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.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.
🔥2
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.
❤4
How miserable. You're touch starved and touch repulsed? What are you? Written by Dostoevsky?
❤2
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.
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.
Forwarded from I'll name this page later
The sexual tension between me and the urge to strangle someone when ever they ask me to repeat myself.
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
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
More than anything, I was relieved that in my unfamiliar babbling-and-wanting-to- talk state, I'd stopped myself from blurting the thing I'd never said
*Throw roses into the abyss*
-Here is my thanks to the monster who didn't succeed in swallowing me alive. ሎል
-Here is my thanks to the monster who didn't succeed in swallowing me alive. ሎል
💘2
Every girl having one foot in fairytale
and the other in reality well to be honest its just the shoe floating on the river of realism. The girl is drowning in dululu)
and the other in reality well to be honest its just the shoe floating on the river of realism. The girl is drowning in dululu)