I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party and I attended with my real face
Franz Kafka
NASA
will byers stan first human second
occasionally subtle
taylor price
almost home
YOU ARE THE REASON
cherry valley forever

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Sade Olutola
ojovivo

PR's Tumblrdome
Xuebing Du

roma★

oozey mess
No title available

Discoholic 🪩
Keni

if i look back, i am lost

Love Begins
Show & Tell
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from Portugal
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from South Korea

seen from Iceland

seen from Türkiye
seen from Czechia

seen from China
seen from Türkiye
@thesunsethours
I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party and I attended with my real face
Franz Kafka
Are we not all just the same person over and over and over again? Filling to the corners of the world with experiences fundementally no different from your own -- our own.
Will they feel this guilt too?
Me feverently playing dress up games in an attempt to form a stable sense of identity
how can i ever be forgiven
somewhere there is a cat in a jar. floating in formaldehyde. eyes never opened. see through skin and darkened spine. life is so meaningless to a kitten
Was I groomed? Was I groomed? Was I groomed? Was I groomed? Was I groomed? why does my chest hurt like this? Why can’t I get a breath full of air? Was I groomed?
I don’t want to consider how vast and complicated the world and people truly are. I just want to feel small -- small enough so that I can be held.
I understand that I hurt all the time and that it will lessen and deepen with time and age. I understand that there is no true reason for the hurt I experience; for the way even my fingers ache pulling back the scalp to access my brain. I do not understand why I feel so trapped by these realities. I’m the only one who can save me, but I’m so spent existing within the cage that dreaming on grace and joy within it seems impossible.
Belly Moss
What are the realities of mental illness? Is it really this longing for something constantly? Something missing from my body, but deep, deep from inside my body. Why do I want to eat dirt from the forest floor? Shove moss into my lungs in hopes my chest in filled with fungi and life. Why do I yearn for life when I struggle with what little I already have.
instagram | littlefarmhouseflowers
Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
Boston, Massachusetts.
from my journal
no date
I feel like...
a hermit crab retreating into it’s shell after snapping it’s claws too loudly around the gulls.
from my journal
28.09.20
I feel like...
a cloud that cannot contain it’s rain. I am so soft and light and lovely but I am in constant downpour. I fear that when the storm ceases the white wisps of my body and brain will be expended. Blue skies will ensue in my absence.
Waiting for Godot is only a play with a meaning without Godot. If Godot, enters the stage, the play is over and the seemingly meaninglessness of the play is truly proven meaningless. They wait. We wait. They watch. We watch. In liminal silence and anticipation for nothing. Once nothing arrives, nothing is over. Who am I to look for Godot, when meaning hangs so delicately. Fragile. Without meaning I am with meaning. To survive for no one’s sake.
Jennifer Willough, from “The Sun Is Still A Part Of Me”, Beautiful Zero: Poems
Samuel Beckett, from The Complete Dramatic Works; “Endgame,”
Louise Glück, Poems 1962-2012