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James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

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― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit

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*wails in my room* but no why are you as a stem major a better writer than me, someone who's apparently majoring in literature *stares at the wall with tears running down my cheek*

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google search 'how to not want to explode into a million pieces when getting feedback on academic writing'

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if there is one constant in my dreams, it is people being thoroughly annoyed with me and me simply being petty and out of place but also justified in being so because they just keep on ruining everything i own?? like why did i just dream of my laptop being broken, and why did no one give a damn about it.

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i cant deal with this (academic downfall) again

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my father just came to my room, sat quietly in the blanket next to me for 10 minutes, took a chocolate from the table in the corner and left. why is this making me s o b-

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"don't be so dramatic, libra." how about you fuck off, bot.

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oh pyramus and thisbe, i will never look at mullbery trees the same way ever again.

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maybe its the end of the year talking, but i feel this way more and more every day. youth really is wasted on the young. foolish, reckless, little ways of mine. reminds me of when hozier said "being reckless and young, is not how the damage gets done" but it does, and it has. and i don't know what to do about it.

suffocation, crystal castles c. 2010

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what a shame doctors don’t prescribe vacation to secluded seaside towns like they used to

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soundlessly, and without fuss, always.

you said if you were to describe me in one word, it would be subtle. the more i think about it, the more, for some reason, it hurts. because that is true. i am nothing more in my soul, if not subtle.

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i guess this is me running away to a corner i hope no one will find me in, i am so tired, i am so tired of holding on and of running away and of pretending things don't bother me when they clearly do. changed names, changed identities, words thrown into oblivion, one after the other after the other yet so afraid of having them reveal anything in the slightest bit. i know you, i adore you, but i need to be away. i need to be held on to too but without having to say that. is this self hatred talking, lingering in its sweet little disguise? i guess so, when is it not, anyway. cold. cold. cold. everything is so fucking cold.

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am i afraid of loving? am i afraid to be loved? i don't know, maybe i am. that would explain why i only smile at you when im sure you're not looking. why i write your name on every blue door that i find but will never walk through one, holding your hand. why im desperately holding on to the grief from the past so there's absolutely no room left for tenderness in my heart. i look into the mirror and see two eyes growing sadder with every passing day; faint remains of a smile. you used to smile once, didn't you? you knew how to and felt like you deserved to do so. they told me time would fly once you've crossed the threshold of your late teens, and it has. you've grown so old, worry has marked your face, the years have taken the redness of your lips with them, leaving behind only a dusty pink, a hazy gray.

this is me extending my hand towards yours. hoping, despite the futility of it. im still afraid of love, you know. i would still turn around if i were to find you down the street but i would leave you a note, send you a song, build us a sanctuary.

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The final moments with your loved ones laced with guilt and regret. How you could have had more time, how you could have been in the same orbit more. How you could have done more while there was still time. The finality of life, the permanence of death, the forevermore of one’s absence. I’m here, so are you; linger a little longer, won’t you? Hold my hand a bit tighter, put your head on my shoulder my love, even when I am sure to hold my breath while you do. The shadows on the ever-familiar side walk, the lights that blink only in the remembrance of our name; they will hold a torch to it, a promise. The days we have left together, really aren’t so large; so I’m knitting you a scarf, weaving all of our memories into it to keep it warm. Words will never fully manifest themselves at my hand, hence the memories that I hope to hold are meant to be imperfect. Just know that our time together, was anything but. Day after day after day, the crossroads beam at us with familiarity, making the goodbyes even more haunting.

Your heart beats in the hollow of your neck, and so you hold yourself close, and remember.

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i remember hating how high the ceiling was in this particular corner of the house. whenever i bought helium balloons they'd just fly away and stick to the top and no amount of poking around with a stick would help me salvage them. the middle of the staircase with a painfully high ceiling, the killer, the deflator of balloons, i will never forgive you.

however, this little window has been my best friend. my partner in crime allowing me to eavesdrop into conversations and peak into the gatherings i wasn't allowed ( or didn't have the guts ) to sit in. old concerns aside, even strange shadows feel familiar in this corner; this curious little corner.

i need to start working on this paper for shakespeare class but here i am, sitting on the freezing stairs, staring blankly at this stupid orange wall. who ( and why ) agreed on painting this wall orange of all the colors?

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i need to start working on this paper for shakespeare class but here i am, sitting on the freezing stairs, staring blankly at this stupid orange wall. who ( and why ) agreed on painting this wall orange of all the colors?