#screaming softly

[dismembereddream]

[kvrsegospel]

Not a confession. A craving.

You dont have to answer.

I know you feel it too.

(Personal religion) OATH

[wewindondowntheroad]

that gallery attendant position is still listed on their website !!!! i am so qualified !!!!! i emailed them my resume almost a full month ago !!!!

[dikiyvter]

       Trying to paint this goddamn fatui symbol has reminded me of how much i absolutely loathe painting

[bitter-like-coffee]

well. barren almost drowned. 

this ghost session’s gonna go swimmingly :)

[dismembereddream]

[dismembereddream]

Can people stop fighting with raised voices, swearing, and screaming like they’re at war? Can’t we argue where even our pain moves gently— a soft, quiet verbal ballet?

Soft steps. Not stomping hearts.

[dismembereddream]

TW[SA, so please don't read if you're not comfortable :) }

I wanted to get a tattoo of Medusa(Iykyk). Not seriously, but the thought haunted me anyway. You know what I mean. But it feels like nothing would change even if I carved her into my skin.

Hell, I wouldn't feel relatable at all, because I have no memories. I'm trapped in the aftermath of something I can't even name, living in the echo of a scream I never heard.

It makes me wonder what the true reason is for Medusa having snakes for hair. Did she weaponize everything she went through, transforming her agony into armor?? Do the snakes represent her venom toward others, or the poison she turned inward because she can't even grieve herself peacefully anymore? She's no longer someone. Not god, not human. Just something in between, untouchable and finally untouched.

I can't use her eyes in the tattoo because I don't remember.

I can't tattoo her mouth because I'll never be able to express my thoughts to another human without it looking like theater, like I'm performing false symptoms because my brain learned trauma as its native language.

I can't even accept it for myself. I never did and I never will.

So I can't tattoo her ears or mouth or anything. Not even her voice box, because that's where her voice lives, and mine feels like all my vocal cords have gotten tangled together, twisted themselves into knots of inevitability and darkness, trying to strangle whatever I have to say, whatever I need to say, before it can escape into the world. Or maybe they're choking themselves on their own silence.

I don't know anymore.

I can't give her usual jagged cracks over a rocky surface on tattoo, because I still feel myself, and all those unfeelable, maybe unprovable surfaces of mine feel so fucking vile and rotten. Like something left to fester in forgotten places, crawling with maggots that feast on what I've become and never became, reeking of death of something that never properly finished its dying process. Medusa is marble carved, yet turned into something mournful by herself, yet beautiful even in her monstrosity, unbreakable and eternally strong.

She is strong. I am not.

What the fuck do you do when you're so fractured that you exist in the space between pretending and truth? When you've reached the point where you feel you may never be able to symbolize what lives inside you because even the most significant symbols taste like metallic ash?

When the very act of trying to give form to your formless pain feels like betraying something scarred, sacred and unnamed?

.

.

... call it void-as-testimony?

... call it I-have-no-mouth-yet-I-must-scream syndrome?