kafkaesque summer of talking to bugs and not sensing passage of time.
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Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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Claire Keane

shark vs the universe

#extradirty

Kiana Khansmith
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Jules of Nature

roma★
Sade Olutola
The Stonewall Inn

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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
𓃗

★
One Nice Bug Per Day
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@ophelieaesque
kafkaesque summer of talking to bugs and not sensing passage of time.
He knew the world was all in his imagination, but he was so proud of having created it. "My imagination is as real as my body," he told me.
╴WHAT REMAINS OF EDITH FINCH
- Ofelia Malin, A Collection of Misplaced Affections (2023)
never kill yourself because who knows if guillermo del toro will make a film that stares straight into your soul and says "i see you, i understand you, and the cycle of violence can end" and you will leave a theater sobbing with hope
THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA: PRINCE CASPIAN 2008 | dir. Andrew Adamson
— October 28, 1916 / Letters to Felice
i’ve been pulling my hair out for this degree for months and it paid off. i’m at the top of my class for the first time since i was a kid and i’m gonna ride that high forever
delusionalpoet on instagram
delusionalpoet on instagram
Birthdays have always been difficult for me.
I think many can relate to that. It’s a day that unwillingly turns its spotlight on you. And maybe that’s why I’ve never really celebrated.
Already in early September, the unease begins to stir those restless feelings that always rise up before my day arrives. I find myself looking back at all my past birthdays. Each one a constant reminder that I was the child my classmates congratulated out of obligation, because “bullying is not allowed at school.”
I hate the attention I receive; it never feels truly real. And yet, I ache for someone to see me. Perhaps that’s why I write books, start podcasts, capture my life in images and film. Hoping someone will notice. And when they do, my conspiracy takes root - this belief that no attention I’ve ever been given was genuine, but offered out of duty.
With every day that edges closer to October, I’m reminded again of how lonely I feel each year. I don’t think my teacher meant any harm that time she said it, but I didn’t know I was being bullied until then. In front of the whole class, I stood exposed, while they were caught in the act. I had believed I was just the quiet girl no one had gotten to know yet. I thought my solitude was mine to own, not theirs to impose.
My birthday is tangled up with longing. It reminds me of everything I have missed, and everything I still hope for. The tears that always come are not weakness, but a kind of prayer. My silence is not pride, but a waiting for someone to understand. Maybe it will take me another twenty-five years to learn how to celebrate myself, without feeling like the loneliest person in the world.
But time will pass anyway.
the worst part of avoidance is that i’m still always waiting by the window.
melancholy tastes like drinking rainwater out of your own cupped hands.
i don’t want to be loved gently, i want to be loved like a cathedral collapsing.