sonja monja

she/her 18 wisst ihr was nichts

[brbjellyfishing]

[somecunttookmyurl]

there is a tendency with history, i think, because we're so far removed from it, to kind of forget that all of the people were people

a child 10,000 years ago left a handprint on a wall. they were fingerpainting. a viking climbs up a rock just to carve the words "this is very high" 10ft off the ground. somebody centuries... milennia... ago burned their dinner so thoroughly that they buried the ruined pot in the backyard rather than attempt to clean it. shakespeare got drunk and wrote dick jokes. tutankhamun was a little boy who liked ducks more than anything. a roman carves his name into a monument in another country saying "i was here". a prisoner, centuries ago, in the tower of london scratches lines into the wall as a tally marking the days. a medieval monk scrawls in the margins bemoaning the boredom of his work.

every human being across history has said "i was here. i lived. i loved. i made something. i laughed. i cried. please do not forget me"

[somecunttookmyurl]

most of us are not important enough that we will be remembered by name for more than a few decades. we are not kings or queens or great military leaders or innovators or influential artists, musicians, authors.

but all of us, every one, has a deep primal need to persist. we leave handprints on the wall, scratch our names into stones, carve initials into a tree, mark our growth as children on a wall, bury little time capsules. write in the margins of a book. hide notes behind the wallpaper.

reaching out into the future to some unknown human long after we're gone to say

"hello, you. i was here, once"

[somecunttookmyurl]

here i re-wrote it as a poem to fit your tag

Somewhere far away from me And impossibly long ago, now A mother holds her child up high To leave a handprint on the wall

A man I will never meet Climbs a rock for fun He writes a message on the stone And he says “this is very high”

Somebody, once Cooked a meal and burned it Took the pot to the land outside their house And buried the evidence

An Egyptian king Thousands of years before my birth Wore a shirt embroidered with little ducks And kept it, lovingly, in a chest

In a prison cell within a tower A man stretches out through centuries And marks off the days of his sentence As lines on the wall

A long-forgotten monk Labours over a manuscript by candlelight And writes in the margins He is bored, and he has a hangover

They leave pieces of themselves behind And they say

“I was here I was here please do not forget me I was alive and I loved and I got sick I had a favourite animal I was here. Do you love me? I love you”

Yes, I do. I hold your life between my hands And I see it, and I love you

I scratch my name into a rock On a tree, I carve my initials And the initials of someone I love So very much

I bury a box in my garden And I write in the margins I reach into the future To somebody I do not know

A stranger who will never know me

“Hello, you” I say “I was here, once. I loved and I got sick and I had a favourite colour

Do not forget about me, please I love you”

[shittysawtraps]

there are 500 soft and friendly cats in this room. you have 5 minutes to pet all of them. if you do not, the rope around your ankle will drag you out and you will be free to go, but will never be able to pet the rest of them. the clock is ticking.

[vergissdieweltnicht]

I‘m rereading inkheart and I am so much in love with dustfinger…

Finds auch richtig lustig wie Basta ihn manchmal Schmutz- und Dreckfinger genannt hat, heul

[sonja]

Post-its sind ja sowas von praktisch

[freitag-ist-rosa]

man muss so vieles in sich tragen

man muss so vieles in sich tragen menschen, jahreszeiten blütenknospen, gedanken gespräche, ausblicke gefühle und jeden moment

weil all das ansonsten irgendwann für immer verschwindet

© 2021 — Freitag ist Rosa

[vergissdieweltnicht]

dustfinger is a dilf btw

[dichtstoff]

letzte träne versiegt. stille wasser sind schmutzig

[somecunttookmyurl]

there is a tendency with history, i think, because we're so far removed from it, to kind of forget that all of the people were people

a child 10,000 years ago left a handprint on a wall. they were fingerpainting. a viking climbs up a rock just to carve the words "this is very high" 10ft off the ground. somebody centuries... milennia... ago burned their dinner so thoroughly that they buried the ruined pot in the backyard rather than attempt to clean it. shakespeare got drunk and wrote dick jokes. tutankhamun was a little boy who liked ducks more than anything. a roman carves his name into a monument in another country saying "i was here". a prisoner, centuries ago, in the tower of london scratches lines into the wall as a tally marking the days. a medieval monk scrawls in the margins bemoaning the boredom of his work.

every human being across history has said "i was here. i lived. i loved. i made something. i laughed. i cried. please do not forget me"

[somecunttookmyurl]

most of us are not important enough that we will be remembered by name for more than a few decades. we are not kings or queens or great military leaders or innovators or influential artists, musicians, authors.

but all of us, every one, has a deep primal need to persist. we leave handprints on the wall, scratch our names into stones, carve initials into a tree, mark our growth as children on a wall, bury little time capsules. write in the margins of a book. hide notes behind the wallpaper.

reaching out into the future to some unknown human long after we're gone to say

"hello, you. i was here, once"

[somecunttookmyurl]

here i re-wrote it as a poem to fit your tag

Somewhere far away from me And impossibly long ago, now A mother holds her child up high To leave a handprint on the wall

A man I will never meet Climbs a rock for fun He writes a message on the stone And he says “this is very high”

Somebody, once Cooked a meal and burned it Took the pot to the land outside their house And buried the evidence

An Egyptian king Thousands of years before my birth Wore a shirt embroidered with little ducks And kept it, lovingly, in a chest

In a prison cell within a tower A man stretches out through centuries And marks off the days of his sentence As lines on the wall

A long-forgotten monk Labours over a manuscript by candlelight And writes in the margins He is bored, and he has a hangover

They leave pieces of themselves behind And they say

“I was here I was here please do not forget me I was alive and I loved and I got sick I had a favourite animal I was here. Do you love me? I love you”

Yes, I do. I hold your life between my hands And I see it, and I love you

I scratch my name into a rock On a tree, I carve my initials And the initials of someone I love So very much

I bury a box in my garden And I write in the margins I reach into the future To somebody I do not know

A stranger who will never know me

“Hello, you” I say “I was here, once. I loved and I got sick and I had a favourite colour

Do not forget about me, please I love you”

[somecunttookmyurl]

there is a tendency with history, i think, because we're so far removed from it, to kind of forget that all of the people were people

a child 10,000 years ago left a handprint on a wall. they were fingerpainting. a viking climbs up a rock just to carve the words "this is very high" 10ft off the ground. somebody centuries... milennia... ago burned their dinner so thoroughly that they buried the ruined pot in the backyard rather than attempt to clean it. shakespeare got drunk and wrote dick jokes. tutankhamun was a little boy who liked ducks more than anything. a roman carves his name into a monument in another country saying "i was here". a prisoner, centuries ago, in the tower of london scratches lines into the wall as a tally marking the days. a medieval monk scrawls in the margins bemoaning the boredom of his work.

every human being across history has said "i was here. i lived. i loved. i made something. i laughed. i cried. please do not forget me"

[tiredgaykakashi]

[vergissdieweltnicht]

Shishigumi

[plant-flwrs]

i will never again trust a twink after the way oscar wilde recked me with these quotes.

[vergissdieweltnicht]

I wrote a letter yesterday and it just felt so right? I felt so genuinely happy because I could say things in that letter that I could never say in face or over text

It’s just so beautiful

[vergissdieweltnicht]

I want to fall in love and want to be like those lovesick fools in Victorian time periods

[vergissdieweltnicht]

I just want to get letters and write letters

[vergissdieweltnicht]

I FORGOT DUSTFINGER IS A FUXKINT GINGER LMFF