I wish I was a cat. no calories. no worries. just meow

i think having a sword would fix me

Love others so radically they wonder why.

I nod, sip my tea, thinking about how hard it is to really truly connect with another human being.

Words, alas, are clumsy vessels for thought. The moment a thought leaves my mind and takes the form of words, it shifts, morphs, becomes something entirely different. Like mismatched socks on picture day - close, but undeniably wrong, misunderstood. That half formed thought, a fleeting shape is now in full glare. This is perhaps why I hoard my words, guarding them jealously. But when I do unleash them, I make them so raw, so unfiltered that those who are struck by them suffer. A swollen face from the blow of truth, a sour tongue from tasting the unfiltered core of what I really think. Then I'm forced to gulp the awkward silence that follows

A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.

I am calm. I am calm. (It is the calm before something awful.)

If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.

How miserable. You're touch starved and touch repulsed? What are you? Written by Dostoevsky?

Again, even I still question my humor sometime

Compliments are a spotlight I can't bear to stand in. "Thank you" feels like a lie, a betrayal of the truth: I don't deserve this. This idolization, this admiration... it doesn't uplift me, it unravels me. It reminds me that I am seen, that I exist in the world's perception, shattering the illusion of invisibility I so desperately cling to.

I crave indirect praise, the fragile beauty of a compliment whispered on a flower petal. I would clutch at it, desperately trying to preserve its fleeting perfection, its vibrant hue. But inevitably, the petal would wither, crumble to dust, and be lost. And with it, the compliment would fade.

Because then, I would turn to the mirror, obsessively searching for the reason behind the praise. I would dissect myself, turning my mind inside out, only to realize the truth: I, too, am crumbling. I chase the ghost of admiration just to revel the decay beneath my skin, the erosion of self worth follows. I will feel the centipede lick my spine and question where the compliment spouted from.

When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them.

The sexual tension between me and the urge to strangle someone when ever they ask me to repeat myself.

An outgrown child

requirements: strong communication skills
shut up

What is armor after all but a cage that moves with you?

A message to upstairs (brain)

I need answers, not more questions. Answering questions with questions gets me entangled with more questions. Please stop complicating stuff and making me appear insane