how sad

left to rot alone like that

[road-killfawn]

𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖

𓂃 𓈒𓏸💭

𝒾 ℊℴ 𝒷𝓎 𝓋𝒶𝓂𝓅𝓎 & 𝒾'𝓂 26✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ

𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓹𝓮

𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 #𝓿𝓪𝓶𝓹𝔂𝓼𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂

𝓲'𝓶 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓬𝓸𝓸𝓵 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓵 𝓬𝓵𝓾𝓫 𝓼𝓸𝓸𝓷; 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓾𝓷𝓮𝓭! 🀢🀣🀦🀤

[nixscriptum]

[nixscriptum]

[geryone]

Trace Evidence, Charif Shanahan

[road-killfawn]

dear diary,

it's my birthday today! i'm turning twenty-seven already. this is my first birthday without my grandmother and i'm really sad about it, diary. it's been really bittersweet so far honestly. in all the weeks leading up to today, i've been dreading it. i'd spent all my time isolating myself and insisting that i don't want to see anyone, that i just wanna shut in and disappear into an endless marathon of movies and popcorn. if i can't hear her tell me happy birthday anymore i just won't celebrate it. i was so determined not to.

but then, diary, the funniest thing happened. my siblings showed up. my cousin showed up. my husband bought me my favorite cakes, beautiful flowers. the same kind of flowers my grandmother and i had picked out the last time we went shopping together. i'm still crying about it as i type this. my husband got me an LLC for the coffee shop i want to open. he also gifted me my favorite game(moss) that up until recently was only available as a VR game. my cousin got me a new laptop because my old one started to give out on me. that was all only midnight before my birthday. i truly cannot fathom what tomorrow will be like.

i've cried many many tears tonight, diary. i feel like real change is happening.

[road-killfawn]

[we-are-the-weirdos-mister]

TaxiderMaeCo Gothic Fawn with Flowers Handmade Art Print

[mournfulroses]

Marcel Proust, from a letter to Antoine Bibesco featured in The Selected Letters of Marcel Proust

[paper-wounds]

via

[ioshk]

Steal me away from myself. Make me forget. Hide me from my own memories. I don't want to think anymore.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— octobersfilm on substack (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[scribeherself]

⁠[tries to write about the world]⁠ ⁠[only writes about you]⁠

[thepeelingrenoir]

Wooded Landscape in Snow by Ludvig Munthe, (1870)

[mournfulroses]

Emily Brontë, from The Collected Works & Poetry of Emily Brontë; “Wuthering Heights,”

[mournfulroses]

Ada Limón, from a poem titled "The Ladybugs Grow Bolder Every Year," featured in Startlement: New and Selected Poems

[starry-eyed-wraith]

sweet freedom from the shackles of poor timed unrequited limerence

[lux-scriptum]

No, you see, I wish to be an author. Not in marketing. Or an influencer. I wish to tell my stories, be told I did a fantastic job, and then go back to my hovel to scribble some more. I am delicate of constitution and awkward in crowds.