Done.

Inspired by the fear of being average; All i am saying is... i'm tired. 🇵🇸| | Journal |

[nixscriptum]

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

I don’t think i have seen myself as a person for a while.

The constant overstimulation and over-active imagination have completely disconnected me from reality to the point of indifference to towards the future. It’s a fine line between sudden anxiety attacks and complete disregard to my own self that i find myself looking at the hue of a soul i no longer recognize. It’s like driving 120 kilometers per hour on cruise control, speed is nonsensical and the world passes me by as i zone-out completely but find myself exactly where i am “supposed” to go.

I don’t know what i want to be, i know what i should be. But i have seen the practical evidence, from people around me, pointing to this sad people pleasing reality of living in a perfectionist world that does not feel like mine anymore, but more theirs. Where do i fit in all of this? The glue that holds years of broken arguments and unmet needs? Or the role model of a life i personally despise more than anything, where i feel like i am choosing all the performative right moves but none of the real ones.

It’s the curse of the Eldest Daughter, who lives for everyone but herself. Of the daughter that is doomed to look at her friends, family and society around her and drown between her beliefs and theirs. The curse that allows her to fall asleep and dream of a world that knows not who she is and where she came from but what she is at that precise moment.

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

The desire for romance burns me.

I am not one to get excited,

But i am one to yearn.

I yearn for friendship,

I yearn for gentle touches,

I yearn to be seen.

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

I choke on the barbed words i dream of telling you,

of pain and blood and scars that i have to live with.

because of you, they chewed me up and spit out pieces.

because of you, they glanced at shadows of uncertain masks.

because of you, i am atlas; crumbling.

After a life deprived of love, the foreign language sounds like noise,

but also the sound of my favorite tune.

As isolation grows to be the only reprieve,

I remain untouchable, unapproachable, unfound.

[anjo-by-the-sea]

there is a letter left, unfinished in a wooden box hand made of cedar under an oak tree this isn’t a fantasy in the city of lost dreams she was not dreaming. she took her grief and made an empire she took her grief and made a legacy she, took her grief and spread awareness she took her grief and made art there is now a book left, unfinished and she does not know where to start.

[ghostlywriterr]

Lago di Como. Italy

[michaeladavenport]

Michael A Davenport, 3,090 Degrees Fahrenheit (Oil on canvas, 2025)

30in x 48in

[aearthetic]

Renaissance and Ironmen.

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

The Wallace Collection, London.

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

Water of Leith, Dean Village

[324732]

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

It is quiet a responsibility I put on people; to make me feel. But when my own mind is not reliable and my heart beating is as irritable as tinnitus, I subconsciously look for others to remind me I am alive. It is often disappointing, but the valley of my own hubris is as deep as the pits of hell.

I don't expect much from people anymore. I've learned to smell the condescending relatability between my desperate need to validate the presence of my broken psyche and my ability to reflect their energy back to them. It doesn't mean it hurts any less than a saw to the iceberg in my chest.

"Tell me, I am begging you, that you see it too" I whisper. "Don't speak to me of fixes." I know I live in the contradiction, but the invalidation chips more of my soul and leaves me bare. "Don't tell me everyone feels like this."

If everyone feels broken, how do they get out of bed?

If everyone feels broken, how do they remember?

If everyone feels broken, how do they eat?

If everyone feels broken, how do they feel?

Looking for the manageable is herculean. Setting reminders, post-it notes, and alarms to feel, live and remember is laborious. I've spent too much of my formative years alone to not learn when to brush my teeth, to not learn when to breathe, to not learn automaticity.

Have I already failed at being human? Am I just realizing it now?

[fauxjean]

I know I'm unlovable, I just sometimes like to pretend that I'm not

[gizgibim-deactivated20240822]

[thepersonalquotes]

i be like “i don’t care” and then my chest starts hurting

[internalblleeding-deactivated20]

hobbies for girls who aren’t interested in anything

[im-highly-sapphisticated]

Lonely eyes look upon frozen images posted for the world to see;

They ponder how easy it must be to enjoy tiny victories,

When small losses feel like an elephant is on her chest.

Did she miss the orientation course for this life?

Laughing with friends have reached the burden of a chore,

Remembering people is an active daily struggle.

She didn't understand the concept of looking back fondly,

Her days filled with numbing indifference.

Self-expression collected dust on her shelf,

Colors have turned grey and words have lost their meaning.

When nicotine doesn't give the same rush as before,

And the blade has grown dull;

The elephant is starting to feel like a mountain,

And heaven and hell have frozen over.