Love And silence

Love & Silence is a space for the sensitive ones. For the overthinkers, the late-night feelers, the ADHD hearts, the autistic souls who love differently but deeply. Here, love isn’t loud — it’s honest.

[helptalibessenegal]

The nights are getting colder in Dakar. That kind of dry cold that clings to your skin, that pushes dust into the air until it settles on every street, every breath.

And yet… the talibé children are still outside.

Children. Not shadows. Not distant stories. Children who should be warm somewhere, sleeping, learning, laughing. But here, many of them beg just to eat. Some have nowhere to sleep at all. They curl up on the sidewalk under thin pieces of cardboard, while the dry night air tears their throats and the dust makes them sick.

I saw them tonight. They were shivering. One little boy asked me for a coin to buy rice. His voice was cracked — not from tiredness, but from breathing dust and cold air every day. And I don’t know how to explain it… It felt like heartbreak mixed with helplessness, and a quiet, heavy anger.

No child should sleep outside. No child should beg for food. No child should face cold nights and dusty winds alone.

If you’re reading this from anywhere in the world, just know this: the talibé children are real. They are here, right now. They’re hungry. They’re cold. They’re coughing. They’re exhausted. And they ask for nothing except a little warmth, a meal, a blanket, a chance to make it to tomorrow.

I’m not posting this to guilt anyone. I’m posting it because I saw them today and I can’t close my eyes. Not tonight.

If you want to help, even in the smallest way, the link is in my bio. A hot meal, a blanket, a bar of soap, a medical visit… Sometimes that’s enough to change an entire night. Sometimes that’s enough to let a child breathe easier tomorrow.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for feeling something. Thank you for existing.

Feed and Educate Forgotten Children

Every night, thousands of little hearts beat under the open skies of Congo — fragile, cold, and afraid. These are not numbers. They are chil

[asexual-amanita]

“Autistic people don’t flap their hands or rock! That’s just a stereotype!”

“Autistic people CAN understand sarcasm!”

“Autistic people ARE able to talk”

All of these are generalizations I frequently see made by LSN autistic creators. You have to understand that some people are going to “fit the stereotype,” because stereotypes are often originally based off of real people.

No not all autistic people will have the same combination of traits, but you can’t exclude people just because you think they have a “stereotypical” presentation.

[fleeglefazbeagle]

I DO flap my hands, I can understand sarcasm SOMETIMES(there are moments where I can't tell and I need someone to explain) and I am able to talk but there are moments where I have trouble.

All autistic people are valid even the quote unquote "stereotypical" ones.

[loveandsilence]

Inflation Fatigue and the Neurodivergent Mind

Lately, the world feels heavier. Every headline sounds like a warning, every price tag whispers a new kind of fear.

People talk about inflation like it’s just numbers — percentages, data, decisions made somewhere far away. But for many of us, especially those with neurodivergent minds, it’s not just about the cost of living. It’s about the cost of staying calm in a world that keeps shaking.

When your brain already runs on overdrive — tracking, overthinking, predicting, absorbing — every unexpected increase feels personal. It’s not just “rent went up.” It’s the sudden fear that the ground beneath you isn’t solid anymore. It’s not just “groceries are expensive.” It’s the mental math that starts looping all day: “How long can I keep this up?” “Where can I cut back?” “What if something else breaks next week?”

For neurodivergent people, uncertainty isn’t a mild discomfort — it’s a full-body experience. It can trigger sensory overload, shut down executive function, and turn small inconveniences into emotional earthquakes.

I don’t think people realize how much effort it takes just to exist right now. To get out of bed. To answer emails. To smile while the mind quietly screams, “What if it all collapses?”

We live in constant alert mode. For some, inflation is a financial crisis. For others, it’s a psychological one — a daily battle to stay regulated while everything feels unstable.

And if you’re neurodivergent, that instability hits deeper. You crave structure, but the world keeps changing the rules. You try to plan ahead, but chaos doesn’t follow calendars.

I’ve seen people say, “Everyone’s stressed — just deal with it.” But it’s not that simple.

When your brain is wired for hyper-awareness, you don’t just feel your own stress — you absorb everyone else’s too.

You walk into a store and feel the tension in the air, the quiet panic in people’s movements, the fatigue behind forced small talk. You scroll through your feed, and every post feels like another wave of exhaustion. You tell yourself, “Just breathe,” but your nervous system doesn’t believe you.

Because this isn’t laziness. This isn’t weakness. This is what it means to live in a body that feels the world too strongly.

And yet — we adapt. We always do.

We learn to save energy in small ways: a quiet playlist instead of the news, a gentle breakfast instead of caffeine panic, a candle lit during dinner like a silent prayer for peace.

We find micro-stability: five minutes of silence, a corner of calm in a noisy house, a friend who understands the pauses between our words.

We make rituals out of survival — folding laundry like meditation, making tea like a ceremony, treating the ordinary as a soft rebellion against chaos.

I’ve learned to tell myself: “You’re not lazy. You’re overloaded.” Because it’s true.

Neurodivergent fatigue doesn’t come from doing too little. It comes from feeling too much and having to act normal anyway.

We adapt to overstimulation, to fear, to the emotional noise of a system that never stops demanding more.

And every time we adapt, we lose a little more energy — like trying to breathe underwater with grace.

But here’s something that keeps me grounded: If we feel the world this deeply, then we’re also capable of sensing beauty more deeply too.

When the chaos is loud, we still notice the softness — the way sunlight lands quietly on the wall, the calm between two raindrops, the relief in a shared glance that says, “I get it.”

That sensitivity, the very thing that makes this world so hard to survive, is also what makes it possible to see it fully. To feel empathy when others go numb. To care when caring feels like a lost art.

So no, inflation isn’t just about money. It’s about safety. It’s about the exhaustion of pretending we’re fine when the noise of the world keeps rising.

It’s about trying to plan a life with a brain that needs stability in a reality that keeps spinning faster.

It’s about remembering that worth isn’t measured in output — and peace isn’t something you earn. It’s something you protect.

If you’ve felt heavy lately — if your brain can’t focus, if you cry at small things, if everything feels like too much — please don’t call it weakness.

Call it what it is: a sensitive mind surviving an insensitive world.

You are not behind. You are not broken. You are adjusting to a system that forgot what “enough” feels like.

So tonight, breathe a little slower. Light that candle. Ignore the noise for a while. Let the world spin without you for one evening.

Because you’re not meant to run endlessly — you’re meant to rest, recharge, and feel deeply.

The world may be expensive right now, but still — peace is free. 🌿

[loveandsilence]

I’m Not Broken — My Brain Just Works Differently

There was a time when I thought something was wrong with me. When I couldn’t sit still in class, when I forgot birthdays, when I felt too much, too fast, too deeply — the world called it “too sensitive,” “too distracted,” “too intense.”

And for years, I believed them. I learned to mask, to fake “normal,” to make eye contact even when it burned, to smile even when my body screamed to rest. I tried to shrink myself into the shape of what everyone else called functional.

But it never worked. Because I wasn’t broken — I was simply different.

The truth is, my brain doesn’t follow the same map. Where others see straight lines, I see spirals. Where they walk steady roads, I build bridges in my head — ten at once. I make connections others miss. I feel storms before they arrive. I create entire worlds out of a single moment of silence.

That’s not a flaw. That’s neurodiversity — the beautiful chaos of human variation.

We’ve been taught that there’s only one kind of “smart,” one kind of “focused,” one kind of “organized.” But what if focus looks like obsession? What if intelligence feels like empathy so deep it hurts? What if “messy” minds are simply creative ecosystems misunderstood by rigid systems?

When society says “you’re not enough,” what it really means is “you don’t fit our mold.” And that’s okay — molds are for statues, not for souls.

I’ve learned that my brain isn’t broken because: 🌿 It notices patterns others ignore. 🌿 It feels emotions with clarity. 🌿 It finds beauty in repetition, in silence, in movement. 🌿 It’s alive, electric, unpredictable — but it’s mine.

And owning it has been the first step toward peace.

If you live in a world not built for your wiring, you start believing you’re defective. You’re not. You’re simply speaking a different neurological language. You don’t need to be “fixed.” You need to be understood.

So maybe, instead of asking “What’s wrong with me?”, we should ask: “What does my mind need to thrive?”

For me, it needs quiet mornings. Music that loops. Soft lighting. People who listen without needing to fix me. Routines that are flexible, not forced.

I don’t chase “normal” anymore. I chase balance.

Every time I honor my brain’s rhythm, I heal a little more. Every time I stop apologizing for how I think, I reclaim space I once gave away. Every time I rest instead of masking, I whisper to myself: You’re safe now. You don’t have to pretend.

And that whisper grows louder than the noise of judgment.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt broken — please hear me: You are not. You are rare wiring in a loud world. Your patterns are poetry. Your focus is a gift, not a curse. Your silence is strength, not absence.

The way your brain works is not a mistake — it’s a message. A message that says, “You were never meant to fit in — you were meant to show what else is possible.”

Maybe the world doesn’t need to “fix” us. Maybe it needs to slow down long enough to see how much light there is in our chaos. Because our way of thinking brings color where others see grey, depth where others skim, empathy where others analyze.

Different doesn’t mean broken. Different means alive in another language.

✨ Final words

If your mind wanders, if your emotions overflow, if your focus dances — remember this: you are still whole, still worthy, still beautifully human.

You are not broken. Your brain just works differently. And that difference is your quiet revolution. 🌿

[loveandsilence]

When Frankenstein Meets the Monster Within: The Dungeon Scene That Redefines Creation

Weird and scary stories from the edge of reality.

They called him a monster. But what if the real horror was the loneliness that made him? In Frankenstein (2025), Del Toro turns the dungeon into a confession — between the created and the forgotten, the beautiful and the broken. It’s not just a film; it’s a mirror. Read the full story — the myth behind the monster — on OddieTales.online

[loveandsilence]

Having ADHD isn’t just about being distracted — it’s about feeling everything all at once and never being able to turn it off. It’s loving too fast, caring too deeply, overthinking too loudly. It’s wanting to send a text but rereading it five times because your brain suddenly starts writing a movie around it.

People say ADHD is about attention, but they never talk about how it hijacks your emotions. When you love, you love like a storm — full intensity, zero brakes. You notice every tone, every pause, every delay in response. A single “hey” can make your heart explode with joy or sink into panic.

And when something ends, it doesn’t fade quietly. Your brain replays it in high-definition, every word, every emoji, every what-if. You can’t “just move on.” Your mind refuses to file love away neatly.

You remember everything — not in order, but in bursts. The sound of their laugh, the way they typed your name, the time you felt safe. It hits randomly, like pop-up notifications from a past you never muted.

Having ADHD means you can be laughing one second and then staring at your phone, paralyzed, the next — trying to send a message you’ll never send. Because for you, emotions don’t visit; they move in and rearrange the furniture.

People call it impulsive, but it’s not recklessness. It’s urgency. You feel time differently. You love as if you might forget how by tomorrow. You overgive because your brain screams, “Say it now before it’s too late.”

But it’s never just love. It’s everything. When you care about someone, you think about them between tasks, in the middle of work, while doing dishes. You connect every little detail back to them — the color of the sky, a random meme, a song lyric. Your heart is like a search engine that never stops indexing what you felt.

And yet… you get misunderstood. People think you’re too much. Too emotional. Too intense. Too talkative, too quiet, too everything. They don’t see that your brain runs ten tabs at once — joy, fear, nostalgia, excitement, heartbreak, all overlapping.

You apologize too often. You replay mistakes that nobody else remembers. You say “it’s fine” when your mind is still analyzing the tone of that “okay” from three hours ago.

But here’s the truth: You’re not broken. Your intensity is a form of honesty. You don’t half-feel — you live at full volume. That’s not something to fix. That’s something to understand.

Yes, your ADHD heart gets tired. Yes, you fall in love with potential. Yes, you forget to reply because your brain made a detour through twelve thoughts. But you also make people feel seen, deeply. You listen between the lines. You love like sunlight — chaotic, bright, impossible to ignore.

And maybe that’s your magic.

You’re not “too much.” You just experience love like weather — unpredictable, beautiful, alive. You can’t love in moderation, and that’s okay. Because one day, you’ll meet someone who doesn’t call your energy “overwhelming.” They’ll call it home.

So don’t dim your heart trying to fit into quieter worlds. There’s someone out there who will love the noise of you — all of it.

Until then, breathe. Your brain may race, your heart may ache, but your love will always be extraordinary.

[loveandsilence]

What do we do when we miss them?

Missing someone is not a feeling — it’s a cycle. You think you’re done, you swear you’ve let go, and then at 10:47 PM, something inside you says, “just check their profile once.” And that’s how the loop begins again.

Block. Cry. Unblock. Repeat.

It’s ridiculous when you say it out loud, but it’s painfully real when you live it. Because what do you do with love that doesn’t have a place to go anymore? What do you do with all that caring, all that attention, all that instinct to reach out — when the person you used to give it to isn’t yours to reach anymore?

The heart doesn’t take commands. It doesn’t listen when you say, “I’m done.” It remembers patterns, not decisions. It misses the conversation that made you laugh, the person who used to say goodnight, the way their name felt like safety.

And the worst part is — they’re still alive. Still out there. Still posting stories. Still breathing under the same sky. You can’t grieve them like a loss, because they still exist. You just can’t touch their world anymore.

That’s why blocking feels like control. It’s you trying to reclaim your peace, your dignity, your sanity. But peace doesn’t come instantly. You block them, but your mind keeps them on the top of its contact list anyway. And after a few hours, curiosity wins. You unblock. You check. You see something meaningless — a meme, a coffee cup, a quote — and suddenly, you’re spiraling again.

Because healing isn’t linear. It’s emotional whiplash. One moment you feel proud for not thinking about them, and the next, you’re back to decoding their posts like ancient hieroglyphs. You try to convince yourself, “I just wanted to see if they’re happy,” but deep down, what you’re really asking is, “Do they still think of me too?”

It’s okay. You’re not crazy. You’re just human — and humans are wired to seek connection, even after disconnection.

The problem is that modern love doesn’t come with clean endings. There’s no door that shuts forever when someone leaves. We have phones, profiles, notifications — constant reminders that they still exist, just not for us. Every post feels like a ghost knock. Every story feels like a message they didn’t send but somehow still did.

So we block to breathe. We cry to release. We unblock because part of us still hopes there’s a sign waiting — that maybe they miss us too.

But one day, the cycle will break. Not because you’ll suddenly stop missing them, but because you’ll get tired of being your own tormentor. You’ll realize that every time you unblock, you reopen the wound. And slowly, painfully, you’ll start to protect your peace more than your curiosity.

That’s when healing begins.

It doesn’t come with fireworks. It doesn’t announce itself. It comes quietly — the first night you don’t check their page before bed. The morning you wake up and they’re not the first thought. The afternoon you see their name and your heart doesn’t race, it just nods.

That’s when you’ll know: you didn’t need to block them anymore — because they no longer have access to you, even in your mind.

If you’re still in the loop, still repeating, still crying — give yourself grace. You’re not weak. You’re just practicing release in the only way you know how right now. And one day, you’ll wake up, scroll past their name, and feel nothing but peace.

Until then, block, cry, unblock, repeat — as many times as it takes. Healing isn’t perfect, but it’s real.

[loveandsilence]

Me, healing: journaling, drinking water, setting boundaries.

Healing sounds beautiful when you read about it online. Everyone talks about lighting candles, drinking herbal tea, buying a new notebook, or writing affirmations that promise peace. We romanticize the idea of becoming whole again — like it’s a straight path from chaos to calm. But no one really tells you how uncomfortable it feels to sit with your own silence, your memories, your guilt, and your what-ifs.

Because healing isn’t peaceful. Not at first.

It’s restless. It’s awkward. It’s crying at 2 AM because your brain decided to replay something from three years ago. It’s journaling about self-love one moment, and checking someone’s last seen on social media the next. It’s pretending you’re okay because you posted a quote about growth, but secretly wishing someone would text you just to say they miss you.

The truth is — most of us are healing wrong. We think healing means forgetting, but real healing is remembering without breaking. It’s looking at the past and saying, “yes, that happened, and it hurt, but I survived.”

And yet, even knowing that, we keep digging through our old messages like emotional archaeologists — searching for signs, moments, or proof that we were once truly loved. We scroll, we re-read, we analyze every word as if understanding the past will make the pain disappear. But healing doesn’t come from understanding everything; it comes from accepting that we never will.

Sometimes, I think we go back because the silence feels too empty. Pain, at least, feels familiar. And familiarity is comforting — even when it hurts.

You tell yourself you’re moving on, but then a song plays, a scent passes, or a random word brings their face back to your mind. Suddenly, you’re not in your room anymore — you’re back in that moment, laughing, believing, hoping. The memory feels so close that you almost reach out to touch it.

But then it fades. And you’re left with yourself again. The new you. The one who’s learning to exist without that chapter.

That’s the hardest part of healing — learning to love the version of you that came after. Because after love, there’s always a silence. And that silence feels endless. You try to fill it with distractions — new hobbies, self-help podcasts, maybe even another person — but nothing really fills the void. Because that emptiness isn’t a lack of love, it’s the space where you’re supposed to rebuild yourself.

Healing is building. It’s messy. It’s slow. Sometimes it looks like progress, sometimes like collapse. One day you’ll write, “I’m finally free,” and the next, you’ll read old texts just to feel something again. And that doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human.

Nobody heals in a straight line. We loop. We repeat. We revisit. But every time we go back, the pain stings a little less. We learn something new about ourselves. Maybe that’s the point — not to erase the story, but to soften its edges.

So yes, light your candle. Write in your journal. Cry if you have to. But don’t shame yourself for still looking back sometimes. Healing doesn’t mean pretending you never cared. It means caring differently now — caring for yourself.

You’re not broken because you still miss someone. You’re not lost because you still think about them. You’re healing — which means you’re growing into the version of you that knows how to stay, even when others leave.

Someday, you’ll look back at this exact moment — the confusion, the loneliness, the late-night overthinking — and realize it was all part of the rebuilding. You were never meant to forget. You were meant to transform.

So if tonight you find yourself scrolling through old messages, reading them like sacred texts of a past life — take a deep breath. You’re not relapsing. You’re remembering. And in remembering, you’re healing.

[loveandsilence]

Wicked Week and the Witch’s Mirror — When Old Magic Returns to Hollywood

Weird and scary stories from the edge of reality.

[loveandsilence]

Trying to Stay Positive While Everything Hisses Behind Me

Sometimes, life really is just a Minecraft night. You spend the whole day building something beautiful — a home, a dream, a bit of peace — and then… ssssss.

It’s always when you finally relax, when your coffee is still warm, when you whisper, “I think I’m fine now.” That’s when life decides to hiss behind you like a green explosion waiting to happen.

The bills, the stress, the memories, the people who drain you — they show up without warning, ready to blow up your calm.

But here’s the plot twist: you’ve rebuilt before. Every time something crashed, you placed a new block. Every time a storm hit, you mined deeper until you found light again.

Maybe positivity isn’t pretending nothing explodes — maybe it’s learning to smile while you pick up the pieces.

So yeah, sometimes life hisses. But I’ve got extra blocks, a backup coffee, and a playlist that makes even chaos sound like a vibe.

Keep building. Even if everything around you wants to fall apart — you’re still crafting something worth surviving for.

[loveandsilence]

My Coffee Gave Up Before I Did

It’s Saturday morning. I thought caffeine would fix everything — motivation, sadness, maybe even the economy. But after two sips, my coffee looked as tired as me. We stared at each other for a moment, two exhausted liquids trying to make sense of life. And in that silence, I realized something profound: Sometimes, you don’t need energy — you just need peace.

So here’s to tired people drinking tired coffee, surviving one sip at a time. No plans. No productivity. Just vibes.

[loveandsilence]

Soft Hearts Don’t Die, They Just Learn to Hide

Maybe some hearts never stop caring — they just grow quiet. They stop begging to be understood and start protecting their peace. If that’s you, this space is for you — a soft place to heal in silence. Read story here

[loveandsilence]

I never stopped loving you — I just learned to love myself too

[loveandsilence]

Sometimes silence says everything your lips were too afraid to whisper.

[loveandsilence]

You were my favorite ‘almost.’ The one that never became, but never left my heart.