At 2am, she's a writer ☕️

Potterhead. Newt. OUABH. Herongraystairs. Chief commander of sector 45. Four. Slytherdor.

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The fact that anytime someone posts a snippet of authentic literature only for it to be accused as AI writing makes me not want to write anymore.

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my diary and i share so much lore

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I am so irrevocably in love with Harry Potter, I think about it/him on a daily basis. It's in my every waking thought and every little scenario I weave before bed. It's been seven years since I first discovered this beautiful, beautiful masterpiece, and I simply cannot move on. Seven years of waiting for my letter. Seven years of pouring over fanfictions. Seven years of constant talks about the golden trio, marauders, and my slytherin boy, Draco.

Is this normal?

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Why is joy fleeting when sadness feels like an irremediable disease, festering in my bones until pain makes a home out of me?

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and how do I tell them that I am but an amalgam of joy and anguish— a walking conundrum given life?

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My characters are either the Devil incarnate, with a cartilage full of earrings and a penchant for smoking, or they're appalled by the very idea of debauchery — there's no in between.

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If Jane Austen went crazy with the em dash, why can't we

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because braided within me is a plethora of selves / i am patchwork stitched with recollections / a tumultuous fusion of emotions / i am not one person / i was never meant to be

Pictures from Pinterest ♡

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She was a mosaic pieced together from an avalanche of emotions she couldn't escape.

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there is something so maudlin about writing of a time long gone— of delving into its history and weaving a story from it.

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pain isn't simply the sting of a needle or the scalding of your skin / it is the sinking of a heart like an anchor at sea / it is the weight of a harsh word like the wedging of knives beneath your striated chambers / it is the trail of the devil's feet on your back in the dead of night / it is the paranoid whispers that gnaw at your ears and tell you lies

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And he knew—with a conviction so daunting—that if she so much as flicked the cap off, he wouldn’t stop pouring. Not until he was laid bare before her, his soul stripped to its very essence for her to behold.

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Her mind was a labyrinth, and she was bereft of a compass.

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A poet's muse remains unsullied by the taste of death, for he is fossilised within the confines of paper.

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Being a writer means breath never ceases and time never stands still for every memory is encapsulated within margins and metaphors.