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@thelingeringthoughts
Some thoughts refuse to leave.
They linger in the corners of my mind,
in the quiet moments between breaths,
in the shadows that follow me like old friends.
This is a place for those fragments
the words that wander, the whispers that remain,
the reflections I cannot let go.
Stay if you wish. Read if you must.
Or simply linger, as I do.
- Sal
Love terrifies me.
It’s never the rain they promise,
nor the gentle skies they write about.
It’s thunder tearing through silence,
lightning that strikes without warning,
a storm that swallows mercy whole.
Yet somehow,
it’s also the sea, the calm after collapse,
the faint rainbow that dares to bloom over ruins.
Maybe that’s why it ruins me, and heals me just the same.
Because I am both
the chaos and the quiet, the flood and the stillness,
a contradiction inside another contradiction.
Sal
Sometimes the most honest form of healing is to let both exist at once, the distance and the longing, the guilt and the growth.
A Thousand Me’s
I’m a thousand me’s - a thousand jagged pieces.
Shoving, pulling, screaming to be the one in charge.
Neil Perry - Dead Poets Society.
He sits there repeating “I was good”.
Over and over, like a prayer, like a warning.
Night comes, a bullet - through his skull.
And I see it. I feel it. I imagine it.
I am him. I am not.
The morning after. No note. No goodbye.
Just silence. Just empty rooms.
Sometimes, I see myself there - Holding, pressing, wanting, envying.
He got away, I’m still here - Still breathing. Still thinking.
Bravery? Cowardice?
I can’t tell. The line blurs. The mirror cracks.
And every shard shows me - doing it, not doing it, wanting it, fearing it.
But in that flicker, that flash, that pulse - I like to believe it’s bravery.
Even if it’s only mine. Even if it’s only imagined
Excerpt from a book Inside my head ~ Sal!
Those who are unseen learn to silence their storms, until the weight of being misunderstood turns that silence into an eruption. Numbness is never peace; it’s a heart that forgot how to be held.
~ Sal
"REALNESS"
I have stopped hiding.
I don’t know how I got here ,maybe a slow erosion of walls,
maybe a quiet rebellion that built up for years,
but now I am here. Wide open.
An open book. Pages unstapled, spilling everywhere.
People will talk.
“She’s looking for attention.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“She’s performing.”
I’ve heard it all.
But this isn’t attention-seeking.
This isn’t a performance.
I don’t even know what “true self” means,
philosophers can debate it endlessly.
But in every phase, every mood, every contradiction,
I am still me.
Even in doubt.
Even when I feel like an imposter.
Even when my own voice sounds fake.
That too is real.
Maybe the faking is real.
Maybe the imposter is me.
Maybe underneath all my fakeness
breathes a core of truth.
This is my lungs expanding after being held underwater.
This is survival.
This is my realness.
I demand honesty - raw, unpolished, revealing scars, embarrassing stories, unspoken habits.
Not the polite kind that fits in boxes.
Not the curated fragments.
I want the whole of someone.
I want a soul-level mirror.
A hand reaching back.
Yes, maybe I’m selfish.
Yes, maybe it scares people.
But I am not afraid anymore.
Even if they call me fake, attention-seeking, dramatic, too much.
I am every mood.
Every mask.
Every contradiction.
All of it is me.
If I’m going to give the whole of me,
I need to feel the whole of them.
Not because I’m needy.
Because that’s what it means to be alive with someone.
And if that’s too much for the world, so be it.
I will still write.
I will still be.
I will still burn with this truth,
even if no one else is brave enough
to stand in the fire with me.
- Sal
"Which is better— Cheap happiness, or Noble suffering?"
(Notes from underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky)
Noble suffering: looks dramatic in novels, smells like martyr perfume, and gives you a spine made of principle, until it’s just stubbornness which comes off as meaning.
Cheap happiness: sticky, loud, popcorn-level joy. easy to get, easier to regret, but it won’t pretentiously scowl at you in the mirror.
If you’re asking which one “wins” in the long run: neither deserves the crown. Choose suffering when it’s honest . you’re sacrificing for something that actually matters, not for attention or a tragic aesthetic. Choose happiness when it’s real . not an anesthetic or a sugar high to avoid the work of living.
My vote: prefer authentic discomfort over glamorous suffering, and deep pleasure over disposable happiness.
My Take on How “YOU” Should Have Ended
Joe Goldberg’s story should’ve ended differently. Not with admirers, not with the same tired cycle of obsession and manipulation, but with silence.
Imagine him finally stripped of control: arrested, tried, and sentenced to life. No more love letters, no more false romanticism. Just unflinching letters from victims’ families, spelling out the wreckage he left behind. No escape, no fantasies.
And then, the ghost of his past walks in. His mother. The root of his trauma, the wound that festered into the man we know. She tries to twist it, to excuse him through her own pain. But Joe doesn’t bite. For once, his mask drops. He sees her clearly, and with a calm sharper than rage, tells her the truth: she broke him long before he broke others.
That’s the final severing. No redemption, no grand confession to the world, no admirer hanging on his every word. Just a man in a concrete box, facing the echo of every life he shattered. No followers. No forgiveness. Only accountability.
The end he deserved: fully isolated. Fully guilty.
OMG OMG OMG!!!!!!!!!!!! CARLOS PODIUM IN A WILLIAMS
CAN'T TALK, SCREAMING!!!!!! WHAT A SMOOTH OPERATION!!!!
#Ferrari still trying… Williams already partying 🎉🏁
"Sometimes to live
is not to thrive,
but just to survive"
~ ( excerpt from a book I'll write someday)
and you know what? surviving is its own kind of riotous, stubborn courage. it’s the small, ridiculous victories. Getting out of bed, brewing coffee that doesn’t scream, answering a message without dissolving. The quiet resistance of continuing when the script says fold. thriving is glamorous; surviving is greasy, practical, and fiercely real.
So if today your triumph is merely breathing through the noise, celebrate it. i'll hold the applause like a crumpled love note and kiss the edges of your blunt, beautiful persistence. survival is not the consolation prize. It's the season you had to win. Be proud. Be petty. Be alive. Be You.
"Sometimes to live
is not to thrive,
but just to survive"
~ ( excerpt from a book I'll write someday)
Listen. Really listen. Not the kind of listening that waits for its cue to argue, not the polite kind that files my sentences away for later dissection. I need you to hold my words the way you would hold something fragile and dangerous: with both hands and less commentary. Let me finish one sentence. One. Let it arrive whole and stay whole. I am not asking for your verdict, your footnote, or your better explanation. I am asking for the simple criminally difficult thing called attention. I don't want a fight. I don't want to be turned into a debate opponent every time I breathe a confession, a fear, a soft failure. I want a conversation that doesn't end in me apologizing for being honest. I want to speak and not be edited mid-breath. When you interrupt, you do something worse than disagree. You erase me a little. You take my edges and sharpen them into something I don't recognize. That hurts. I am tired of holding the silence that follows being misunderstood. Hear me without answering. Sit with the awkwardness of not knowing what to say. Practice patience like it's a rare drug.
This is not melodrama. This is survival. I am fragile and furious and utterly ordinary in asking: listen. Then, and only then, we can speak without wounding each other. Stay. Hold the silence with me. If you can't, at least learn the grace of trying.
- Sal
wuthering heights doesn’t live on the page.
It lives in me, it eats at me.
re-reading wuthering heights again. i’ve lost count of how many times. but this time i’m too conscious, too awake, and it feels like i’m bleeding through the page. the famous quotes get all the shine, but it’s the underrated ones that haunt me. the ones that crawl under my skin and whisper.
“the stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing his lady vexed.”
that’s edgar. not heathcliff. edgar, the soft one. and still brontë makes his heart ache like a stab wound. love here isn’t gentle. It’s a quiet mutilation. i read this and i swear i feel the knife, too.
“go and carry my message. i am in hell till you do.”
this is heathcliff. and it’s not yearning, it’s damnation dressed as speech. no patience, no grace, just torment made flesh. he doesn’t love, he devours. he is not a man, he is a haunting that speaks.
linton: “i am gratified when anything occurs to please her.”
heathcliff: “and i also, especially if it be anything in which i have a part.”
this is where i almost drop the book. linton wants her happiness; heathcliff wants her happiness poisoned with his presence. he must be stitched into her joy like a parasite. it’s obsession with teeth, obsession that ruins even the bright things.
“i am afraid the joy is too great to be real.”
catherine, already doubting joy as if it’s an illusion. she tastes happiness like it’s a trap. she knows love here is only a prelude to collapse. i feel her dread as if it’s mine. joy already feels counterfeit when i read it.
catherine: “i shall not be able to believe that i have seen and touched and spoken to you once more. and yet, cruel heathcliff, you don’t deserve this welcome. to be absent and frightened for three years and never think of me.”
heathcliff: “a little more than you have thought of me.”
this isn’t romance. this is warfare. they don’t confess love. They measure wounds. it’s a duel of who ached harder, who burned longer, who stayed haunted. they’re not lovers, they’re each other’s executioners, and i can’t look away.
“i have such faith in linton’s love that i believe i might kill him, and he wouldn’t wish to retaliate.”
this line should be carved into the earth. how is it not famous? it’s horrifying and tender in the same breath. The fantasy of someone loving you so helplessly they’d die beneath your hand. devotion so absolute it rots into tragedy.
i keep turning pages and feeling like i’m the one being gutted. these aren’t just lines, they’re incantations. wuthering heights isn’t a love story. it’s a haunting disguised as one. every word is soaked in obsession, cruelty, yearning that refuses to stay in its cage. heathcliff is the final boss of yearning. the book isn’t asking us to admire him. it’s asking us if we can survive him.
Max Verstappen is the definition of "I need new haters the old ones becomes my fans" and nothing proves this right more than tifosi singing " Tu Tu Du Du MAX VERSTAPPEN"
Contradictory Contradiction.
I’m a lot - don’t say I’m not,
I tear through every tender thought.
I laugh too loud, I break, I bleed,
I crave a love I’ll never need.
They whisper, “She’s far too wild,”
Too fierce for calm, too soft, too riled.
Perhaps a cage would suit me best,
A restless heart that won’t find rest.
The crowd would gather, point, and jeer,
“She doesn’t fit, she doesn’t belong here.”
And maybe they’d be right to claim,
I burn too fierce, I scorch, I maim.
I’m lightning sudden, thunder blind,
A war between my heart and mind.
I beg for closeness, then I flee,
A contradiction haunting me.
I’m anger sharp, I’m laughter loud,
Too jagged for the patient crowd.
I’m overbearing, over true,
A thousand wounds in shades of blue.
Yet in my too much lives a fire,
A love that claws, a raw desire.
If you can stand the storm I bring,
You’ll glimpse beneath - a fragile thing.
I’m fragile glass, I’m iron too,
A fractured whole that fights anew.
Not built for pity, not for show,
I only ache for place to go.
So call me too much, call me flawed,
I’ll wear it proud, unshaken, awed.
For though messy, raw and scarred,
I’m stitched with rage, by fire charred.
~ Sal, (a tempest flame stitched with rage)
People often say that without self-love, one cannot truly love another. I cannot accept that, for I have loved others with a depth that has always outweighed the love I’ve held for myself. What I believe instead is this: Until we learn to love ourselves, we will always struggle to accept the love given to us. Without self-love, another’s affection feels undeserved, distorted, or incomplete and so we miss the fullness of what they are offering.
~ Sal