like a writer that's bad with words, a painter that's color blind, a lyricist who can't dance for shits cause they can't keep a rhythm, you're all the things that seem to not go together but end up creating magic.
Give me a few days of peace in your arms-I need it terribly. I'm ragged, worn, exhausted. After that I can face the world.
— Henry Miller | a letter to Anaïs Nin
— Henry Miller | a letter to Anaïs Nin
❤1
My writing was about you. All I was bewailing in it was what I could not weep about on your shoulder.
Franz Kafka, Letter to his father.
Franz Kafka, Letter to his father.
I think I've come to terms with the fact that there will always be a ribbon of loneliness running through who I am.
Forwarded from . (Axum)
I'm a simple woman I see a baby and I puke inside of my mouth
Forwarded from Scribe your soul out
The backs of the humans that will always have my back.
Who am I, if not the reflection of my father’s cold eyes? If not the echo of his muffled shouts, the silent screams trapped behind closed doors? If not the bitterness etched into the deep creases of his already crumbling face, a roadmap of his unspoken sorrows?
Who am I, if not the embodiment of my mother's quiet despair? If not the legacy of her shattered dreams, the burnt offering of a pie left to cool on the forgotten corner of the dining table, a symbol of her perpetually unfulfilled hopes? If not the carefully crafted smile, a mask concealing the wounds that lie beneath?
Who am I but a child trapped in a burning house, surrounded by the wreckage of my parents' lives, my own identity consumed by the flames of their brokenness? Their history, their failures, their pain - it’s all I’ve known. It's all I am. It's a constant, suffocating weight. And I am left asking, amidst the ashes and smoke, who am I, truly, if this is all that I am?
#polkadot
Who am I, if not the embodiment of my mother's quiet despair? If not the legacy of her shattered dreams, the burnt offering of a pie left to cool on the forgotten corner of the dining table, a symbol of her perpetually unfulfilled hopes? If not the carefully crafted smile, a mask concealing the wounds that lie beneath?
Who am I but a child trapped in a burning house, surrounded by the wreckage of my parents' lives, my own identity consumed by the flames of their brokenness? Their history, their failures, their pain - it’s all I’ve known. It's all I am. It's a constant, suffocating weight. And I am left asking, amidst the ashes and smoke, who am I, truly, if this is all that I am?
#polkadot
It's the usual. You know how it goes: sleepy eyes blinking open to a high ceiling, heavy blankets doing little to fend off the persistent chill that seems to seep into the very bones. The days blur into a monotonous cycle of the same tired conversations, the same endless loop of anxieties. The exhaustion settles deep, a heavy weight in the chest, depression stalking in on high heels, smudging the carefully applied mascara with its unwelcome tears. The coffee is lukewarm, the toast is burnt, the news is bleak. There's a dull ache in the back, a familiar tension in the shoulders from hunching over a screen for too long. The emails pile up unanswered, the laundry basket overflows, the plants are drooping. Another day bleeds into another, indistinguishable from the last, a relentless march toward another sleepless night. The usual.