M

I Hope you dream of me

[softcells]

So real first of all

[beatricecenci]

Vincenzo Irolli (Italian, 1860-1949)

In un letto di fiori

[inspirationpainting]

Henry Patrick Raleigh (1880-1944)

[7pleiades7]

The Forget-me-not (Das Vergissmeinnicht), (Detail), (1886), by Gabriel Schachinger (German, 1850 – 1912), oil on canvas, 53 cm (20.8 in) x 38.5 cm (15.1 in), Private Collection

[theodorafrompluto]

The Other Side (1918)

by Dean Cornwell

[aqua-regia009]

Kore metamorfica II, 2025 – oil on board — Agostino Arrivabene (Italian, b.1967)

[peoplewhodisappear]

How it feels to be stressed out and burnt out but still trying to enjoy life and be positive

[enchantedbook]

The Mermaid (c. 1910) by Howard Pyle

[havingapoemwithyou]

Marriage by Lawrence Raab

[peoplewhodisappear]

Does yearning comes from the fear that you will never find someone like them again (doesn’t mean they’re good) or comes from the fear of not loving someone else like them again or the attachment you had to them because they made you special or its just a horrible feeling and another act of love?

[classicalcanvas]

Separation (1896) by Edvard Munch

[recolored-classics]

The Beautiful Lady Without Pity (1893) by John William Waterhouse

[dailyclassicart]

Walter Richard Sickert - "The Acting Manager or Rehearsal: The End of the Act"

[havingapoemwithyou]

Something bright, then holes by Maggie Nelson

[dailyclassicart]

Franciszek Żmurko - "The Morning Star" (1890)

[peoplewhodisappear]

Not even writing is fulfilling my heart please God please take this pain away from me please im begging

[peoplewhodisappear]

They say, “just forget him.”

As if forgetting is a switch I can turn off.

As if I’m not trying

every single day.

There isn’t a moment that passes

without regret sitting in my chest,

heavy,

breathing for me,

eating me alive.

Every second I repeat it to myself

it was real… it was real… it was real…

Because what if it wasn’t?

It wasn’t

It was

It wasn’t

It was

He lied.

Then why do I feel

dirty,

guilty,

like something inside me doesn’t belong to me anymore?

I never wanted it.

So why do I carry it?

Was that who I am?

No.

So why does it feel like it is?

I cried.

Every day, I cried.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind

And still, I ask myself

Did I agree?

No I didn’t

Did I agree

Or was I made to?

He made me do it

I tell myself I knew,

but I couldn’t choose.

So why does my mind punish me

like I did?

But I knew

So why

Why

why

why

why

why

does this feel like my fault?

It is

No it’s not

Was it?

This isn’t me.

It was never me.

He lied.

He lied to me

He lied.

So why am I the one

holding the guilt

like it belongs to me?

Why am I still treating him

better than he ever treated me?

He lied.

And still, I carry

the regret,

the weight,

the blame.

Two words:

guilt

and regret

I hope you feel them.

To feel what I feel

something burning under your skin,

keeping you awake at night,

haunting you in silence.

But even then…

I can’t wish you harm.

So man wasn’t I the greatest?

[peoplewhodisappear]

I just realized it’s been two years since I last wrote in my journal.

I wrote a page or two, then thought, “Damn… I don’t write anymore.”

It’s strange. My whole life, I’ve written: stories, feelings, things I wanted to remember.

Mostly the bad things. I wrote to feel lighter, to survive.

And now I don’t.

I wondered why.

Then I realized I’ve been avoiding it.

Avoiding the fact that I hurt.

Avoiding the truth that admitting it makes me feel weak.

Avoiding memories that I don’t want to carry, even though they linger anyway.

I barely remember what happened.

Half of it is gone.

If I didn’t write it, did it even happen?

I tell myself it didn’t, just to move forward.

But deep down, I know that’s a lie.

I used to read books.

I used to write poetry, novels.

I used to draw.

I used to be good at sports.

I used to be smart.

I used to feel like myself.

I used to…