weeds

[spectorspike-blog]

Maybe the butterfly misses being a caterpillar

[spectorspike-blog]

I kinda wish I could want what most people want. I wish I could believe that I’d be happy with it. I wish I wanted a simple life, but I also know I’d be bored. Bored with the white wedding, bored with monogamy, bored with a normal job, bored with children, bored with the white picket fence life… but I want to want it, because there’s so much pain and uncertainty in my life. I feel like I’ve been swimming upstream for so long that I risk drowning.

[spectorspike-blog]

Boundaries are the ultimate form of self care.

[spectorspike-blog]

I’ve always had this feeling of being a ghost. Not real. Insubstantial, like smoke in the wind. And whatever solid parts of me do exist, are just simply not enough... insufficient. Not smart enough, not cool enough, not interesting enough, not fucked up enough (and yet also too fucked up). Every now and then I try to reinvent myself, or rather invent myself seeing as I’m not entirely sure my self truly exists. I think I’m getting closer to being a person, though. I’m digging up all these little bits and nuggets of selfhood that were buried under the weight of my moulded self, the untrue self that has existed in place of my real personhood for so many years. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put all the shards together to make a “perfect person” as I used to call some of you, but every now and then I find a piece that fits, and it makes such interesting shapes.

[macrolit]

“In order to rise From its own ashes A phoenix First Must Burn.”

— Parable of the Talents, Octavia E. Butler (b. 22 June 1947)

[god-infected]

Why should it be essential to love rarely in order to love much?

Albert Camus, The Myth of Sysiphus and Other Essays

[spectorspike-blog]

To my lovers

You are the thread that keeps me tethered to this world, the string to my kite, my warming sun, my home and safety blanket.

You are the electricity in my veins, the rush of wind through my hair, my distant moon, the sand running through my fingers.

[derangedrhythms]

The National, from ‘The Pull of You’

[spectorspike-blog]

I miss you

[spectorspike-blog]

You held me close. Heartbeat like a lullaby. Soothed my pain and pulled me down into warmth and darkness. I rested there awhile.

[freddieardley]

Triscombe

Hasselblad X1D II 50C + XCD 30mm

Photographed by Freddie Ardley - Instagram @freddieardley 

[spectorspike-blog]

You’ve got to find your own way, girl

You’ve got to walk your own road

You’ve got to fight your own fights, girl

Or you’ll live a life that’s not your own.

It’s easy to get swept along

It’s easy to demure

But you’ve got to sing your own damn song

Or you’ll regret that loss your whole life long.

So let’s all walk our paths alone

But let’s keep holding hands

Cos life’s no fun when you’re on your own

But we’ve got to to each have our own map.

[macrolit]

“To free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves–there lies the great, singular power of self-respect.”

— Joan Didion

[shorteststory]

Remember

Remember, you’re not a REAL writer unless you: 

📚 publish a manuscript 

⚔️ defeat another writer in single combat 

❤️ consume a writer’s beating heart for its powers 

🧙‍♀️ outwit the writing grandmaster in a riddle contest

OR

🖋️ want to write

Gates are open, come on in!

[spectorspike-blog]

Dangerous games

[harriyanna-deactivated20221223]

Like or reblog if you’re a slut for a fictional villain.

[thelittleshortstories]

{ WALLFLOWER }

She sheds her flowers she sheds her leaves So she can be invisible She believes

Don’t have to worry about any colours No need to compete with the others

She sits alone in coffeeshops and writes her diary on table tops

Sometimes a gentleman would catch her eye But she’d look away a little shy

Still she wishes someone will know Her stories, her longing from so long ago

Hoping to join in to strangers’ chats Sharing their secrets and quiet regrets

[scientificphilosopher]

“The human heart is an ancient beast that roars and purrs with the same passions, whatever labels we may give them. We are so anxious to classify and categorize, both nature and human nature. It is a beautiful impulse—to contain the infinite in the finite, to wrest order from the chaos, to construct a foothold so we may climb toward higher truth. It is also a limiting one, for in naming things we often come to mistake the names for the things themselves. The labels we give to the loves of which we are capable—varied and vigorously transfigured from one kind into another and back again—can’t begin to contain the complexity of feeling that can flow between two hearts and the bodies that contain them.”

–Maria Popova, Figuring