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She/her | 23

[mournfulroses]

Georgia O’Keeffe, from a letter to Alfred Stieglitz featured in My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz: Volume One, 1915-1933

[mothermara]

remember to bury the dead with a phone, everyone. these days the ferry terminal at the river styx wants you to download a fucking app

[dxstroymx]

i need to kill myself, M.T.

[wetheurban]

For the sake of your mental health, let people think what they want. Their fiction is not your truth.

[anniespositivity]

You can be the kindest person ever and people will still find a way to dislike you. Just let them. I promise it will be so freeing.

[yaoiblackmold]

I don't have time for sex, I'm too busy running a blog that only 11 or 12 people care about

[neurosciencecasestudy]

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

June 12, 2026.

10:54 AM, Friday.

[nixscriptum]

I learned to say no to almost, and the universe brought me everything. ( ఌ )

[nixscriptum]

[nixscriptum]

[nixscriptum]

[nixscriptum]

[themakeupbrush]

JoliPoli

[neurosciencecasestudy]

There's no light at the end of this tunnel

[petaltexturedskies]

Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Vera Slonim, dated 24 March 1937, from Letters to Véra

[flowerais-deactivated20211031]

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊˚

here’s some fairy dust to everyone who is struggling with problems but trying their best to stay soft-hearted and determined ✩

[neurosciencecasestudy]

Sometimes I cannot really think, and my mind goes completely numb. I just don’t think at all. I just lie there on my bed for hours.

This happens because of the consequences of something that happened before, something that made me completely numb and unable to feel emotions.

And then, suddenly, there’s this whirlpool of emotion that hits and pulls me in, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel anymore.

There are moments when you see someone for the last time, and you probably don’t even know that it is the last time, but it still is. And this uncertainty or suddenness, starts to feel permanent eventually. Inevitably.

You know it’s there, but you can’t quite process it or wrap your head around it.

The restlessness, the sense of unfinished business, feels like a purgatory between heaven and hell. You’re not at the bottom, and you’re not at the top either; you’re stuck somewhere in the middle, unable to move forward or shake it off.

I don’t know what to do with this feeling or how to process it, whether to discard it or let it sit with me. It feels like a rut I can’t seem to get out of.

And then the memory of this liminality hits. You remember the gentle intuitions- the quiet tenderness the other person once carried.

You don’t feel it anymore. Instead, you become aware of its absence and that absence slowly eats away at you.

That absence turns into a kind of suspension; a void I don’t know how to inhabit, fill, or make sense of.

[vexheart]