[wedge-of-poetry]

You go home and invent a story about me, and now you can’t separate me from the person you’ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it’s being in delusion.

Virginia Woolf, Night and Day

[flowerytale]

Anaïs Nin, from “The Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1955–1966”

[feral-ballad]

Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Burn Lake 4”

[midnightgardennn]

[ojibwa]

[ffog]

[ancientmyths]

unquiet graves

[sweetestsecrets]

“And I’m starving – in the literal sense. Idiots think hunger – is the body. No, hunger – is the soul, the whole weight of it falls directly on the soul.”

— Marina Tsvetaeva, from Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries, 1917 - 1922 (via ladylindy)

[imdefault]

[rains-of-words]

“Sometimes I know myself too well, or I don’t know myself at all, as if I’m a stranger to my own being.”

— “Letters You Will Never Read”, anastasiasyah

[thoughtkick]

“The world will ask you who you are, and if you don’t know, the world will tell you.”

— Carl Gustav Jung

[verbix]

[angelboypuke]

[sad-house-of-mortality]

Sophie Dituri - Where They Grow

[imhavingacrisis-deactivated2016]

the kind of girl you bury in your backyard

[262828319-deactivated20231229]

[decatris]