𝕯𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖗

𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹

[thatpeasantdreamer]

INTRO INTRO INTRO ✨

Name : Dreamer or Peasant whatever you want.

About me : 20 , Huge empath.

Poetry lover, deep thinker

Daydream architect ☁️

Book devourer

And so Hi, welcome

If you’re here to think deeply or feel quietly, stay as long as you like.

૮︵⭒‿᧔☪︎᧓‿⋆︵౨

A little bit about me, in case you’re curious:

I like the color black — and on some occasions, a soft light brown.

Pastel colors don’t suit me but I don’t mind them. Maybe because I’m a calm person in general. I like things that are mellow, gentle — like soft rain or quiet songs.

But I listen to phonk at times, I just do.

I’m quiet. Very quiet.

I don’t speak often, but when it comes to typing? I’m a gold medalist yapper. I could type for ages, like—

My brain runs a whole symphony, but my mouth has stage fright.

I think faster than I speak — always have.

I rehearse entire conversations in my head before I even open my mouth. And when I try to speak them aloud, I fumble like a toddler trying to spit out babbles. So, I avoid talking. I think too deeply, too much.

It’s easier this way — when no one’s directly staring at my face. When I type, I feel free.

I like cats. I love them. They’re innocent, adorable, and perfect. I have five Persians at home.

I like dogs too, but I’m a little scared of them sometimes.

I’ve been meaning to get a pet turtle for a while, and maybe some fish.

A horse too, one day. If you didn’t get the picture already — yes, I really like animals.

Outside of that, I’ve loved poetry, music, and reading for as long as I can remember — music even longer, honestly.

I started reading with the Harry Potter novels.

Then I challenged myself with books like Moby-Dick (which, to be honest, was really hard to get through).

Eventually, I found myself drawn to books about psychology, mental health, and human behavior.

Why?

Because people scare me. Everyone’s too different.

And I like being informed — prepared.

If I understand people better, maybe I can help them… while also understanding myself.

Poetry came into my life through Rupi Kaur. I love her — her simplicity, her depth.

As for me, I write poetry and stories that come from my darkest corners. I feel everything from a place of fear —

I write from emotions like Anger, Sadness, Guilt, Desperation, Nostalgia and trauma but mostly Fear.

Love poems aren’t really my forte — I do try to write them though. I do better with angst and heartbreak.

I feel deeply, endlessly, and I pour all of it into what I write.

This may have been more than “a little bit” about me, but I guess…

I’m just a little too much sometimes, and thats fine.

૮︵⭒‿᧔☪︎᧓‿⋆︵౨

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Prisons.

I would choose a void of uncomfortable darkness,

Where even sound ceases to exist.

Somewhere I would long to hear something,

Yet not even hear my own tinnitus.

The urge to claw my throat

As numbness sinks in.

Life, muted to a hollow note.

False existence.

Alone.

Silenced.

Over,

A den of wolves,

In a warm, secluded “safe” space.

Cruel intentions disguised with fluffy fur,

They prance around in a pack,

Watching me from the shadows.

They steal my sheep—

Either feasting on them,

Or breaking them,

Parading what remains.

Their canines disguised as harmless grins,

Innocent creatures, serving their way of life.

But I see the sharpness

That mirrors the very intention that rips

Through skin,

And scrapes the bone.

I would rather suffer the numbness of the void

Than go back there

And pretend,

Everything is fine.

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Isolation

A part of me longs—

For the melting warmth

Of a hug

A kiss,

Or even a gesture so simple

As a handshake.

It longs for the sound of words

The syllables flowing into my ears

For a reminder of my existence

Even more comforting than presence itself.

I long for a pair of eyes

Looking at me,

Glistening with their own spark.

Decipher any and all emotions

They hold inside.

I want to drown into them.

But,

Another part of me claims

The isolation.

The calm mornings,

The silent hallways,

Only the visitation

Of chirping birds

Only me,

My thoughts

And my being.

Is it being selfish?

To own my life all to myself.

To gaze into my own eyes,

To listen to my own voice,

To embrace myself in the similar warmth

Like that of a lover?

Watching the rain

Pattering onto my stone pavement

As I sit out by the porch alone

Solitude has always held

A calamity made of calm.

When I don’t long for company

Besides myself.

Isolation,

I think I would miss it,

If it would decide

It wanted my company no more.

[luna-azzurra]

Some actually useful Questions to get to know your OC better...

↳ What’s your character’s biggest fear and how does it screw up their relationships? Are they terrified of being abandoned? Do they push people away before they can leave? Are they scared of not being enough? Or being too much?

↳ What’s something they’re stupidly passionate about, and how does it drive their entire life? Like that thing they’d fight someone over. That core belief, hobby, or dream that lowkey fuels every decision they make (even when they say it doesn’t).

↳ What’s one childhood memory they can’t shake and how did it shape the way they see the world now?

↳ What weird habits or quirks make them totally them? Do they always talk with their hands? Hum when they’re nervous? Refuse to eat foods that touch?

↳ Do they have a secret talent no one expects? Like, are they surprisingly great at card tricks? Can they play the piano at concert level but never talk about it? Bake the world’s best banana bread?

↳ How do they handle failure?

↳ Who’s had the biggest impact on their life, and why? Friend, enemy, sibling, teacher, ex?

↳ What do they believe in, deep down? Like, what’s their moral compass? What lines won’t they cross? What kind of person are they trying to be, even if they mess up along the way?

↳ Is there an item or feature they’re weirdly attached to? A necklace? A hoodie? A scar? A pair of old sneakers?

↳ Do they have recurring dreams or nightmares? And what do those dreams mean? What are they trying not to deal with while awake?

[luna-azzurra]

Things That Are Unfairly Attractive to Read About a Man Doing...

›› Speaking in that low, wreck-your-world kind of voice that hits somewhere deep in your chest, like a secret only your bones understand.

›› Leaning against a doorway like he’s daring the entire room to challenge him, and the wall’s just collateral damage.

›› Clenching his jaw when someone else makes you laugh, like he's trying not to admit he wants to be the only reason you ever do.

›› Saying “don’t look at me like that” while he’s looking at you like he's already undressing every layer of your soul.

›› Handing you his hoodie, and it smells like midnight and sin and that cologne that haunts your pillow for days after.

›› Touching you like you’re a story he’s been dying to read with his hands, slow and full of reverence, not rush.

›› Whispering something raw and stupidly honest at Midnight. like the dark won’t remember, but you always will.

›› Calling you out so calmly it slices deeper than yelling ever could, because he knows his silence echoes louder.

›› Snapping, just once, and the instant after, looking at you like he’d cut out his own tongue to take it back.

›› Knowing all your tells without asking, like your whole body speaks a language only he bothered to learn.

›› Letting you go even though it’s killing him, because love isn’t the same thing as holding on.

›› Saying “come here” with a voice that makes your knees forget how to hold you up, not a suggestion, not a plea.

›› Smiling for the first time and only at you, like you’re the sunrise after a century of war.

›› Resting his hand on the back of your neck like it's the most natural thing in the world, like you’re his anchor.

›› Standing behind you in the mirror and not saying a word, just watching like you’re the most dangerous, beautiful thing he’s ever survived.

›› Walking into a room and scanning for you first, every time, even when he swears he’s over it.

›› Laughing in that low, surprised way when you challenge him, like he forgot how much he likes the fight.

›› Saying your name like it’s both a prayer and a dare.

›› Looking wrecked in a way that makes you want to destroy whatever did that to him, or hold him so tight it never happens again.

›› Brushing his thumb over your lip mid-sentence, like he’s thinking about kissing you but hasn’t decided if it would ruin or save him.

›› Waiting until you walk away to fall apart, because he doesn’t want you to see that you’re his breaking point.

[thatpeasantdreamer]

🥺🥺🥺… Shit now I’m daydreaming again.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta transmission-type="BLACKSITE_VERSE::TIMELOOP_EMOTIONAL_FOLD::SOUL_MEMORY_ACTIVATION"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="SCROLLTRAP::MULTIVERSE_CONNECTION::LOVER_BEFORE_NAME" EFFECT="time-based yearning, breath suspension, subconscious deja-vu grief" TRIGGER_WARNING="involuntary emotional pull, dream-memory fusion, unsolvable closeness" </script>

🩶 “What If…”

What if…

We were always meant to meet.

Not just once. Not just here. But always. Every timeline. Every reality. Every you. Every me.

What if we were scripted into the fabric of time as a pair? A matched polarity. Two energies drawn together by something older than choice.

What if you’ve dreamed of me and called it fiction?

What if I’ve spoken your name in silence without knowing where it came from?

What if some part of us is already holding hands in another place right now?

Different races. Different faces. Different names. But still the same orbit.

What if every life we live pulls us together like gravity pretending to be coincidence?

Maybe that’s why you feel this echo. That weird ache behind your ribs. That pause when someone looks at you and you don’t know why your chest tightens.

It’s not infatuation. Not obsession. Not even attraction.

It’s memory. Your nervous system remembering what your mind never got to keep.

What if the reason you can’t shake it is because you never got to finish it? Not in the last life. Not in the one before. Maybe not even in this one.

We meet. We part. We forget. We ache. We seek. We almost.

Maybe this isn’t the first time you’ve read something I wrote and felt like I was talking to you.

Maybe it’s not the first time I’ve sent these words through a screen hoping you’d find them.

What if we’ve already loved each other?

Over fires. Under stars. Across oceans. Through wars.

What if you knew my laugh before you heard it?

What if I cried over your absence before I knew your name?

What if you feel this right now because some deeper part of you knows it’s real?

I’m not saying it is. I’m just saying:

What if?

What if you’ve always felt like you were waiting for someone but never knew who?

What if you stopped waiting too soon. What if I did too?

What if we missed our cue in this life?

Got the timing wrong. Laughed at the wrong moment. Took the wrong street. Dated the wrong people.

What if we mistook the spark for anxiety? What if we told ourselves “nah” to protect the feeling?

What if this is all just a weird thought?

Just an idea from a guy who thinks too much.

Just a moment on your screen you’ll forget tomorrow.

Nothing serious. Nothing important.

Unless you feel it.

Unless you remember too.

🚪 Reminder: If you feel like we’ve met before — maybe we always have. And maybe this was the only version where we never got it right.

</div> <!-- TRANSMISSION EXTENDED: DEJA-VU OVERLAY ACTIVE. READER HEART RATE MODIFIED. -->

[the-most-humble-blog]

What if we’ve always met? And this was just the version where we missed the timing.

Reblog if your chest ached reading this.

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Aw geez… I felt this physically — quite literally, my chest tightened. This is amazing.

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Scholomancer here, just tipping my wizard hat before I take my snail steps by :)

Welcome through my halls. The creature in the vents waves back, little snail 🐌✨

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta protocol-warning="CITIZENSHIP_BEHAVIORAL_COMPLIANCE::FALSE_PROMISES"> <script> DOCUMENT: BEHAVIORAL ADHERENCE FAILURE REPORT SUBJECT: INDIVIDUAL EXPERIENCING TRUTH-COLLISION TRIGGER: PERPETUAL GOODNESS WITHOUT EXIT PLAN </script>

🪪 10 THINGS NO ONE EVER TOLD ME ABOUT BEING A “NICE LITTLE CITIZEN” (a breakdown in polite society brought to you by emotional bankruptcy and spiritual back-pay)

1. Being agreeable is not a shield. It’s a neon target painted on your spine. They told me being nice would protect me. That if I gave people the benefit of the doubt, if I kept my voice soft, if I stayed calm, reasonable, agreeable… the world would reward me.

What they didn’t say is that predators don’t attack the loudest person in the room. They go for the quiet one. The helpful one. The one who apologizes first. The one who absorbs the tension and thanks them afterward.

Being nice doesn’t protect you. It makes you visible to every manipulator, narcissist, abuser, and passive-aggressive vampire as exactly what you are: a quiet kill.

2. The system loves good citizens. Until it doesn’t. Smile. Work hard. Pay your taxes. Follow the rules. Then get laid off without warning. Get evicted with one email. Get ghosted by your doctor, your lawyer, your employer, your landlord— because they found someone cheaper, younger, more desperate.

You weren’t a good person. You were a compliant asset.

And when your usefulness expires, they will delete you with the same energy as unsubscribing from a newsletter.

3. Politeness will not protect you from punishment. You can speak gently. You can keep your face calm. You can phrase the truth with every buffer and boundary known to man. But if what you say threatens the illusion, you’re the problem.

The tone won’t save you. The truth won’t excuse you. The facts will not buy you mercy.

If the lie has become someone’s comfort— your honesty is now an act of war.

4. “Staying out of trouble” is how they train you to never intervene. Don’t get involved. Don’t take sides. Don’t escalate. Don’t make it worse.

But what they really mean is: Don’t interrupt injustice. Don’t complicate authority. Don’t question the passive violence happening in plain sight.

“Stay out of trouble” is how cowards teach children to obey pain instead of confronting it.

5. If you suffer quietly, you will be praised. And left to rot. They don’t call you brave when you speak up. They call you disruptive. Unprofessional. Difficult.

But endure hell with a smile? Stay kind while being used? Keep showing up with bruises on your spirit and “thank you” on your lips?

Now that’s what they like. That’s “grace under pressure.” That’s “emotional maturity.”

It’s not. It’s a public performance of personal annihilation. And they will clap for it until there’s nothing left of you but applause.

6. Kindness will be used against you until you either weaponize it or walk away. You think kindness is a language everyone understands. It’s not.

Some people speak manipulation. And when you offer kindness in that dialect, they translate it as permission.

Permission to overstep. Permission to rewrite the story. Permission to hurt you, then call you bitter when you finally say “enough.”

Kindness without defense is bait. And once they bite, they’ll blame you for bleeding.

7. If you outgrow your role, people will treat you like a traitor. You were the peacekeeper. The fixer. The therapist. The good child. The listener. The uncomplaining partner. The emotionally affordable friend.

And the second you say,

“I’m done performing that version of myself,” they’ll panic.

Because they weren’t there for you. They were there for the role you played in their fantasy.

And now that you’ve dropped the act— you’re no longer safe for their comfort. You’re no longer “nice.” You’re no longer theirs.

8. Institutions don’t reward integrity. They reward predictability. You think being honest at work will earn respect? That doing things by the book will keep you safe?

Try pointing out misconduct. Try protecting someone under you. Try saying no to something unethical.

Watch how fast they gut you. Watch how suddenly they “restructure.” Watch how many people go blind, deaf, and silent.

These places aren’t built to protect morality. They’re built to protect momentum. And if your conscience slows down the machine, you will be replaced.

9. Being good isn’t the same as being safe. Being generous won’t save you. Being honest won’t save you. Being kind won’t save you. Being selfless won’t save you.

You don’t get a prize for carrying everyone else’s weight. You get back pain. And resentment. And the gut-wrenching realization that no one’s coming to carry you.

10. You’re not being good. You’re being erased. You’re not a better person for never saying no. You’re not holy for staying silent. You’re not admirable for dying on a hill that no one will visit your grave on.

You are being systematically erased by a world that rewards passivity and punishes presence.

And the longer you stay “nice,” the more violently they will test what you’re willing to lose just to keep the peace.

Let them call you rude. Let them call you mean. Let them call you selfish.

If “nice” means being liked by people who drain you, then maybe “rude” is what healing looks like.

Reblog if they told you being “nice” would protect you but forgot to mention it would also erase you.

🧠 Read more behavioral detonation protocols and emotional exit strategies at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Good person breakdowns. People-pleasing exorcisms. Institutional defiance templates. 🚪 Reminder: You’re allowed to take up space. Especially when it makes them uncomfortable.

</div>

[AUTO-PURGE IN: 00:00:00 — GOOD CITIZEN MODE PERMANENTLY DISABLED.]

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Im the kind of mf who writes horror poems and stories and then sleep with the lights on.

[thatpeasantdreamer]

I Had To Play God

Hey,

I found us a home.

Nothing like the past.

Not like the fragile paper walls

that would tear so easily—

or the creaking floors

that woke you up at night.

The windows are tempered.

The doors don’t get stuck halfway.

They shut close,

real tight.

It smells like fresh paint.

A new life.

A refreshed start.

I kept in mind, by the way,

the many things you didn’t like—

the locks on the doors.

You joked about nothing getting in.

I told you instead, I was afraid—

of something getting out.

I got us a pool table as well.

That one time, you laughed

and told me

relationships are a bunch of balls.

You hit one,

and it ricochets into another.

I thought it was quite clever.

And you weren’t wrong.

You shot.

I got hurt.

I hurt her.

A clean collision!

Messy aftermath—

I see you there,

right now,

at the end of the hallway.

Smiling at me.

You don’t exactly blink

anymore.

You follow me around more often these days.

I have to say, I’m flattered

you take me more seriously now.

It’s a job well done—

how I sewed your limbs back together.

It was a struggle, poking the needle

through your skin.

It kept falling off

like melted wax.

Perhaps I made it a little too tight

at your wrists and elbows,

the loose skin hanging off.

But at least you walk—

even though it’s crooked.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find one of your eyes.

I must’ve accidentally mistaken it

for a ball.

[nondelphic]

my plot has five acts: denial, delusion, vibes, spiral, and closure

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Ehh who needs closure—

I want my plots to end with ww3.

[kameneva]

love, buried three times

@kameneva

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Those graves,

Will grow flowers one day.

[paper-wounds]

[thatpeasantdreamer]

But someday— hopefully, right? 😭

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

🖋️ “You, Of Course”

I don’t know your name. Not your real one, I don't think. But I know the way your body tightens when someone finally says the thing you swore no one ever noticed.

I know the way you bite your lip not to look sexy, but to stop yourself from needing too much, too fast, too visibly.

I don’t know your touch. But I’ve seen the way you lean into laughter just a fraction late — because you're waiting to make sure it’s safe.

I’ve felt your pulse in poems I haven’t written yet. And in every verse I’ve scrapped because it sounded too much like you.

There’s a version of you that hides in every room — watching, assessing, begging not to be misunderstood but too damn proud to say it out loud.

You want a love that feels like recognition. Not compliments. Not “you’re hot.” You want someone who walks in and says: “There you are.”

And mean it.

You want touch that doesn’t ask. You want a voice that knows when to whisper. You want hunger that waits — but never begs.

You want to be ruined gently. And rebuilt slowly.

And I would. If I knew where you were. If I could cut through the noise and say: I wrote this for you.

And the wild part?

You’d believe me.

Because you’ve been waiting for this exact sentence. This exact cadence. This exact ache.

You’d think: “He couldn’t possibly know me like this.”

But I do.

Because you’re not a type. You’re not an aesthetic. You’re a frequency. And I’ve been tuned to it my whole damn life.

So if you think this is about you?

You’re right.

Who else would it be?

You, of course.

</div> <!-- TRANSMISSION DRENCHED IN MEMORY AND MAGNETISM — HEART RATE UNSTABLE, BREATH PATTERN ALTERED -->

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Sigh.. This is so beautiful 😔

[nondelphic]

“you’re so quiet” yeah i’m rewriting the same 3 sentences in my head while imagining a dramatic betrayal between fictional people. i’m BUSY

[thatpeasantdreamer]

There’s a cinematic masterpiece at work!

[thoughtkick]

“If it is destroying you then it is not love my dear.”

— Unknown

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Oh god..

Why did this make my heart drop.. 😭

[expatiating]

I don't know who needs to see this, but...

I call this "A Distinguished Gentleman in 4 Stages"

[thatpeasantdreamer]

Give him a top hat and a suit right now—