“I wish I knew what to do with my life, what to do with my heart… I do nothing all day, boredom settles in, I look at the sky so I get to feel even smaller than I already feel and my mind keeps poisoning itself uselessly.” — Sylvia Plath
take me to Imladris.
I’m tired of trauma. I’m tired of it existing and I’m tired of having to deal with it. I wish it would just fall through me like rain and dry off and not mean anything. I’m tired of crying and I’m tired of PTSD spirals and I’m tired of adrenaline nausea and I’m tired of second-guessing the actions I take to keep myself as safe and sane as I’ll ever get — I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of fake-ass people on the internet and people who can’t be bothered reading a simple list of rules and people with the general attention span of a TikTok video. I’m just.
Why am I here? Why is everything like this? I try so fucking hard to change it and I just end up with scraped knuckles and wounds and I can’t anymore. I don’t want to. If it doesn’t get any better than this, then I don’t want to keep going with it. I’m fucking tired.
rev up the nausea, babycakes
I think it’s wonderful how some folks get to go off and twitter about animu and glaze certain spineless software companies, while CSA survivors have to walk themselves through a trauma spiral. Oh, my apologies, a “terminally online drama” spiral.
Some people (and I use that term loosely) are so unbelievably morally bankrupt they make Donald Trump look like a saint, jsyk.
Alquildië.
weighing in on gun control stupidity
“We NEED to give our kids guns so they learn to use them safely!”
…no, you don’t. Not unless you’re absolutely incompetent as a parent.
I was taught how to shoot, how to properly look after a gun, and strict trigger discipline as a child. My hunter and gun collector Dad pounded that into my head very early.
Not once, not once, did my father ever consider giving me a gun of my own. A child does not need a gun.
A child does never ever need a fucking AR-15, you absolute dipshits.
By all means, take your kids down to the range, teach them how to become a good shot, smash that trigger discipline into them until they won’t even have their finger on the Dayglo-green triggers of their Nerf water pistols without meaning to fire. But you do not — do not — need to give a child a gun for them to use and understand them, and gun safety.
Skip me with your BS already. Y’all out of your tiny, deranged little minds.
the best things are usually red, like blood, like love
I finished Rumi and the Red Handbag by Shawna Lemay this morning and I dissolved into tears; I had my soul filled with light and was blinded with said light, and it was horrific and lovely and so, so beautiful. I was recommended it by someone who reviewed The Fairy Tale Museum, and you know how that made me feel. So. It was…like TFTM, and yet not. It had the same kind of beauty, but was more solid, less surrealistic. But I loved it, even so. Thus! Quotes and quotes and quotes.
“I had dropped out of a doctoral program and had internalised my identity as a failed scholar quickly. This new identity did something to me, compressed my spine, and all of the fear I harboured did not turn into fearlessness but rather an agitated despair. I often felt lost and dizzy and numb and stupid all in a rush. I became suddenly interested in all the nuances of my own dreams rather than with anything I had ever read, I was liquid where before I had been solid.”
“I knew I would always be distant from her, but this distance was immediate and irrevocably intimate, filling me with the most intense apprehension for random instants.”
“Secrets, anyway, are usually incidental. How you keep one is important, how you choose to live with it, let it alter you, matters. Perhaps is makes you a kinder person, someone more willing to forgive and understand. Secrets have that potential.”
“I was born wary. I just was. And whenever I talked myself out of that wariness on the grounds that it was plainly foolish, I got burned. I got sent a flaming email or found myself backing away, slowly, carefully, having discovered something unsavoury.’
“And though I cannot put it into words at all, no not at all, at the time I knew I was experiencing something that changed my chemical makeup in some small but significant manner.”
A quote in a quote:
“How to set the direction of the soul? The soul’s compass? We began with the words of Simone Weil, ‘If the soul is set in the direction of love…the nearer we approach to the beauty of the world.’ Was this our goal? To approach nearer to the beauty of the world?”
“The idea of hoarding thoughts, holding so many threads of ideas like cupped water as you knelt, knees grinding into the finest gravel, thirsty by a mountain stream, did not terrify or oppress by instead exhilarated her.”
“And all those people who automatically disparage romances, I don’t trust them, you know? What are they afraid of? The small fantasies of millions of women? I wonder.”
“And here she laughed her sparkly etude and I thought of Chopin and white twinkle lights on late summer nights and sequins at a dull office party.”
“It is not how one soul approaches another but in how it distances itself from it that I recognise their affinity and relatedness.”
“And let’s not forget, cosmic snow, delicate and elegant, tinged with an otherworldly pink and blue.”
“I myself don’t want the disruption of those whose soul lacks luminosity.”
“Are we not ensouled? Are we not entwined? Have we not made a mark on each other, however slippery the soul might be? We do care for each other, we do!”
second best
I just wish I could be better.
I wish I could be human. I wish I could be loved. I wish I could be the most important to someone.
it’s lost on me; I believe in revenge.
After all, it’s not war. Just the end of love.
heh, well.
AJ has just insisted that we add “Love It If We Made It” to the list of songs I’m not allowed to sing, because “that hurts like a fucking wound, babe.”
That’s awfully poetic for him.
a beauty that calls.
Fe wnaethon nhw achub fy mywyd heno.
Eto.
Diolch o galon.
ew, times two.
“Oh no, I hope that post isn’t about me!”
and what are you going to do if it is?
bitch, I was born on the Ides of March — literally, I’m not just saying that to create a false bond with someone I can use like a stepping stone. you think I have to play nice with you? with anyone?
here’s the upside to being nobody: nobody gives a shit about what I say, so I can spit the truth out like blood. I hope it fucking burns you.