tannertan36
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Cosmic Funnies
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
oozey mess
Show & Tell
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Jules of Nature
tumblr dot com
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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
ojovivo
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macklin celebrini has autism
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occasionally subtle
if i look back, i am lost
Keni
seen from Türkiye
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seen from Bangladesh
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@aaina-04
Who are you
I am you
Why are you here
For you
For me?
You prayed for me
I prayed for help
I'm here
To save me?
No
Then?
To help you up on your feet. And to tell you to trust it
Trust what?
My life
You mean my life?
Yeah
Is it good?
Mostly
Does this end?
Nope
Then who comes to save you?
You
I am a loser. I have lost everything in life. I'm not a quitter but that another entry. I am a loser. I keep trying to get something new.. and I lose and end up alone.. healing myself again and again. Im not a soldier. Im a loser. I end up alone.. I'm too used to it I'm meant for it.. to end up alone. I'll keep losing everything and everyone. The law of detachment is shit. Its real but its a shitty law. What I want doesn't want me and what wants me I dont want it.
So he lives his entire life under a sky he cannot touch, and one day he finally looks up and realises the weather isn’t random—someone is choosing the storms.
Of course he hates the writer.
Not in the loud, rebellious way characters do in cheap metafiction.
His hatred is quiet. Accumulated. A sediment of suffering.
Every time he meets another man broken in a different way, it confirms the pattern: the pain isn’t personal; it’s systemic. Designed. Curated. The writer doesn’t just allow suffering—he manufactures it. With precision. With intent. With the same cold detachment a surgeon uses when removing organs.
And this man develops a kind of bitter theology.
He doesn’t think the writer is indifferent.
Indifference would be mercy compared to this.
He knows the writer is watching, and that makes it worse.
So he spends his life in a kind of spiritual mutiny:
He refuses to be grateful for small joys, because he knows who hands them out and who snatches them back.
He refuses to “learn lessons,” because he knows the lessons are traps.
He refuses hope, because hope is the favourite tool of a sadistic author.
He refuses to forgive, because forgiveness would mean accepting the narrative.
And the hatred becomes the only emotion that still feels real. The numbness smothered everything else, but not that. Hatred survives in the cracks where nothing else can.
Here’s the tragic twist you’re circling,
he isn’t wrong.
The writer is cruel.
The story is designed to break him.
And he knows it so clearly that his entire arc becomes an act of resistance—not living, not healing, just refusing to give the writer what he wants.
Until the end.
When the one thing he feared finally happens.
And he dies hating the one who scripted his ruin.
A character whose final emotion isn’t love, fear, or grief…
but defiance toward the hand that created him.
Been mia for a while. Im losing myself to materialism and shalowness. See y'all ✌🏻
God is a cruel cruel being/concept. He takes away everything. The comcept that we are children of God is fucked up. Because mot parent would treat their children the way God does. Parents have some form of attachment atleast. Parents will be okay even if the child takes them for granted and still continue providing for them. But God, that fucked up being will take away everything from a person who has done nothing but serve Him their entire life. The concept of faith is so fucked up? Based off of fear, it tells people to believe in something non-existent, to behave a certain way and do a certain set of practices to get the fruit you've been wishing for. It all sounds so simple, doesn't it? But no! You do every fucking thing, all in order to get that one thing you've ever wanted, and then God takes it away from you in the cruelest ways- either he never gives it to even after working your ass off for it, or he gives it to you, makes you believe its permanent and lets you be happy only to snatch it away when you start dwelling in the permanence of it. And those faith-messengers- they'll tell you it wasn't meant to be and God has written something bigger for you. Fuck it! He's just a cruel manipulative being who never gives what he promises and always asks for this one shitty thing- 'sabr'. And mind it, its not all a test. It is not all a test!!! The being who toom away everything from you is NOT testing you by sending people back in your life. No! He's just trying to see you fucking disturbed. He's gonna dwell in your insanity for as long as he can! And he'll pretend to still call for you. He'll put on that mask and manipulate you still, enjoying your suffering. He'll slowly take away everything, one by one- your family, your friends, your hopes, your dreams, your love, your health and eventually your life. And religion is just a facade for us to cope with this shit. When my brother died and the pandit declared he attained 'moksh'- as in he won't be born again on this Earth and he's one with God again- everyone was happy, sad obviously but still happy that his suffering has ended. I cried the most that day of all days. God took him away. He has him. He took him away from me, from us. What do I do with the fact that his suffering has ended? Was this really suffering? Being with his family, being with his siblings, being with friends, laughing, crying, making others laugh?? Was all this fucking suffering??? Was he sufferinggg????? No the fuck he was not! God didn't need to take him away but he did! He fucking did because that sadist being can never bear to see one too happy. Especially a pure soul. My family did nothing wrong, sang his praises and did all the right things, fulfilled all their duties to Him and to others in their lives, were never mean to anyone in their life. And yet this is how he fucking rewards them.
I once found my solace in Him.. but no more. Everytime I think of Him, He's just a sadist being to me. His smile that used to calm me once seems to me like a manipulative smile. He feels like that ex who I've lost all feelings for and my eyes have opened. I don't even cry by feeling his presence anymore. I felt safe with him at one point in life. And now.. I don't even want to think about him.
I pursuit of all I've ever wanted in life.. in pursuit of a false sense of success.. I lost the values I lived by.
I love the wind when it blows across my face, my hair fluttering back like waves. But I get annoyed at the same wind when it blows in the opposite direction, my hair in my face, sometimes I still love it though.
The wind makes me feel happy when it blows across my face, playing with my hair making it one of its own. But the same wind when flows in the opposite direction, it obstructs my vision by slapping the same hair strands across my face.
Is it me who is incapable of loving the same thing in different forms, or is it that the same thing that loves us can change its intention anyday?
I don't quit. I don't think I've ever quit anything in life.. I can't. Everything I've been through, every experience good or bad, has a part of it with me at all times.. on and off maybe.. but it never leaves. No human I've known has completely vanished from my life, no hobby of mine I've ever abandoned, no idea of mine left behind as I pretend to grow up. And I think its beautiful, because that helps me be me for a little longer.
She was soiled under a pile of dust she had dug up. It was warm and the weight perfectly balanced above her. She'd go out every morning, in search of a new house, a more attractive one, a socially acceptable one. And return back every night, somewhat sad and somewhat content about not settling for an uncozy imperfect attractive house. One morning she didn't want to leave, she had such days when she was tired of hoping and just wanted to enjoy the perfectly balanced weight on top of her even though she despised it. She enjoyed despising on some days. But this day she heard a voice, a voice that sounded cozy. She reluctantly crawled out and didn't even have to look around. It was right there, a house perfectly cozy and perfectly balanced to handle the weight of dust. It could also slowly turn the dust into feathers, feathers she could use for her flight later. It was perfect... too perfect. She thought to herself, how could I find such a perfect house so easily, without even wandering. A few minutes of reluctance before she tiptoed in the house. A few minutes and then she was happy, scared but happy. Then one day the wall cracked, a little dust fell into her eyes, burning her as she was now slightly used to no weight or dust. "Huh, I can handle a little dust. This house is perfect afterall." Except it wasn't perfect. She could see the true colour of the walls as they cracked slowly. Soon she started mending the walls, plastering them with her soul. "I can fix it. The house is perfect. Everything has flaws, doesn't it?" Soon enough the house didn't stand on its own, not even at the expense of her soul. No dust was converted to feathers. Now she lay in her new house,soulless, under an imperfectly balanced pile of dust and broken pieces of walls. But she couldn't voice her despair, couldn't complain out loud. The house had given her so much after all. "The house was perfect, it was me who didn't fit."
Please.. please please please please please please.. hold on.
The stars seem brighter, and more in number day by day. Its like as your birthday is approaching, they're getting more prominent and I notice them everyday. That one memory.. I never knew it would stay so significant after a point of time. I miss you so much that it physically paralyzes my body partially, it feels like I'm dragging myself through every moment of every day. Nothing seems as important anymore..
I might be stupid and illogical and superstitious.. but I'll let myself be it. Because it gives me some sort of relief.. it gives me a place to look at when I'm thinking of you, which is so much better than wanting to call out your name and not knowing which direction to yell at.
— Franz Kafka
How restraining yet how free it would be to turned into a piece of art.
Restraining because I would rather experience life and keep changing my colours and patterns. I wouldn't want to be defined. Being defined will perhaps be my greatest tradgedy. I'll get bored too soon. I'd want to change. When someone defines me by a character trait, I subconsciously change the trait. I hate being defined. I hate being known.
Free because it would probably be my happy ending to be understood and deciphered even after my human life has ended. The social rules I keep following, the constant battle of explaining myself that people think differently, some think evil and some think good. Some think grey. Being good in the midst of all that and turning blue when I'm grey. All this cyclical stupidity will end and I'll just be a showpiece. I'm sure I'll get used to it soon enough. Although I'm not sure if I'll remain content because of the restraining part.
I would much rather want to vanish from the face of the Earth. No memories.. no sadness after my departure. Just a silent departure, as if I was never here.
Stop looking for me.
I have a lot of creative energy, yet I sit mindlessly scrolling through lobotomizing Instagram reels and TikToks. I've thought countless times about what to do about my restlessness, but I stay stagnant. I want to make something personal and honest with all of my favorite things. I worry if what I make will be enough for me, I doubt myself a lot but my contentment is getting harder to come by and I think I just need to do it
hate to relate, but I do
