a stagnant pool, the swirling eddy of a stream – to glimpse my own image. It's a distorted view, fractured and shifting, never quite clear, yet somehow more honest, more representative of the person I've become. I take a step, then another, always with a hesitant glance over my shoulder, perpetually searching for something solid to grasp, something unwavering to tether myself to in this ever-shifting landscape of uncertainty. I've come to believe, or perhaps desperately hope, that home is not a fixed location, but a state of being, a place I can always return to, regardless of how far I've wandered or how long I've been gone, a sanctuary where I will never be a stranger. That's how I imagine it, at least, though the reality might be vastly different. The sight of carefree, happy faces on the streets still pricks at me, a sharp reminder of the joy that seems perpetually out of reach.
But there have been small, quiet victories. I befriended a stray cat, coaxing her closer with gentle words and offerings of food, patiently earning her trust until she recognized my footsteps and greeted me with a soft, insistent meow. I was even granted the privilege of raising her, providing her with shelter and care – a responsibility that felt strangely grounding, a fleeting glimpse into the realm of motherhood. But, as with all things, it was not meant to last. Now, my sadness doesn't manifest as a sudden storm or a violent tempest, but as something far more insidious, far more pervasive. It resembles the clear blue sky – seemingly endless, deceptively calm, yet stretching into an infinite expanse of emptiness. Or sometimes, it appears as the sun itself – a burning, unwavering force, the only thing that serves as a constant reminder of my own humanity, a stark contrast to the hollow shell I often feel like.
#shit [when did i even write that]
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you don't deserve to feel happy about the things you found by luck. you only deserve to feel scared about losing it all, just how you found it.
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