Nanoheart

📷 Instagram

[cosmicallytiredd]

hate to break this to you but if you call yourself self aware but you are only aware of your faults and never acknowledge your strengths you are not self aware. you have repackaged your self hatred

[h4nifah]

accepting that I am a difficult woman

[nano-heart]

I have come to realise that the most important thing one can get from someone isn't love. It's warmth, and kindness, and softness, and acknowledgement and compassion. Don't tell me that you love me. Tell me that you care, even if you don't understand what I'm going through. Tell me that you're there with me. Be there with me. Sit with me. Just for a little while. I have it in me — whatever it takes to move mountains. I have been doing it for long enough. I just need to rest for a while, so sit with me for a while. I don't know how it feels when someone sits next to you.

[nano-heart]

The hardest part about growing up having to rely only on yourself is that it rewires you. Even when you meet good people, even when someone shows up for you, there’s this voice in the back of your head reminding you not to count on them. You’ve learned too many times that no one’s coming to save you, that when things fall apart, it’s on you to handle it. So you keep planning your life like you’re on your own, even when you’re not, because trusting anyone else to show up feels like betting against reality.

[nano-heart]

So writing the thesis wasn’t enough, apparently I also have to defend it? Welcome the Colosseum of academia, I am your host, held together by caffeine and sheer will.

[nano-heart]

Been thinking about this quote by Mary Ruefle,

“Poets always want us to be moved by something, until in the end, you begin to suspect that a poet is someone who is moved by everything, who just stands in front of the world and weeps and laughs and laughs and weeps”

and wondering how often we think of poetry as an attempt to stir emotions in others, when really it’s the poet who is constantly undone. Porous to every detail. A bird call, a cracked sidewalk, the smell of rain. Nothing passes without leaving a mark. Maybe that’s the real work of a poet - to let the world seep in, unfiltered, and carry the weight of feeling it all.

[lunamonchtuna]

— Mary Lambert, Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across; "You Are with the Wrong Person" (via lunamonchtuna)

[nano-heart]

I wouldn’t kill anyone for love, not even myself — most days I can barely get out of bed. So I make tea. I stand at the window while I wait. My feet are cold and the radio plays its little sounds. I do the small thing I know how to do to care for myself. I am trying to notice joy, which means survive. I do this all day, and then the next.

[nano-heart]

I think to care for the self is a kind of prayer. It is a gesture of devotion toward what is not always beloved or believed.

[nano-heart]

I must remind myself I am here, and do so by noticing myself: my feet are cold inside my socks, they touch the ground, my stomach churns, my heart stutters, in my hands I hold a warmth I make.

- excerpt from the poem tea by Leila chatti

[nano-heart]

Because no one is here to love me, I make tea for myself and leave the radio playing.

- excerpt from the poem tea by Leila Chatii

[nano-heart]

Five times a day, I make tea. I do this because I like the warmth in my hands, like the feeling of self-directed kindness. I’m not used to it— warmth and kindness, both—so I create my own when I can.

- excerpt from the poem tea by Leila Chatii

[nano-heart]

And when you think about it, poets always want us to be moved by something, until in the end, you begin to suspect that a poet is someone who is moved by everything, who just stands in front of the world and weeps and laughs and laughs and weeps.

Mary Ruefle, from Madness, Rack, & Honey

[nano-heart]

You Already Are Becoming

If you are pretending to be strong, then strength is already in you— where do you think the pretension comes from? A trembling hand still holds, a hesitant step still moves forward. If you are trying to love yourself, then love is already alive within you— where do you think the trying comes from? Even doubt cannot exist without a whisper of belief, even longing proves love is near. If you are searching for confidence, then you have already found its shadow. If you are reaching for hope, then hope has already reached for you. No one clings to light they do not sense, no one runs toward something they do not believe exists. If you are pushing through fear, then courage already breathes within you. If you are yearning for peace, then you have already tasted its quiet promise. A heart that forgives—even slowly— has already begun to let go. Wisdom is not the absence of questions, but the knowing that there are answers to seek. Happiness is not the absence of longing, but the proof that joy is still possible. You are not missing, nor broken, nor lacking— you are already becoming.

[nano-heart]

As someone who works in science, I can’t even say ‘the heart wants what it wants’—because it’s not the heart, it’s the amygdala. Stupid humans, always blaming the heart for no reason. The poor heart is just a pump, minding its own business, while the brain is up there making terrible decisions and throwing emotions around like confetti. And yet, when things go wrong, it’s always ‘heartbreak’—never ‘amygdala failure.’

[nano-heart]

Look at your wrist—see the bluish greenish veins? The blood flowing through them contains hemoglobin, a protein with four iron atoms incorporated into its structure. Iron can only be forged in the core of dying stars. The same goes for the calcium strengthening your bones and teeth, and the carbon forming the very backbone of your DNA. Every time you move, breathe, or simply exist, remember—you are built from, and kept alive by, the remnants of ancient stars. You are stardust, made conscious.

[nano-heart]

In the book White Nights, which is 119 pages, Dostoevsky mentions Nastenka 145 times. And yet, we don’t even know the narrator’s name. He doesn’t have a name. Just “I.” That’s all we ever get. But Nastenka? Her name is everywhere—spoken, whispered, repeated like a lifeline. It’s like he’s trying to hold onto her by saying her name over and over, as if that could make her stay. It’s kind of heartbreaking when you think about it. He fades into the background of his own story, while she becomes the centre of everything. We know Nastenka’s dreams, her fears, the way she smiles, the way she cries. But him? He’s just there—watching, waiting, loving her in silence. As if he isn’t really someone, not in the way she is. He’s just a man in love, a man lost in a dream, a man who exists only in the spaces between the times he says Nastenka. And maybe that’s the point. He could be anyone. Anyone who’s ever loved someone who didn’t love them back. Anyone who’s ever spent long nights lost in something that was never really theirs to begin with.