Ever Blue @incandescentlyblue - Tumblr Blog

I never thought of myself as someone memorable—someone you'd regret losing or fear giving up. Not someone you'd be enchanted by. You wouldn’t think of me when you look at art. Not when you listen to a song, study a painting, or stumble across a line of poetry. Perhaps you might mention me while telling your story someday. But that’s as far as it would go. Just a girl you once knew.

My existence is a quiet park you pass through on a lazy afternoon. Just another place you wandered by, just another place you left behind.

#thoughts #orginal poem #pages from my diary #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #quotes #diary #grief #original writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers and poets #creative writing #writing #writers #afternoon

inanotherunivrse

in another universe i died when i was supposed to

I wanted to die yesterday. The colors of my house seemed rotten, and my eyes couldn’t adjust to the strange contours of the sunlight.

When I woke up today, I struggled to get up. Part of me wished to move my bed into a casket and seal it. I wouldn’t mind sleeping forever until my breath gave up.

But only so many of the things I am wishful of could happen in a lifetime.

So I played some music on my phone and pretended to slow dance through my house. I imagined the clutter around my house was an aesthetic from a Ghibli movie. The mundane tasks were not so mundane and were part of a beautiful scene that is only beautiful in movies.

I came to realize sometimes I need to look at the bare bones of my life and call it art. It is a respite to my tired soul. It is important to call this gold even if it wouldn’t be worth a dime.

I pretended to be in love with life.

probuccalfat

stoicism won’t save you. pick up a hobby where you make something with your hands

fromdarzaitoleeza

“If all goes well, I shall disappear for some time and there will be no way to get hold of me.”

{Quote:Aldous Huxley, Brave New World/Alfred Lord Tennyson, from Maud, A Monodrama/Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet/Mary Shelley, Frankenstein/David wojnarowicz/Anaïs Nin, from “The diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. 3: 1939-1944”/HermannHesse, from a letter to Conrad Haussmann written c. July 1911 //paintings: Pinterest}

David Foster Wallace once said, there is a lot of narcissism in self-hatred. And I hate how true it is. It chokes me up every time.

#pages from my diary

After a while, silence starts to taste too sweet in my mouth.

#thoughts #pages from my diary #mental health #quotes #spilled thoughts #writeblr

poemwav

– Jackie Wang

callali1y

every time someones says "hey how are you" and i say "good" and forget to add the "how about you?" i feel like i've missed a quicktime event

ilyspliff

what is delusion in a world of illusion?

moorfairy-blog

“‘I can always tell when you’re reading somewhere in the house,’ my mother used to say. ‘There’s a special silence, a reading silence.’”

— Francis Spufford

incandescentlyblue

Lately, being alive has become a chore. Talking with friends or doing the small things I used to enjoy feels like work.

Each breath, moment, interaction costs energy I have no supply of. Exhaustion is no longer just a feeling. It has been injected into my blood. Into my very existence.

I wonder how many times I've fallen and gotten up. It is always a relentless cycle. I have a few days of fine, and then it is bad again, questioning my every belief. Like I am being spun around for some sick entertainment, but the only one watching is me.

The problem is, I am always watching. I am staring through the glass window, yet I never step outside. Everything must be an illusion.

You see, I don't trust my own words anymore. I act and pretend I am doing the better thing.

"I am healing," I say proudly,

"I am so much better than I was before," but I feel the straining behind weight every word,

"I am working on myself," and I can feel my skin crack beneath the mask.

Lately, I have been catching my own lies too quickly. You have to understand, everything I do is a desperate act of self-preservation. The fragility of it all haunts me. However, it is not only my own ghost that haunts me, but also that of my family. I feel bad about things I haven't done, and I worry about things that aren't mine to worry about. I borrow grief from them as if mine alone isn't enough.