“I'm homesick all the time... I just don't know where home is. There's this promise of happiness out there. I know it. I even feel it sometimes. But it's like chasing the moon - just when I think I have it, it disappears into the horizon.”
— Sarah Addison Allen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon
— Sarah Addison Allen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon
Polkadot
“I need a father. I need a mother. I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty.” — Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
I need an older brother, one carved from the solid oak of certainty.
A holiday, where the insistent buzzing in my head finally ceases, where flowers surround me instead of unending papers. Maybe a pass to life's exams – no more analyzing every fleeting moment until it bleeds dry. I want the coffee to stop tasting like gasoline. A friend I can smile with, a genuine, unforced smile that doesn't feel like a performance for the unseen audience, who knows the quiet hum of despair that lives within me. But I'm an introvert who easily get tired of small talks.
A holiday, where the insistent buzzing in my head finally ceases, where flowers surround me instead of unending papers. Maybe a pass to life's exams – no more analyzing every fleeting moment until it bleeds dry. I want the coffee to stop tasting like gasoline. A friend I can smile with, a genuine, unforced smile that doesn't feel like a performance for the unseen audience, who knows the quiet hum of despair that lives within me. But I'm an introvert who easily get tired of small talks.
Growing up is an endless process of me looking back at younger versions of myself and being like...wow she was so young! But look how well she did with what she knew.
Polkadot
Growing up is an endless process of me looking back at younger versions of myself and being like...wow she was so young! But look how well she did with what she knew.
And look at me now, I go to school and still don't know what to do in the freaking kitchen (don't ask about the road)
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Polkadot
Let's skip the ' let's get to know each other ' phase cuz I don't know myself
Elizabeth is that you?
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I waited patiently for the LORD, and he turned to me and heard my cry for help
Psalms 40:1
Forwarded from Intrusive Thoughts
Everything is moving and you are stagnant, shouldn't that bother you?
People should know the difference between obsession and being polite, friendly and flirting
Forwarded from Unresolved Issues
They told me not to speak unless spoken to. I refused to listen. I wanted to be loud, even when nothing I said mattered. Even when my thoughts changed direction like the wind. Even when most of my philosophies were borrowed. It felt good to let the words out, to expel the energy, to scream, even when no one was there to hear me. It felt good to give in to gravity, to fall onto the decaying forest floor, even when no one was there to see me hit the ground.
It felt good, until it didn’t. Until I craved a witness. A friendly ear. Until I felt like I was walking backward through a crowd moving the opposite way, jostled and shoved in every direction. So I turned too. I turned their way, tucked my words into my heart, silenced my thoughts, strangled my opinions. And the more I kept quiet, the less I had to say.
They told me I’d be a better listener if I spoke less. But I hardly listened. The less I spoke, the less my neurons fired. Silence didn’t make me wise; it made me hollow. Not just my words but my very existence faded into stillness. I became a stone in an even stiller lake. A weight sinking without a ripple.
And in the deafening noise of the world, I kept losing myself. The memory of my voice faded. The power of my convictions withered. I disappeared. I died.
Because I was most alive when I was screaming. When my words meant less than hay but still burned with the fervor of a prophet foretelling the end of the world. I was more alive when I was loud than when I was accepted, swallowed whole, digested, remade into something pliable. They cut out my tongue, painted my lips red and showed me how to smile through the pain, like they learned to do.
#i_dont_know_what_this_is_atp
It felt good, until it didn’t. Until I craved a witness. A friendly ear. Until I felt like I was walking backward through a crowd moving the opposite way, jostled and shoved in every direction. So I turned too. I turned their way, tucked my words into my heart, silenced my thoughts, strangled my opinions. And the more I kept quiet, the less I had to say.
They told me I’d be a better listener if I spoke less. But I hardly listened. The less I spoke, the less my neurons fired. Silence didn’t make me wise; it made me hollow. Not just my words but my very existence faded into stillness. I became a stone in an even stiller lake. A weight sinking without a ripple.
And in the deafening noise of the world, I kept losing myself. The memory of my voice faded. The power of my convictions withered. I disappeared. I died.
Because I was most alive when I was screaming. When my words meant less than hay but still burned with the fervor of a prophet foretelling the end of the world. I was more alive when I was loud than when I was accepted, swallowed whole, digested, remade into something pliable. They cut out my tongue, painted my lips red and showed me how to smile through the pain, like they learned to do.
#i_dont_know_what_this_is_atp
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