Another morning trying to survive the inevitable
AnasAbdin
Show & Tell
ojovivo

Kaledo Art

roma★
Stranger Things

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Keni
noise dept.

Origami Around

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
occasionally subtle
No title available

Kiana Khansmith
NASA
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
almost home
Cosmic Funnies
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Chile
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Brunei

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Australia

seen from Japan
seen from Philippines

seen from Ireland
seen from Malaysia
@nepenathe
Another morning trying to survive the inevitable
If i am to leave let this be what remains
An Explanation I Don’t Know How to Finish
I don’t think there is a version of this that makes sense from the outside.
And I know that’s frustrating, because if you’re reading this, you’re going to try and make it make sense anyway. You’re going to look for a reason that feels solid enough to hold onto. Something you can point to and say, that’s why.
There isn’t one.
And I need you to believe me when I say that…because if you don’t, you’ll start looking at yourselves. You’ll start picking apart moments, conversations, years, trying to find the exact place where something went wrong.
There isn’t one.
Mum,
You didn’t fail me.
You gave so much of yourself to build something better for us that I don’t think you ever stopped to ask what it was costing you. And I saw that. Even when I was too young to name it, I saw it.
You taught me that love is something you prove through action. Through sacrifice. Through showing up even when you’re empty.
And maybe I learned that lesson too well.
Because I don’t know how to exist in love without feeling like I have to earn it. Without feeling like I am constantly measuring myself against everything you gave.
Papa,
You stayed when it would have been easier to leave.
You chose discomfort, isolation, and a life that didn’t feel like yours because loving us mattered more than any of that. That kind of choice…it doesn’t disappear. It becomes part of the people you did it for.
I carry that too.
I carry both of you.
Which is why this isn’t something I can explain in a way that feels fair…because I am not the product of something broken. I am the product of people who loved me the best way they knew how.
India,
You were never just my sister.
You were the standard I held myself to without ever meaning to. The way you moved through the world made it feel like there was a version of me I was supposed to become…and I spent so long trying to find her.
But somewhere along the way, things shifted.
And instead of wanting to be you, I started wanting to stand beside you. To protect you. To understand you in a way I don’t think I knew how to when we were younger.
I don’t know when that change happened.
But I’m glad it did.
Charlie,
I need you to hear this without arguing with it.
I am sorry.
Not in the way people say it when they want to move past something… but in the way that sits heavy and doesn’t really go anywhere. I told myself I would be softer with you. That I would take everything I felt growing up and make sure it stopped with me.
And I didn’t always do that.
I see you now, though. I see the way you think, the way you feel, the way you hold yourself in the world… and you are everything I hoped you would be, even in the ways I didn’t know how to help you get there.
I am so proud of you.
Giacomo,
You were always just slightly outside of the story.
Not because you didn’t belong…but because we thought we were protecting you by keeping parts of it from you. And maybe that protection wasn’t as kind as we thought it was.
You felt things you didn’t have context for. You noticed things no one explained.
And that’s its own kind of weight.
You are not separate from this family. You never were.
I think what I’m trying to explain is something I don’t fully understand myself.
It’s not that I don’t see the good in my life. I do.
It’s not that I don’t feel loved. I do.
It’s that I feel everything at once, all the time, in a way that doesn’t quiet down.
There is no off switch.
No moment where my mind just lets something exist without questioning it, analysing it, pulling it apart and asking what it means, what it says about me, what it says about everything.
It’s exhausting.
And I know that sounds small when you put it into words like that. “Exhausted” doesn’t sound like something that should take a person down. People are exhausted all the time. They keep going.
I did too.
That’s the part I don’t think people saw.
I kept going while feeling like this. I showed up while feeling like this. I sat with you, laughed with you, existed beside you…while something in me was constantly pulling away, asking how much longer I could keep doing it.
And that’s not on you.
The worst part is that nothing is wrong enough to point to.
There’s no clean explanation.
Just a constant weight that doesn’t lift.
If you’re reading this, I need you to hold onto one thing.
This is not a reflection of your failure.
It is not proof that you missed something or didn’t love me enough or didn’t do enough.
If anything, it exists alongside the opposite.
I am here, in this moment, trying to explain something that doesn’t have a clean shape…while also knowing that I have been loved deeply, consistently, and in ways that should have been enough to steady me.
Both of those things are true.
At the same time.
And that is the part that is hardest to live with.
I don’t know how to end this.
I don’t think there is an ending that would feel right.
So maybe that’s the most honest thing I can leave here…
Not a conclusion. Not a decision. Just the truth of what it feels like to be inside this.
And with the last line of
I love you all so much… and that is intentionally not pasted tense
I love you
Forever and always
-forever sorry
Gemma
The illusion
When I explain the concept of a woman’s body being labeled as “inappropriate,” I often notice how some men react…not with understanding, but with defensiveness. This discomfort is not random; it is deeply rooted in the patriarchal belief that a woman’s body exists for male consumption, and that its visibility must be controlled. The idea that a woman “shows too much skin” or “doesn’t respect herself” is not a moral observation but a projection. It reflects the way society has conditioned these men to equate a woman’s worth with her sexual availability, while simultaneously demanding her modesty to maintain male comfort.
This double standard reveals a fundamental contradiction…women are told their value lies in being desirable, yet are condemned when they express autonomy over that desirability. The accusation that a woman lacks self-respect for dressing in a certain way masks a deeper truth… it is not about respect at all, but about control. Patriarchy disguises its regulation of women’s bodies as moral concern, when in reality, it is an effort to preserve the illusion of male authority over female identity.
To view a woman’s body as inherently inappropriate is to strip her of her personhood and reduce her to a social symbol…something to be managed, not understood. This mindset denies women the right to define their own relationship with their bodies, turning self-expression into defiance. The issue, therefore, is not the visibility of women’s skin, but the fragility of a culture that still views female autonomy as a threat to its order.
-by me
A strange creature
I am not the first, and I will not be the last, to sit with the question: What does it mean to love, and to be loved?
Love is a strange creature. It does not live in grand declarations, but in the almost invisible... the pause before a word, the warmth left in the dent of a pillow, the slow exhale when two hearts fall into rhythm.
It is absurd. It is holy. It is the way your flaws become constellations in someone else’s sky, how your restless edges... once sharp, once shameful... become the very pieces they trace with gentle hands, as though they were always meant to be touched.
To love is to lean into the madness of another person's existence, their contradictions, their secret languages, their small rituals of being. The way they hum under their breath when they don’t know it, the way they forget the endings of stories but never the beginnings. You begin to carry these things as if they were your own, and in that carrying, the boundaries between you and them blur, dissolve, and return as something new.
But to be loved... ah, that is the more impossible thing... it is to stand unclothed in spirit, to let another see the tremor in your bones, the ache behind your laughter, the shadowed rooms of your mind you swore no one would enter... and when they do not turn away... when they stay, when they place their hands against your fear as though it were a fragile glass... the world tilts, and something inside you dares to believe.
Love is not a steady ground, it is a tied that takes, a tied that gives. It is the pull towards closeness and the push towards solitude. A dance of surrender that asks you to lose yourself only so you might be found again in someone's gaze.
Perhaps, to love and be loved is not to be made whole, but to be seen in your un-wholeness... And still be chosen.
And somewhere in their eyes, just for a fleeting moment.
You glimpse the impossible truth:
the universe has learned your name and... It whispers it back to you
-by me
Breath play
Why am I so afraid to heal? Why is it that every time I start to get a little better, I let myself slip back down? It's like I'm so conditioned by this state of being that every molecule in my body has been corrupted, a mutation of cells caused by mental illness.
It's hard to explain. What, you may ask? And the answer is everything. Every explanation I try to offer others is a question I have already posed to myself a thousand times.
It's not that I'm sad all the time (I am). It's that even in the moments I feel happy, there's this constant undercurrent just below the surface. The question: how can I be happy and sad at the same time?
I live my life holding my breath. It's a game of breath-play. When it takes over... it being my mind, I hold my breath, waiting for it to loosen its grip. If I can hold on just a little longer, I know it will ease. And like it know it will, it does. But that isn't the problem.
The problem is, even when its nails retract from my flesh, I count 1...2...3... and drag in as much air as I can. But this time it isn't to hold on; it to hold on to. To cling to the moment of okay, because I know, like always, the slip will come and ill begin my slow decent back into the place where I will once again count, 1...2...3... and hold on.
I’m not sure how much longer I can do this. My lungs are tired, overworked, never resting, never given a moment of ease.
And the hardest part is explaining it to others, they say not to carry these burdens alone but when I try and share the load, the weight doubles.
I’ve told my papa I'm tired, I need help, I'm sad. He looked at me and said, “you don't look sad”.
I’ve tried to talk to my mum, but every time I bring it up, she changes the subject, as though my pain is too heavy to hold, even for just a moment.
I've tried talking to my sister, but I can see in her eyes she's tired of hearing it, tired of me circling the same confessions. And I don't blame her. If I were her, I would be exhausted too.
You see, I love my family. I love them so much that I sacrificed myself to keep them comfortable, silenced my needs until I ended up here gasping and drowning in silence.
The thing is nobody made me do it. Nobody asked me to carry that weight. Which means there's no one to blame but me.
And yet, even with all of them around me, I feel loneliest in their presence. The truth is, I feel the least lonely when I'm alone. Thats why I dream of moving somewhere no one knows me. Somewhere with no crutches, no safety nests, no expectations. Just me, stripped back to breath and bone, trying... maybe for the first time, to learn what it feels like to breath without fear.
But then I wonder, would it really be different somewhere else? Or would I carry this weight with me, folded neatly into my suite case, tucked into the lining of my skin? Because the truth is, it doesn't live in my room or my family or even this town. It lives in me. And that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because if it lives in me, then there is no escape. There is no running far enough, no starting fresh enough, no vanishing act that will cut me free.
And yet, somewhere deep inside there's this whisper. Maybe healing isn't about escape. Maybe it's about learning how to stop holding my breath, even when the grip tightens, even when I want nothing more than to disappear into the shadows of myself.
But that's the scariest part, isn't it? To let go. To stop clinging to pain as though it's the only proof I exist. Because without it... who am I?
I'm afraid healing will make me unrecognizable, not to others... but to myself. I've lived so long in this version of me that I don't know if there is anything else beneath the rubble. What if I dig and dig and find nothing? What if the silence that follows the pain is worse than the pain itself?
Still... there's another possibility. What if buried somewhere in all of this, there is a self I've never met before, someone who can breathe without counting, someone who can feel joy without fear of its expiration?
I don't know if I believe in that person yet. But maybe that's what healing really is. Not the absence of pain, but the possibility of discovering myself beyond it.
And maybe, just maybe I'm allowed to take one shaky breath at a time.
This is where the problem complexifies, I don't trust myself I don't trust that I can carry myself there my arms are weak, bones fragile. I fear if I let out one shaky exhale it will be my last.
You see the greatest disappointment in my life has been myself. I've let myself down time and time again and I don't think I will survive the next repeat of this cycle.
What if joy is not a bright flame, but a flicker, and I, clumsy and desperate smother it with my own hands in the effort to hold it?
I think of myself as a house long abandoned. Walls lined with ivy, windows fractured by time. And yet, somewhere deep inside a single lightbulb still hums, quiet, stubborn casting just enough glow to remind me that I'm not only ruin.
And yet, in the same breath I know that my mental health will catch up to me one day, I've accepted that I won't survive it, it's not a matter of if I decide to take my last breath it's a matter of when.
But maybe that's the trap I've built for myself, the certainty of an ending I haven't even reached yet. I talk about it as though its already carved into stone, as though I've already sealed my fate in a graveyard of possibilities.
Maybe that's just another way of holding my breath, of convincing myself there's no point in exhaling.
Sometimes I wonder, what if survival isn't about strength at all? What if it’s about weakness? The willingness to be soft enough, fragile enough to let air in even when it burns? what if healing isn't a grand victory but a thousand small surrenders. A whisper of a breath when the silence feels unbearable. A flicker of light when the darkness insists its already won.
I know I'm not ivy and broken glass alone. I know I am not just my tired lungs or my spiraling thoughts. I am also that stubborn light bulb, refusing to go out, even when the wires fray and the walls crumble. Maybe I don't need to trust myself fully yet. Maybe it's enough to trust the bulb, the hum, the quiet insistence that there is still something worth illuminating.
And maybe one day, when i stop counting 1...2...3, ill realize I've been breathing all along.
But what if the lightbulb isn't stubborn at all? What if it's just a trick of my mind, a hallucination born of desperation? Sometimes I fear I've imagined the glow, that there's nothing there except empty sockets, rustered wires and the echo of something that once worked but dosnt anymore. Maybe I've been lying to myself, clinging to a phantom flicker because the alternative is unbearable.
I think about how tired I am, not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that seeps into marrow, that makes every breath feel like theft from a body that no longer wants to keep me alive. My lungs don't ache because I hold my breath, they ache because I've forgotten what it feels like to breath without dread.
People tell me “It will get better”. But I wonder, better for who? Maybe they mean life smooths itself out for others, the ones strong enough to keep choosing it. Maybe I was never built for that kind of persistence. Maybe I was built for collapse.
Sometimes I imagine myself as rubble already, not a house but the ruins left after fire. Charred beams, blackened sone, the kind of place no one bothers to rebuild. And I wonder if my body already knows the end, the countdown has been ticking silently inside me all along. Not if...when. I can almost hear it in the pauses between breaths, like a clock too quiet for anyone else to notice.
And there's the part I never say aloud. Theres a comfort in it. In the inevitability. In knowing that one day the struggle will end, the counting will stop, the lungs will finally rest. It terrifies me, yes, but it also lulls me, like a lullaby only I can hear. Maybe that's the cruelest thing of all. That the thought of not existing feels more like home than the thought of surviving.
And yet, in the middle of that lullaby of endings, i think of them. My family. The ones who will never know just how many nights ive sat with the thought of leaving, only to stay because of them. They are the reason my lungs still drag in air, even when it feels like poison. They are the anchor that has kept me drifting so far, I can't return.
It's strange, isn't it? How the same presence that makes me feel most lonely is also what has kept me alive. But I understand now... Thats not them. Thats the distortion of perception that mental illness curates, bending everything until love looks like absence and comfort looks like suffocation. They have always been there in ways that I can never repay them.
My papa, even when he says I don't look sad, he's there trying to understand in the only language he knows. My mum, changing the subject not because she doesn't care, but maybe because Shes afraid of saying the wrong thing. My sister exhausted but still listening, still present, still tethered to me when I would have already let myself go.
The truth is without them I would not have made it this far. They don't know the extent of it, the nights where I thought I had already written my ending, but they saved me more times than I can count just by existing alongside of me. Their love is the thread I have clung to, even when my perception twists it into something unrecognizable.
And maybe that's the cruel paradox of it all. The illness tells me that I'm alone, when the reality is I've never truly have been. My family's presence has been my lifeline, even when my mind convinces me I'm drowning.
I think, maybe, that's why I'm still here. Not because I trust myself to survive, but because I trust that they will continue to carry me when I can't carry myself.
So why am i so afraid to heal? Maybe because healing feels like stepping into the unknown, and the unknown has always frightened me more than the pain I've come to know so well. Every time i reach for it, every time i let myself imagine a life not ruled by this constant ache, I feel the ground shift beneath me. It's easier, in some twisted way, to fall back down into what's familiar, even if it hurts.
It's like this illness has rewritten me at the smallest level, carved itself into my blood, my bones, my breath. I wonder sometimes if there's any part of me untouched, or if I am nothing more than the sum of the weight I carry.
I ask myself the same questions over and over, but there's no answer, only echos that return, louder each time until I can't tell the difference between thought and noise.
And so, I live in suspended contradiction. The one that makes me both grateful and broken in the same moment.
I breath but every breath feels borrowed. I exist but always with the suspicion that one day I won't.
Maybe that's all I am, the paradox itself. A body that longs for healing but recoils from it. A mind that clings to pain as proof its alive. A self-stitched together from questions that have no answers.
And perhaps that's the cruelest truth of all. Not that i cannot heal, but that i do not know who i would be without this sickness, this shadow...
This endless counting of breaths.
-by me
Morbidity
I spend a generous amount of time trying to convince myself that I am worthy of taking up space in a world that often feels haunted by the weight of its own fragility…a world where life and death coexist in an uneasy balance, and where the awareness of mortality looms like a shadow. Morbidity is not just the fascination with death; it is the inescapable reminder that everything…myself included…is fleeting, that the space I occupy today might vanish tomorrow.
In this space, morbidity is an uncomfortable companion. It whispers truths I try to ignore, truths about the impermanence of the world, of relationships, of my own existence. It is the quiet realization that the spaces we carve out for ourselves…our homes, our identities, our legacies…are as fragile as the lives we lead. This thought is neither comforting nor terrifying; it simply is.
There is a peculiar intimacy in morbidity, a closeness to the realities we are often too busy to confront. It invites me to question why I strive so hard to prove my worth when everything I achieve will one day crumble into dust. What is the purpose of taking up space in a world that is, at its core, bound by decay? Why wrestle with self-doubt when existence itself is inherently temporary?
And yet, morbidity is not just an abstract meditation on death. It is visceral. It is felt in the aching exhaustion of a body that reminds me of its limits, in the fleeting moments where I glimpse my own vulnerability. It is present in the news of a distant tragedy that ripples through my thoughts, or in the quiet grief that follows the loss of someone I loved but will never see again.
Morbidity has a way of reframing the everyday. The simplest acts…breathing, walking, speaking…suddenly feel monumental, each one defying the inevitable conclusion that lies ahead. This tension between life and its end is both unsettling and profound. It makes me hyper-aware of the fragility of my existence and the space I occupy, as though the very act of living is a rebellion against the void.
Yet, there is an odd beauty in this morbidity. It strips away the trivial and magnifies what matters. It forces me to confront the rawness of life and death, to see my place in the world not as a permanent fixture but as a brief, flickering presence. This realization, while heavy, carries a certain liberation. If life is transient, then so too are the doubts and fears that weigh me down. If space is fleeting, then I might as well take it unapologetically while I have the chance.
Morbidity does not ask me to fear the end; it asks me to respect it. It urges me to see the impermanence of my existence as a call to live fully, to embrace the fragility of life without being paralyzed by it. The inevitability of decay does not diminish the value of the present…it sharpens it, rendering each moment vivid, each breath sacred.
So, I continue to wrestle with these thoughts, convincing myself that I am worthy of the space I occupy, even in a world that will one day erase all traces of my being. Morbidity is not my enemy but my teacher, reminding me that the weight of existence is not in its permanence but in its fleeting, fragile beauty.
-By me
And when the last tear fell
the taste of salt on my lips the cooled tracks burning my cheeks
the sky open up for me she spewed the tears that I no longer had left to cry breaking my chest open with deep desolated groans of thunder
the strikes of forked light splitting me open leaving me bare
the wind howling and raging in tandem with the hollow swooning ache… throbbing inside of me
I sat there with her in that moment and felt all that I could have of you… because no matter how much it hurt it’s was the last thing you left me with… the last time I would get to feel your touch the pain the only reminder of the love… so I will cradle the pain like your arms cradled me
-by me
― Osamu Dazai, No Longer Human
I fight for the person she is… I don’t have the strength or the courage to be her all the time… but I think that version of me… her… she’s why I keep going what I’m fighting for…
The poets like to say that “it is better to have loved, than to not have loved at all”
But if they had ever felt the way that I feel now
They would know that is simply not true
No measure of time with love is worth this desolation
By- me
AND HER FINGERS ICHED IN AID OF HER MINDS DISTRACTION
late night thoughts
there's this guy, and he's great, he's sweet, he's kind, he's funny, he listens, he's everything the books and the movies said he would be
but I'm not her,
I'm not what they promised he would have,
but I try,
I try to be great, sweet, funny,kind, to listen
but I'm stuck, I'm stuck in the same fitting shoes the others forced and glued me into
I get lost, flustered, frazzled and confused... I'm fragile... never moving forward but always looping back
I try and I try to be something he deserves, to not suffocate him with my oppressive energy, thoughts, feelings
to be her
but who is she... how can I possibly try to emulate somebody that I am so grossly separated from...a girl who I will never get the pleasure of knowing
I'm supposed to want more for myself, I'm supposed to want better... and that's him...
the more, the better
but is it so wrong to want that for him, is it so wrong for me to try and stop the hands that tainted me from tainting him
like somehow I will spread the corrosion with just a touch
but it dose not matter i am not a primary thought..
unworthy of commitment
and thats okay something i have always known... but a singular tiny sliter of my self holds onto the hope that i might just be enough for him to change his mind
it dosnt have to be forever... im not looking for his hand...
just once... just maybe... i would like to be enough to be wanted even for a little while
-me
A singular prefix
It is almost impossible to stop the spiral once it begins
Down and Down and Down
Until I'm surrounded
Surrounded by the blinding happy that I'm supposed to be
Surrounded by the screaming rage of my past
Surrounded by the constant negative feedback looping
On and On and On
Unintelligent
Unworthy
Unliked
Unneeded
Undeserving
Unnecessary
Unimportant
Un and Un and Un and Un
Until
I have been diminished to a singular prefix of belittlement
by- me
Unknown/Nth - by Hozier
Song interpretation ~ a conversation between my current self & my future self… who has found peace.
Current vs Future
You know the distance never made a difference to me
I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea
Ignored the vastness between all that can be seen
And all that we believe
So I thought you were like an angel to me
Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy
If there were scarlet flags, they washed down in the mind of me
Where a blinding light shone on you every night
And either side of my sleep
Where you were held frozen like an angel to me
It ain't the being alone
It ain't the empty home, baby
You know I'm good on my own
Sha la la, baby
You know, it's more the being unknown
So much of the living, love, is the being unknown
You called me angel for the first time
My heart leapt from me
You smile now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth
And what's left of it, I listen to it tick
Every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me
Do you know, I could break beneath the weight
Of the goodness, love, I still carry for you
That I'd walk so far just to take
The injury of finally knowing you
It ain't the being alone
It ain't the empty home, baby
You know I'm good on my own
Sha la la, baby
You know, it's more the being unknown
And there are some people, love, who are better unknown
-me
Sometimes I think about her, what dose she look like, what dose she do in her free time, what makes her laugh now… it’s almost impossible for me to imagine… so I can’t even call her a figment… but if I do finally get to meet her I will be so thankful for me…
A journal entry
I am destroying myself so that other people can’t, it’s the worst kind of control but it’s the only form I know…
Some one said,
“Every time she starts to get better. She lets herself fall back down again… because she finds comfort in her mental illness”- unknown
It scared me how much I believed that to be true. It’s like hating every part of the illness that is depression, but fearing what you might be without it.
You know this numbness, you appreciate it’s predictability… because it’s all you can remember knowing.
So a small subconscious part of you lets it keep its grip… the trepidation of life without it outweighs the fear of being like this forever.
Sometimes it’s easier to just stop fighting.
At least you know how to cope with living this way.
- me