an ode to daphne.

the diary of a free woman

[incure]

[shisasan]

Emil M. Cioran, Tears and Saints

[where-that-old-train-goes]

not normal about orpheus and eurydice. you loved someone so much it opened the stones of the underworld. so much that death had to listen. so much that everything stopped for your love. so much that you turned around. so much that even when you did wrong. she forgave you.

[anodetodaphne]

Vulnerability teeters embarrassment and honestly, in my most simplest form, I'm a fool for it. I'll choose it over pleasantries and niceties any time of any day. And no, I'm not seeking trauma dumping or vulnerability for the sake of manipulation. No, I've got my feelers out for a distinct authenticity that only an enthusiast would recognize. I seek it out wherever I go, from whomever I'm with; I look for it in any room, like I'm meeting it there for a date. To be rendered completely unguarded is the most desirable space of resonance + equilibrium for me; any place that fearlessness inhabits is a place that I belong in.

If I don't feel it in the room, hear it in the conversation, sense it in the art, feel it in the interaction, I'll create an environment it feels safe to reveal itself in; it is in good company with me, as it is an energy I nurture. The reverence and deep respect I hold for the process of authenticity unfolding in real time has made me far too judgemental when it comes to matters of pretend. What a complete waste of time to be anything less than who you are in any given moment.

Vulnerability and authenticity are invitations to true alignment; They cut right to the marrow of who and/or what is at its core. While we know that nothing is permanent, resonance with these energies will always ground us and bring us face to face, heart to heart, soul to soul and spirit to spirit with who we are in the moment. It breaks down the stubborn door of performance and pushes us into the free fall or deciding in a moment who we wish to become. The thrill of the truth in motion is a power undefeatable.

So forgive me that I come off intensely, probing, passionate and curious; Vulnerability invites me here and if we just so happened to cross paths, it invited you here with me too.

[nixscriptum]

[anodetodaphne]

If you approach me closely, you can see it, and if you close your eyes you will feel it swirling around in my aura. I used to call it, "My best kept secret." It's just behind the stoicism in my upper lip, hiding snugly between the furl of my brow. I am one seam, one thread of genuine curiosity away from being unraveled completely by someone tugging at it. I keep stowing it away in the compartments in my body that are now so stuffed to the brim, I am tense to the touch. I've been told that you can smell it on me, my "desperation" and it feels embarrassing. It's starting to pain me greatly; this "trying to hide it and stuff it away", as if I can't feel it incessantly gnawing away at every nerve in my body.

When I am alone, it consumes my every thought and permeates my every desire. I long to release it & yearn for its touch scaling down the knape of my neck into the curve of my waist. I wish for the moment it's eyes will meet mine and melt away every defense down to the buckles in my knees, I am reaching the point of desperation and you can hear it in my throat sitting just above every word I say. Each day it whispers to me, and each day the dam begins to crack just a little more. You'd think it an aggressive disease the way it spreads through me, but no. It is my nature that I am trying to change, my nature that I am trying to hide. It is my nature that I am ashamed of, my nature that longs for the fever of romance and the illustriousness of pure, protective, nurturing, challenging, passionate, intentional, unwavering love. It fervently grows no matter how much I try to destroy it at the sight of a sprout, no matter how I try to intellectualize love as merely a fever dream, an illusion of the mind and torture to the heart.

I am a lover, a romantic, a poet alive in every piece of literature that exists in its name. My nature is to love and be loved and it renders me vulnerable, susceptible to deception, betrayal and destruction. This is why it could only exist in the furl of my brow, the stoicism in my upper lip, stowed away in the compartments of my body that are tense to the touch; because whenever I have let my nature free, I am reminded why I am not safe to be.

[deadlypoetacademia]

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Nikita Gill

[halflifesk666]

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— T. James (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— unknown (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[poetryordeath-deactivated202511]

Though I may not know what love is, I know that which love is not, for love is not a violent act, love, when true would never hurt you. ❤️‍🩹

[shisasan]

June 4, 1929 Journals of Anais Nin 1927-1931  [volume 4]

[emilybraydenblogs]

I confuse people. i have a happy personality and a sad soul. i'm bold but shy. i love deeply but sometimes i feel heartless. i'm healing and hurting at the same time. i'm dedicated to growth, but i self sabotage

[theaftersundown]

*writes two paragraphs after months of literally nothing and it took three hours*

[mirrorsinner]

[nature-travel-photography]

Sunset on my way home from work in Nevada - Author: SweetMaria78

[yearningheart]

[anodetodaphne]

We exist in the paradox. When you lose yourself, you gain yourself