it went down in history, my dear. they wrote about us, or so i thought, said you were better dead, rightfully so, and they took it from you, broke my horns, and when you came back, i told them i never even loved you. my heart went cold, you buried yours, and the ocean waves went still. where did they fly away, the feelings? your memory is far, far out of my reach, and if i break that one bone in two, you won't pour out of it anymore. "i did love once," i said, "i guess." and kept the spear close. god, i don't want you back where you once were anymore.
Beyond the window, the pigeons squabble, a flurry of gray feathers and desperate coos, all for a few grains of yesterday's rice. My mom probably thinks she's doing them a favor. Inside, a different kind of fight is happening, a cold dread nestled right beside you in the cramped space of my heart. It's a strange intimacy, fear and love sharing the same worn-out room.
I let my mind wander to a simpler life, one where a rooster's crow, not an alarm, jerks me awake. A farm, maybe, where the rising sun is a genuine need, not just a theoretical concept. Even now, Mars hangs faintly in the sky, a distant promise fading against the encroaching daylight. It’s just a blurry white speck now, against a sea of pale blue.
I don’t know much about that planet, really. If I did, you'd be the first to hear. I’d call you at five, when you’re just stumbling through the door, tired and smelling faintly of work. My hands would be fidgeting, tracing the worn pattern of flowers on the living room carpet, as I rattled on about Martian canyons and dust storms.
I remember middle school, desperate for every stolen minute of sleep. I’d pass out in my uniform, ready for a quick escape in the morning. The hand in hand walk i did with mom, bleary-eyed, barely registering. Then, my dad's familiar car, a soft landing in the back seat. Half-conscious, I'd feel the turns, recognize the growing canopy of trees that meant we were close. The sleepiness had to end, the musty smell of old plastic and dust reluctantly releasing me. Petroleum.
You were a kid once, too, I realize. Napping in cars, on buses, however you could manage, just trying to stay afloat through those early mornings. Maybe we were both awake at the same time, halfway across the country from each other, battling the same urge to just close our eyes and disappear.
I’m glad I didn’t know you then. I’m selfishly glad for those years of untroubled quiet, before the complexity and messiness of us.
Sometimes, I feel like the only thing I know how to be is a child. I'm not sure what happens next. My mom used to pack me cucumber and sandwiches, wrapped in tiny plastic 'ምሳቃ', and shove them into my numb, sleepy hands. Half the time, I'd forget about them, leaving them to rot in the bottom of my backpack. Love, molding. Love too rotten to even taste.
Petroleum… the smell of old plastic and gas... I miss it. I miss the simplicity of those half-asleep mornings, before the world got so complicated.
I let my mind wander to a simpler life, one where a rooster's crow, not an alarm, jerks me awake. A farm, maybe, where the rising sun is a genuine need, not just a theoretical concept. Even now, Mars hangs faintly in the sky, a distant promise fading against the encroaching daylight. It’s just a blurry white speck now, against a sea of pale blue.
I don’t know much about that planet, really. If I did, you'd be the first to hear. I’d call you at five, when you’re just stumbling through the door, tired and smelling faintly of work. My hands would be fidgeting, tracing the worn pattern of flowers on the living room carpet, as I rattled on about Martian canyons and dust storms.
I remember middle school, desperate for every stolen minute of sleep. I’d pass out in my uniform, ready for a quick escape in the morning. The hand in hand walk i did with mom, bleary-eyed, barely registering. Then, my dad's familiar car, a soft landing in the back seat. Half-conscious, I'd feel the turns, recognize the growing canopy of trees that meant we were close. The sleepiness had to end, the musty smell of old plastic and dust reluctantly releasing me. Petroleum.
You were a kid once, too, I realize. Napping in cars, on buses, however you could manage, just trying to stay afloat through those early mornings. Maybe we were both awake at the same time, halfway across the country from each other, battling the same urge to just close our eyes and disappear.
I’m glad I didn’t know you then. I’m selfishly glad for those years of untroubled quiet, before the complexity and messiness of us.
Sometimes, I feel like the only thing I know how to be is a child. I'm not sure what happens next. My mom used to pack me cucumber and sandwiches, wrapped in tiny plastic 'ምሳቃ', and shove them into my numb, sleepy hands. Half the time, I'd forget about them, leaving them to rot in the bottom of my backpack. Love, molding. Love too rotten to even taste.
Petroleum… the smell of old plastic and gas... I miss it. I miss the simplicity of those half-asleep mornings, before the world got so complicated.
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Forwarded from Void station.
What proof do we have that what we are feelin now is true???
Whoever's writing and directing my life I want to have a word with them because none of these makes sense.
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Chocolate is one of the best flavors in literally everything and if you dislike it you're an npc....
The dreary weather (the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge) made him quite melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought.
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
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it’s so awkward being asked “do you really think that lowly of yourself?” because no? of course not? buddy, i was just.. kidding around.. haha, funny, haha? humor, you know? but also truthfully: yeah. absolutely. without a doubt. hold up a handful of dirt & one individual speck of it has more worth & purpose than i could ever even begin to hope to have but, you know! anyhow! nice weather we’re having
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He'll laugh and say, "You know I raised you bеtter than this" then leavе me hanging so they all can laugh at me
No matter how much rest or how many hours of sleep I get, the exhaustion has it's roots in me, and I'm getting tired of being tired all the time
"I'll tell you tomorrow"
Tell me now if you don't want me to slit your throat till then 💞
Tell me now if you don't want me to slit your throat till then 💞
genuine question;
if love is not out of duty and humanity, if not from pity and charity then what is it really?
if love is not out of duty and humanity, if not from pity and charity then what is it really?
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Not saying good morning because if it were a good morning i wouldn't have to go to scl just to learn nothing and waste my time.