Green Nocturne @dawncl0udfactory - Tumblr Blog

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[text ID: A question: do I love laziness more than I love the feeling of accomplishing that work (writing, learning German, French, studying)? It seems that way. I take the path of least resistance and curl up with a book. Everyone else seems to be doing valuable work: social work, cancer research, teaching, degree getting, mothering. What can I do?]

metamorphesque

― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[text ID: God, who am I? I sit in the library tonight, the lights glaring overhead, the fan whirring loudly. Girls, girls everywhere, reading books. Intent faces, flesh pink, white, yellow. And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches. There is history to read... centuries to comprehend before I sleep, millions of lives to assimilate before breakfast tomorrow. Yet I know that back at the house there is my room, full of my presence. There is my date this weekend: someone believes I am a human being, not a name merely. And these are the only indications that I am a whole person, not merely a knot of nerves, without identity. I'm lost.]

metamorphesque

musings on may

palipunk-deactivated20260328

The level of evil it is to shoot a Palestinian journalist in the head, falsely claim you didn’t do it, and then send the military to attack her funeral, the mourners, and forcefully rip the Palestinian flag off her coffin. It’s monstrous.

tri4l-and-t3rror

“you‘re so quiet” baby i’m not even here. i’m fantasizing about a book i read weeks ago. move on.

stvrmbrekkers

when a man is extremely attractive, smart, funny AND kind, he is most likely also extremely fictional

metamorphesque

― Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life

[text ID: Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?]

thepartsyoullneversee

Sometimes I forget how many times I’ve picked myself off the floor, how many times I’ve wiped away the tears and put myself to bed. How many times I've lay awake hoping I'd fall asleep and never wake up. How many times I've relived my trauma without any way to stop it. How many times I've took that blade and sliced my skin and how many times I've watched my blood run. I forget how many times I've had panic attacks and physically beaten myself up trying to stop them. How many times I’ve said no to something good and said yes to something bad. How many times I’ve treated myself like shit and then beat myself up for treating myself like shit. I forget how many times I’ve tended to wounds and how I refuse to accept how broken I am...

Yet I can't forget what broke me.

st-a-y

myopressivedepression

scarcoveredwrists

not mine

“25% of suicidal people have friends who didn’t notice anything...”

bookmania

“Open a book this minute and start reading.” – Carol Shields

prosebyday

I don’t know how people function through stress. My body can’t handle it. With most people, stress may increase appetite, anxiety, feelings of exhaustion, or insomnia. I experience stress like potato peelers to my skin, a physical embodiment of everything slicing into me, everything that I hold over me, finding its way to get back at me. I don’t know how other people function through stress, but I have to wonder if maybe they don’t. Maybe I’m the only one who’s crying over it.

Grazia Curcuru (via prosebyday)

Did you know that humans were so small in this vast universe?

As small as an atom, i guess.

But really, God unfairly created us with all these emotions as complicated as understanding universe itself.

- Excerpt from a book i’ll never write #1

#excerpt #writing #short writing #spilled ink #thoughts

nothingwithoutwords

there is not a soul on this earth that is perfect. there are no feet that have not stumbled and no eyes that have not cried. there are no lights that have not flickered and no flowers that have not dried. there is not a soul on this earth that is perfect.

please don’t be so hard on yourself.

by shelby leigh

(via nothingwithoutwords)