whimsy

i prayed ; my mind, be good to me

[cherubist]

Addendum

I can’t escape this sinking feeling that I was never meant to be born. 

And I do not say this out of hatred for myself or in the literal sense that I think I was accidentally conceived, but because I often find myself in a state where I am an unaccounted for extra item in spaces fit snug for everyone present but me. I’m not passionate or prodigious nor am I an entirely blank slate. It’s just that if life were like an onion skin, then I’d be a layer beneath everyone else; unable to ground myself like they can, unable to be as whole, or as present, or as decisive or as personable. I am so much but at the same time not enough of anything. And so many bad things happen to me, but never something I can’t be expected to recover from so it feels like a little jeering curse. Punishment for trying to take up space that doesn’t belong to me. Factory reject. But still on the shelf. It’s funny, I think of my despair like an abysmal black hole the size of the fucking sun, and I carry it with me wherever I go and I carry it with so much guilt and caution, yet it doesn’t matter because the curse persists and I am still pathetic in entirely too unremarkable ways and nothing will ever be enough to make me feel whole because I am not meant to be here because I overstayed my welcome the moment I took my first breath and I will never have the luck real people do to find factory rejects like me because we are supposed to be alone and we are supposed to be ceaselessly unhappy but never brave enough and for every moment of feeling as though we’ve finally transmigrated onto the plane of existence as real people we’ll have to brace ourselves for all the little unbearable despairs of that jeering curse. 

[cherubist]

Miserable

I don’t really know why I bother with these things. In a ways I am aware that it’s largely just so that the me of days to come can read through my past thoughts and gauge just how much things have or have not changed. Every coherent thought and opinion I’ve had has been fleeting; what remains are simply things of principle, so I have to journal, I have to broadcast if only to myself. Create evidence that this much of me ever existed.

But there is no meaning to any of it, it’s just another past time that suffices to make me more irritable and scrutinous of myself as I engage in it. It’s almost humiliating actually. But it’s the only way I can remember anything sometimes. 

I’ve grown so callous and awkward with the world at large, that in the years I’ve spent practically fucking folded in on myself I’ve made a game out of being. Not a clever or profound thing just a nonsensical mix of delusions and romanticism. Only I know the rules to it and it would be against the point to make anyone else privy to it.

So even that, adds onto the loneliness. How can a person be so utterly ill-suited to the responsibilities of being a social animal yet be so utterly lonely. Yearning and philosophising over something that they sneer at the moment they actually come close to attaining it. Just stuck in a hellish loop of self obtained misery. 

I know more kinds of misery than I do people. I’ve spent more time agonising than I really have living, and every good thing I get will somehow gut me in the future. I’m terrified of people and their judgement yet I am no different. My design is pure hypocrisy, the thought of being seen is nauseating but then again so is the loneliness. 

[ryebreadgf]

malcolm t. liepke / he jiaying / j louis / ikenaga yasunari / milt kobayashi / joseph lorusso

[cherubist]

Of people and what they are capable of.

You’re right to be afraid, fear is not a mistake it’s rarely ever a mistake. But you have to understand that soon enough you’ll see the worst of it, the most atrocious, repulsive parts of people that you can’t imagine. 

And you will have to live with it, you will have to digest it, you will have to swallow the bile that comes up at the mere thought of it. 

For the sake of your sanity you will need to make it so that it’s just one of the many things you’ve seen.

Just another thing you had to see. 

You want to salvage your humanity but the horror and anguish, the sheer despair of it will kill you if you do not grow indifferent to it. It will fester in you like a cancer and it will destroy you, never let go of your disgust, but despair? It’ll be the last thing you feel if you give into it.

[topsica]

『 MUSE 』

[virginiewoolf]

Anna Kamienska, from A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook.

[cherubist]

“Pool” - ADDOY

[cherubist]

being a pathological liar affects your understanding of yourself the same way it affects other peoples perceptions of you. i am always at odds with my own word and it makes me resent myself. i often romanticise the world around me, so i can breathe, but then i feel delusional. my words and thoughts feel jilted and awkward, they never feel like my own, they make me wince the moment they’ve gone past my lips. i think i’ve been telling myself one big lie from the moment i knew how to lie at all, and now i don’t know where that lie ends and where i begin.

[skvoreshniki-deactivated2023020]

Notre Dame Corset by Dilara Findikoglu

[jstor]

Institutionalized racism

It’s taken us too long to post this on Tumblr, we’re sorry. We’ve compiled a syllabus that is free to all that addresses institutionalized racism and how it’s caused historic, pointed harm at the Black community in the U.S. Understanding history is key to understanding the present, and in order to make real changes, we need to fully understand the racist history of the U.S. Black Lives Matter.

Find it here: https://daily.jstor.org/institutionalized-racism-a-syllabus/

[muriolaflor-deactivated20200923]

favorite pieces of art

[meanrunway]

Moschino FW 2020

[cherubist]

lost my phone, keeps me up at night, wish i deleted those notes after i wrote them, what if someone reads them? what gives them the right to see those words.

[supersonicart]

Adrian Jing Song, Paintings.

Fascinating mixed-media paintings dealing with memory from artist Adrian Jing Song.

Be sure to follow Supersonic Art on Instagram.

[cherubist]

home

my bedroom back home is cramped, and home is a stuffy apartment complex where the kitchen, living and dining room are all in one.

ive never cared about that really. maybe my bedroom was personalized more to the tastes of my mother than me, but i didn’t care about that either. i don’t need much.

sometimes though, it feels like that room cuts off from the rest of the world.

there’s only one window, and it leads to a small gap between the apartment building where rain water is collected. the sun comes in just fine, but i see nothing more than a slab of concrete and the window must be shut to prevent dust and dirt from coming in. makes me sad.

i go mad in my room often, sleep on the child-proof bed till my bones ache, stare at the lavender walls and hideous grey polka dot wallpaper till it’s all black. my room is a constantly echoing chasm of my own trauma. it’s the only place i feel truly safe and yet it’s like a prison on the worst of days.

im abroad at the moment, staying in my cousins room. its nice here, smells nostalgic and the floor is carpeted. there’s a cozy balcony at the furthest end of the room, and through the glass sliding doors and between the gaps of concrete railings i can see the city.

it’s early in the morning and the pollution makes everything look hazy, but the sky is so blue. we’re high up so the sounds of the city are like a hum.

i can see the tops of several buildings from here, just as dilapidated as this one, murky and filthy browns and greens where the only pop of colour is the laundry hanging outside every window.

there’s a school below, it’s so close i can see the ladder that leads to the terris, i wonder if any kids hang out up there, i know me and my friends back home would love to.

the sun shines daintily on everything, i wish i could engrain this view into my mind forever.

the city is so beautiful from these distances, and isn’t it romantic to think of the vast unimaginable possibilities of the people that live in it and their lives ? their lives in this picture perfect city, picture perfect to me.

home isn’t like this, not entirely, home isn’t a place to die for or in. im the furthest thing from homesick, i think and keep thinking ‘oh when is this all going to be over, when will i have to go back to that inverse of suffering to that routine of tolerance’ i want to stay here and keep looking at that view.

hours, minutes, years, months, days no measurement of time no rise of the sun or fall of night should decide for me.

time takes everything from me, everything.

my world without time would be perfect.

i long to die here.

[thibaut-tokyo]

[cherubist]

“Exits” - FOALS