Without art you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.
Mark Vonnegut, Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So

oozey mess

Origami Around
trying on a metaphor
Stranger Things

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
we're not kids anymore.
$LAYYYTER
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
almost home
Cosimo Galluzzi
occasionally subtle
cherry valley forever

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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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if i look back, i am lost
h
macklin celebrini has autism

Discoholic 🪩

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@tillhumanvoiceswakeus
Without art you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.
Mark Vonnegut, Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So
Who you are doesn't cease to exist because there's nobody there to admire it.
READ THIS IF, Thought Catalog
In my house there are a hundred half-done poems. Each of us leaves an unfinished life.
Thinking of Swirler, Mary Oliver
In the beginning I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.
Upstream, Mary Oliver
I have the body I need to live my best life.
The Body is Not an Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor
...one cannot live at one's limits for long. One cannot stay there indefinitely, not even for love.
The Fixed Stars, Molly Wizenberg
What I have found much harder to let go is the memory of my healthier self. With each new symptom, each new impairment, I grieve again for the lost time, the lost years that are now not yet to come. This is not to say that I wish for a cure--not exactly. I wish to be both myself and not-myself, a state of paradoxical longing that I think every person with chronic pain occupies at some point or another. I wish for time to split and allow two paths for my life and that I could move back and forth between them at will.
“Six Ways of Looking at Crip Time” by Ellen Samuels from Disability Visibility
oh cerebellum, oh Lithium, do your job.
“Portrait of a Release” from Odes to Lithium by Shira Erlichman
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot