Drowning Thoughts of Wandering Minds

rants but make it poetry and prose and short stories. welcome.

[thisblogisinactivesorrey]

[moongirlmusingss]

i didn't think there was a purpose to my physical body beyond just being perceived and attempting to be perceived prettily but then i realised your body!! can do!! things!! like!! cycling and play badminton and try swimming and go on long walks and walk on grass barefeet and to simply exist is my purpose after all.

i no longer serve an audience, i no longer want to preserve a version of myself when i can constantly evolve and become the glimmering light of all things beautiful

[trinakeepstrying]

“you’ve always been more of a dog person” by t. das

[moongirlmusingss]

i loved a boy who loved cats and despised dogs I didn’t think much of cats before and I don’t think i do very well with the uncertainty of change itself but i like cats slightly more than i did and yesterday when someone asked me “are you a dog or cat person” my tongue almost betrayed me and said cat instead of dog. god i fear sometimes love will change me so fundamentally that i’ll never return to the person i was.

but who am i if not a series of changes of likes and dislikes because my friends and my lovers told me their likes and dislikes, anyways im a dog person.

[moongirlmusingss]

stoichiometry

Question: I am a mixture of 60% love-hate and the rest is a combination of reactants (my mother’s anger, my father’s ignorance, my lover’s sweetness, all my friends’ idea of me being a better person than i really am) and products (my anger, my carelessness, my bitterness, my crippling guilt of being a bad person) and so if i am a mixture of __ kg (don’t ask me my weight in grams or my mass in newtons or how heavy i am or how burdened i feel don’t ask me to quantify myself into a number don’t ask me how much the earth takes when i stand upon her) then how much love can be extracted. Given values are love = 20 and hate = 23.

Answer: follow the equation c1v1 = c2v2 and hope to god that your numbers fit in perfect, that the decimals make sense, that the sig figs do too, hope to god it’s like the way you solved it when you were in 10th grade taking AP chemistry and you calculated love couldn’t be extracted out of you, it is a part of you and no dangerously experimental method could tell you the burden of love you carry (mass) because it will forever be accompanied by the not-adhering-to-laws-of-physics force that carries your love as the earth carries you and the number of that, well i told you not to ask didn’t i.

[irishshauna]

[marmotini-of-the-world-unite]

Learning this was an intentional genocide changed me.

[fighterkimburgess]

I know most of those following me know this, but just to make it super clear. An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger/the Great Famine) was a deliberate genocide of the Irish people. There was enough food grown in Ireland to make sure everyone was alive and healthy and survived. Instead it was exported, sent to England and elsewhere for profit while men, women, and children starved in the streets. While the English landlords fucked off and evicted starving families who couldn’t afford rent. While babies were too weak to cry and died at the side of the road.

They tried to kill us, but they did not succeed. And we owe so much thanks to the other oppressed peoples, in particular the Choctaw Nation and the Masai, who sent money and grain to us.

Let me repeat that. The Choctaw Nation who had just gone through the Trail of Tears sent us money to try save Irish lives. It’s led to an understanding between Irish people and Native American tribes, most recently when we donated to the Navajo and Hopi fundraisers for COVID-19 relief, because while it may be a different tribe, Irish people will never forget those who helped us and we’ll help back.

The entire population of the island is less than seven million people. We’re still a million less on this island than pre famine. And it’s not that long ago. My grandmother’s grandparents lived through it. We’ve told the stories, it literally changed the DNA of the country. We have a national fear of renting, because so many people were evicted. People joke about Irish people always offering loads of food, but it’s because there’s that cultural memory of not being able to.

They tried to kill us, but they did not succeed. We will not let them take our lives, we will not let them take our language. We lost so much, but we will not lose it all.

[saltedweather]

This is why I get so angry when people say “it was the potato famine, it was because of monoculture/microbes.”

Nope. The potatoes were the only thing Irish people were allowed to fucking eat, because as pointed out, the rest of the crops they were growing were for their landlords to ship to England. So when the one “worthless” crop they were allowed to eat rotted in the field, the English crown, empire, landlords, all shrugged and carried on. People starved to death lying next to productive fields.

[moongirlmusingss]

i think sometimes when people die, the heavens star them in their ever-expanding cosmos and they put down their name onto a soft soft blanket, embroider it a end of reincarnation cycle or whatever you believe in i suppose. i think the heavens let them leave parts back on earth, i think you are in every coffee i drink and every stranger i smile at and every kindness i show is borrowed from you.

i’m sorry you are more loved in my tragically fading memory than you were in your alive form, i’m sorry i didn’t linger by the door longer that day or the days before, i’m sorry i held your face in my cupped hands the way you held prayers in your palms.

list of remnants of you: in your hair in your comb, in your sweaty gym set, in your rotting pasta leftovers, in your unmade beds, in your mugs and mugs of coffee adorned by mold, in your dying plants, in your house that i have to clean and pack up for your family to store at theirs, in my lipbalm that you used all the time, in everything and everywhere i see and smell and go and in your favorite lunch spots and your coffee orders and everything and it is so overwhelming to see parts of you everywhere like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle but they don’t fit together they don’t fit together to make you and you are gone and never returning.

i think sometimes when people die, we convince ourselves they’ll go off to a better place because that stings less than knowing your loved one has gone to a bad place and they didn’t even take you, that you couldn’t even go. 

[moongirlmusingss]

in the freezer-convertible are your dreams all frozen from before you grew up, astronaut, scientist, president, oh how they seemed so realistic then oh how they seemed so foolish now, you told them you didn’t achieve anything before you died and i wish i’d heard because i’d make you count all the hearts you saved, all the dreams you fostered in your home, all the meals you brought sweetness to, and most of all: all the ambitions you birthed became mine, mom. (oh and i miss you)

from a piece i wrote titled "what's in/on the fridge" (which you can find on my ig: moongirlmusings)

[moongirlmusingss]

gods and mothers and daughters

my mother’s divinity stains my fingers, my mouth all bloodened by her devouring faith.

she tells me if i fast if i keep my soul pure, god will forgive me for sinning/loving a woman/not wanting to marry a man of my faith. she tells me another priest in the village saw god and i bite my mouth so i won’t bite god in the wrist, i keep my mouth closed so god doesn’t get to leave the rotting stench of my rage, i kill myself so i don’t bring his wrath upon my devout mom.

when you ask me if believe in a god, i will lie between my teeth (as my grandmother through hers when she told my mother god will be good if you pray and god will punish if you don’t) and say “no” but we both know i can’t blame a god i don’t believe in, i can’t pray for his forgiveness if i don’t wish to forgive him.

My girlhood was defined by being an image of a goddess, they told all little girls “tum devi ka roop ho” (you are a face of the goddess) and all newly married women “laxmi ji ghar aayi hain” (goddess of wealth and prosperity has entered our house) but no one saw me that way, no one sees us that way. They call us a goddess and tell us to marry into households where an ordinary man would beat up his “goddess” wife. They call us a goddess and expect us to sit cross legged on the bed and tell our surviving daughters that god will be good if you pray and god will punish if you don’t and no one questions god for punishing the murdered girl fetuses for not praying when they weren’t even given a chance to learn to.

and yet i believe in all the inauspicious tales, i am afraid my mother’s prayers will stop protecting me any second, i am afraid the god will punish me for loving, i am afraid the god will ask for my kindness and i will hand him my life instead. 

it becomes a cycle, mom. you will disappoint me like a god and i’ll claw at your approval like your devout, you will love me as a daughter and i will fear you as my god, you will continue chanting as i bleed (you have no choice, you can’t stop in between can you) and i will forgive you like a dog.

[alittolatte]

sorry that its been a week since I’ve replied to your message. I was held captive by the 20 something urge to do both everything and nothing in life.

[moongirlmusingss]

I wish i could bury you, moth-winged half-faced love-burnt in the sands, and i wish i loved you before we became a sin so ostracised by every god of every religion, i wish you’d love me back, am I so unwanted by warmth that even in its most aggressive form, fire on the matchstick dies out before it touches my fingertips, i wish i could trace the contours of your cheekbone before i found a smirk hiding in your closeted dimple, i wish you weren’t a scattered set of embers i wish i could dare to dream of warmth again

I wish i could sculpt the void out of you into something we’d put in our garden, i wish you weren’t incapable of loving, i wish you were the gaps between my heartbeat, i wish i could pick out all the satisfying parts of my life like i’m trying to dissect the branches of the facial nerve properly, and slowly slowly the formaldehyde will fill my lungs and i just wish i could stare at you like i did at that old decaying body and you’d let me

I wish i could love you without asking for it in return, i wish i was the chill girl but honestly i’m not and i don’t think i’ll ever be, i wish i could unearth you from beneath the soil’s sour taste and kiss you and pretend the earthworms aren’t there and you’re still the most gorgeous thing in the world, i wish i could keep you alive i wish i didn’t have to wish all of this in the first place

[moongirlmusingss]

A letter to may

April has left me for the girl with cowboy boots so please may may may be mine. Hold my hand, tell me you’d carve out my name somewhere on the sun, tell me i’m better than what my father wanted to be, tell me it’s not my fault, tell me you’ll tie my hair into braids on my birthday. Tell me i will live instead of simply surviving and that i will dig my own grave after you’re gone. Tell me june will be kind to our heartbreak, tell me april will come again, tell me the summer months won’t hate me for wanting to die, tell me you’re real. 

It’s the 8th now, will you come this week to visit please I found a new song you’d like, i think you are so pretty, will you stop by this time, will you make my idealisation of you a bitter taste that sits in the back of my mouth, will you bring me some coffee, will you be here for dinner, will you learn my mother tongue to know me better or will i just be another one of your friends, will you open my thoracic cavity and leave upon seeing my heart beat alive, are you scared telling me you love me makes it real may?

may do you listen to girl in red and clairo and chappell roan when i tell you we should call it off, or do you pretend you’re straight when i tell you i still want you, will you walk down the altar to a man who will call you his wife, or will you stay this time and we don’t even have to tie the knot, we can just lie in your bed and pretend we’re not someone so deeply hated by our family for being the way we are.

April has left me for the girl with cowboy boots and may you will leave me for any man alive.

[moongirlmusingss]

How to peel my dreams open: a clementine orange guide

Will you love me with my seeds and my fibres all

In me still or will you peel me open, my skin naked my beating heart so seen and will you dig your hands into my flesh and will you reach your hands out to leave me nothing but dry

will you kiss me before you put me in your never ending hunger full of stomach butterflies 

will you put me in your pocket, swear to me you love me but never come closer to me than your big yellow jacket and you’ll carry me around in your tupperware containers, show me off to all your friends, tell me you have a love with dreams so big she needed you to carry them for her will you carry my dreams without making them yours will you take my mouldy rotten body and bury me or will i be another of your clementines thrown in the green trash separated specifically for the garbage truck to come pick me up

will you think of me when you go to the grocery aisle and pick up another netted packet of oranges, hold their memory as you held mine, peel another and another and another

never loved, only devoured

never loved, only wanted

never loved, only gifted

[moongirlmusingss]

I claw at my mother’s womb and the cycle will never stop

I claw at my mother’s womb

 and she gasps for air beneath her mother and 

the cycle never stops, I will save my mother as my mother will

 save hers and no one will save themselves    

and the cycle never stops and when all is done

 and my palms of blood raise up to my god to pray, 

i know he, too, will look at me with despair, 

he will beg me 

to pray for myself and i will beg him to give my life

 whatever remains to my birthgiver

and should the odds be not in my way and forbid i tend to my wounds

Before i tend to hers

The Guilt will follow me like a stray dog

and i will feed it all my resentment at night

and it will bite me in the morn

so hear me someone please

The cycle never stops and so when i tell you i will not marry i will not bear a daughter

it’s not that meri beti paraayi ho jaayegi (my daughter will become a stranger)

It’s that she will claw at my womb and i will have to breathe for my mother

And she will say: 

I claw at my mother’s womb

 and she gasps for air beneath her mother and 

the cycle never stops, I will save my mother as my mother will

 save hers and no one will save themselves    

and the cycle never stops and when all is done

 and my palms of blood raise up to my god to pray, 

i know he, too, will look at me with despair, 

he will beg me 

to pray for myself and i will beg him to give my life

 whatever remains to my birthgiver

and should the odds be not in my way and forbid i tend to my wounds

Before i tend to hers

The Guilt will follow me like a stray dog

and i will feed it all my resentment at night

and it will bite me in the morn

so hear me someone please

The cycle never stops and so when i tell you i will not marry i will not bear a daughter

it’s not that meri beti paraayi ho jaayegi (my daughter will become a stranger)

It’s that she will claw at my womb and i will have to breathe for my mother

And she will say: 

I claw at my mother’s womb

 and she gasps for air beneath her mother and 

the cycle never stops, I will save my mother as my mother will

 save hers and no one will save themselves    

and the cycle never stops and when all is done

 and my palms of blood raise up to my god to pray, 

i know he, too, will look at me with despair, 

he will beg me 

to pray for myself and i will beg him to give my life

 whatever remains to my birthgiver

and should the odds be not in my way and forbid i tend to my wounds

Before i tend to hers

The Guilt will follow me like a stray dog

and i will feed it all my resentment at night

and it will bite me in the morn

so hear me someone please

The cycle never stops and so when i tell you i will not marry i will not bear a daughter

it’s not that meri beti paraayi ho jaayegi (my daughter will become a stranger)

It’s that she will claw at my womb and i will have to breathe for my mother

And she will say: 

[glowcowboy]

still. after all of it. mostly, i want to be kind

[moongirlmusingss]

"no matter how brief, love and kindness is never wasted" is a rule i will live by and die for

[moongirlmusingss]

touch starved, swallow me whole (based on prompts by @/promptsbylexbug on ig)

Darling there’s a monster inside me It devours me at night and haunts the E D of my G E existence S

It tells me it will swallow me whole Until unknown is where i end and where he begins: We will become the devourers and devoured

Darling there’s a monster inside me A withered wine too sweet It sits beneath my tongue and kisses my lips from inside my Mouth and it fills me with love and love and love

Darling there’s a lover inside me I am too far touch starved to not let it feast upon me It tells me my blood is sweet it tells me it doesn’t care if i’m ugly out I’m so beautiful in he adores me and worships me for what i can give: life

Darling there’s my lover inside me He promises to never leave, he makes me pick thorns out the rose bouquets and feed it to us he says he loves my throat swelling up out of internal bleeding He says you’re the monster

Monster, my darling’s inside me And i in him, we eat like royals in each other and become one in cooking fires of our hunger

[moongirlmusingss]

the recipe for girl dinner tonight

8 oz (225g) pasta (spaghetti, fettuccine, or your choice but make sure you don’t regret the choice you know how you regretted choosing your first love and your second and your third and every resemblance of love after that) 2 tablespoons butter 3 cloves garlic, minced like all your dreams so hold them close hold your fear closer mother it and let it cradle like your birthday month, leave it flowers and your name, drop it off at the fire station and never return, never return after your 12th birthday (i cradle my may in my arms and i kept her wrapped in a rose thorned blanket and i tell her i’d come one day to meet her on the 22nd, right before the 23rd but i don’t think i’ll ever stop crying on my birthday or the week of my birthday so i watch may grow old and i watch her watch me stay away) 1 cup (240ml) heavy cream 1 cup (100g) grated Parmesan cheese Salt and pepper to taste Fresh parsley, chopped (for garnish, optional like being loved by your mother in return for being a perfect model child until 11th grade when your grades started dropping)

Cook Pasta: Cook the pasta according to package instructions until al dente. Drain and set aside, reserving about 1/2 cup of pasta water. Prepare Sauce: In a large skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. Add minced garlic and sauté for about 1 minute until fragrant, being careful not to burn it. Add Cream: Pour in the heavy cream and bring it to a simmer. Let it simmer for about 2-3 minutes, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened. Think about every wrong thing you said today Add Cheese: Gradually add the grated Parmesan cheese to the cream sauce, stirring continuously until the cheese is melted and the sauce is smooth. If the sauce is too thick, you can thin it out by adding a little pasta water, a tablespoon at a time, until you reach your desired consistency. find a sudden urge to text all your old friends and lovers and tell them how proud you are of yourself for cooking without burning down the kitchen and you wish you could hold them all in your warmth and tell them don’t do it don’t do it it’ll forever change the way we both exist and they’ll smile back at you and say it’ll be good you’ll be okay and you’ll hate that they were right all along because look how proud you are of yourself for making pasta Combine Pasta and Sauce: Add the cooked pasta to the skillet with the sauce. Toss everything together until the pasta is evenly coated with the creamy garlic Parmesan sauce. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cry about your loneliness and then think about what show to put while you eat Serve: Serve the creamy garlic Parmesan pasta hot, garnished with chopped fresh parsley if desired. You can also sprinkle some extra Parmesan cheese on top for extra flavor. Spend one hour to find the perfect youtube video to watch the show Contemplate reheating the pasta Eat the cold pasta anyways

[moongirlmusingss]

if i was a museum

If i was a museum, you’d see five screenshots of the same chat because i kept triple tapping on the back of my phone once because i was too nervous to not. You’d see a few hundred playlists titled “for my love” and a few hundred more titled “for us”. You’d see all the times I spent two hours on spotify going through bizarre indie underground underrated playlists (one of them was called ‘how i eat my pomegranates with no teeth’ and yes it has been deleted since then i think) just so I could find more music that physically looked like my best friends. You’d see all the times i clicked on that one friend from highschool’s music on bereal because she always had the best music taste and actually if i was a museum i’d be really messy and clumsy and you probably would want a refund once you entered the main gallery (it would be titled “my reasons for breaking down”, which include ‘the tree was so lonely amongst the flowers, so big and so wise and so old yet so incapable of being picked’ and ‘ok instead of okayy’ and ‘how i’ll mourn all the versions of myself i could have been if i didn’t move far away from home and how i would’ve mourned more if i hadn’t moved’) and the funniest thing i’d give you your money worth in coins and i’d probably double the amount of coins because i wouldn’t want anyone to ever dislike or hate me so i’d spend the rest of my life people pleasing my way through every friendship and then convincing myself that i have definitely manipulated everyone into not hating me because if i was a museum there’d be a room “entry to staff only” and i’d be the only staff and it would have a mirror and you’d see me the way i see me and it would be worse than asking for a refund you’d probably come back to the museum with a bulldozer and you’d make my bones crumble my artpieces from 2nd grade but anyways. If i was a museum, you’d see a sentence start with “you’d see all the times i clicked” go to “crumble my artpieces from 2nd grade”.

If I was a museum you’d see my grief hold hands with my joy and you’d see a thousand different metaphors of motherly love and all those smudged asymmetrical eyeliners and you’d see an instagram account called moongirlmusings and you’d see how i call it my own museum and maybe it is maybe that’s where all these things are maybe that’s where you’re reading this from.

If i was a museum it’d be bigger than every other museum combined, i have too much to say and too much of a tendency to overshare (i’d let a stranger know of how my worst heartbreaks were never romantic not even close)

[racketghost]

every time i start to feel cringe for being too deep in the hyperfixation i remember the intense depression i have waded through and have to remind myself that enjoyment is fleeting (so grab it with both hands), and life is for loving (so hold that love close), and if anyone thinks i’m cringe they must not be having a very good time (and i hope they can find a good time soon).