Sands of Time

From the blues of the time when the Ocean meets the sky, to the Browns of the sand which matches your eyes, the olive of the moss to the greens of trees, the white of snow to the white of sun, forever and ever more, I shall love you.

[damien-demian]

It is not you, it is me.

Hello, yes, the voicemail, I know you have your doctor appointment right now and would not pick up, it is perfect actually, somewhere in between a text message and a call. Well, I have been thinking for a while, and I called to say that I do not think I see you, or any man, as a friend friend . Like, I know it sounds weird, but um… I think I like you? I am not sure if it is because I like like you, in the romantic sense, or because you're there,I keep talking to you, texting you so often, more than I talk to myself I suppose, maybe it is just because I have been seeing you so much, drunk texting you, calling you when my car crashed,I- (sighs, takes a breath) right, so I keep thinking about you, and I did get a bit jealous when you mentioned were talking to someone… but I do not think I want to date you, even if you come up and say that you wanna date me. You see? It is such a fking mess, I it's like I am so used to this sort of solitude, or, or, loneliness - ugh, I imagine I like you. Like a scam, a delusion. I am not saying you're a bad person or anything, oh no, not at all, it is just me, I suppose, some sort of incel behaviour from my end. Anyhow, since one of the two friends has fallen for the other, this is not a friendship anymore, and hence I shall refrain from talking to you; it is only fair. This time, it is not you, it is me. Goodbye.

-Sylvie

[damien-demian]

"something subtle is wrong with me" -Sylvie, excerpts from my unwritten book

[damien-demian]

Loss of Habit I thought that I missed you, your thought process, the presence, the mannerism and the ramblings,like sandpaper and modern architecture. Your reactions like those of venus fly trap and your humour like an insular group of global dignitaries. Some words of wisdom, some of hypocritical idiocy and most just sarcastic dressings on your truth. Painting,demonising,mistakes and apologies, normalcy, allegations and disappointment. Beg for forgiveness, not to forget the pattern which pointed inwards now.  Us? Them? You. Me.  Ergo,Ego,Amigo? I thought I missed you, I just missed the habit of you. Apologies, I am not who you thought I was, but I can not be the “I” in your truth.  -Sylvie.

[mindfulstudyquest]

discipline is self care

self care isn't just face masks and bubble baths, it's also doing your assignment in advance so you won't pull an all nighter before the deadline, cooking at home instead of ordering out; discipline is an act of self love and care

[ashstfu]

edward hopper / jenny slate

[choppedphilosopherharmony]

Skip your meds and be the next Albert Camus

[shrack]

true friendship is making up headcanons together and crying

[dryratgirl]

@damien-demian

[damien-demian]

yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss since like forever ig lmaoo

[brownbird04]

— Oscar Wilde, from the uncensored version of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

[damien-demian]

Who are you?

You say a name

You didn't even choose.

[damien-demian]

Studying evolutionary biology is just inducing awe of creation in me and making me feel like a tiny speck, insignificant really about my existence. My human tendency to think about myself as important is so greatly challenged by the vastness and antiquity of the universe it's comforting in a way, again to lead me to ask why do we exist and is there, if any, purpose of life?

Also bacteria are tiny wtf

[derangedrhythms]

mirrors are crafty.

Margaret Atwood, You Are Happy; from ‘Tricks With Mirrors’

[jazbaaati]

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking.

[thoughtkick]

“I am not actually tired, but numb and heavy, and can’t find the right words.”

— Franz Kafka, from a letter to Felice Bauer, c. November 1912

[irtenyev]

when w. h. auden said “evil is unspectacular and always human” and ursula k. leguin said “this is the great treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain”

[treethymes]

when toni morrison said “i just think goodness is more interesting. evil is constant. you can think of different ways to murder people, but you can do that at age five. but you have to be an adult to consciously, deliberately be good – and that’s complicated.”

[azbukivedii]

when simone weil said “imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.”

[damien-demian]

Times are changing

I can feel it

They came again but things changed

The way they hugged me and the way they kissed

It's different from the past

Times are changing and I've seen it now

I am not the child I was.

Sylvie.

[damien-demian]

Fame

She lit a cigarette, took in a long draw and exhaled deeply in an attempt to calm her

anxiety. “ It’s almost been a month, a whole month,” she paused to inhale the sweet

calming smoke, “ we’ve been fighting so frequently, even the kids.” she eyed the stray

cat, “ the youngest slept in class this afternoon, told the teacher that he couldn’t sleep

cause he thought his parents were gonna divorce.” her voice strained a little. She

leaned on the worn-out coloured wall for support, her sequinned dress in contrast to

the wall, “ he is eight, that boy, worried about fights.” She threw the cigarette on the

ground and put it off with her red heels. “Yesterday, the academy called cause my

oldest was caught in a fight and was to be taken to a hospital, they are 15, my phone

had died, so they called my wife,” she paused again, to wipe a tear, “that night she

yelled at me, for being irresponsible, as if it's only I who is the parent, my child cried

that night, wishing they had a normal family.” Her hair blew across blood-shot eyes,

she felt barbed wires in her throat, “ when I was 15, I wanted to be a famous writer, I

still do, I wanted to be famous, I still do, my dream is to be an author people adored,

my book to be critically acclaimed,” She exhaled deeply, “I am 35 now, I haven’t

achieved anything at all, I sent my manuscript to three publishers now, one rejected it

cause I am lesbian, the other wanted sex in return and the 3rd is-” she looked at her

worn and ugly face in the mirror kept at the roadside, “I don't even have hopes now. I

just wanted fame. Just fam-” She muttered as an AC unit fell from the flat above

crushing her to death.

Her wife picked up a call from the publishing house, they wanted to publish the

book.

It had been two years now, the wife stood near the grave. “She would never know her

book was famous,” she muttered as she placed the flowers, a single tear rolling down

her cheek.

Sylvie.

[damien-demian]

Crash. The glass shattered into millions of pieces. The cat woke up and ran to its hiding place. It was that time again. The boy chased after the cat, and found himself in a place where he could see the whole room while being hidden. Uncle came home, creating a scene. Shouting curses the boy was forbidden to even think of, yelling obscene things at the Father and throwing things around. Even Father joined in now. Both men yelling at each other. Grabbing by the collar and screaming. Ripped clothes and clenched jaws.Bare skin and bruises. Blood and flesh. Mother knew better than to intervene between two men with hurt egos. The boy closed his eyes and held the cat. All kinds of sounds came from that room, sounds of steel and metals, of glass and plastic. Thud. The sound of body. The boy looked again, Father had a hammer. The hammer had blood. Uncle was on the carpet. The carpet was now red. Mother was panicking.

Now, the aunt started to yell and curse. She knelt and wept, pointing fingers at Father and the ceiling. The hammer fell. So did Father. He had a knife sticking up his back. Mother was furious because her brother had been killed by her husband. Aunt looked at mother, a wicked smile on her face. They laughed. The boy ran, to where he did not know. The cat went to the room, mewing at the Mother.

-Sylvie.