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Anne de Marcken, from "It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over," published in 2024

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— nizariat

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— Virginia Woolf

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— Michelle Williams

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— Nitya Prakash

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Let him burn

When I’m gone I ask you one thing

End him for me

End him painfully and let him burn

Let him burn with all the anger and rage in existence

Which I had buried in my heart that is now

Yours to take

Yours to ignite to make him gone

Let him meet the flames he put me under

That burned even the slightest life out of me

Let him burn

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The urge

The urge a writer has to simply write, even if it doesn’t make any sense and takes them nowhere. The pain when they don’t have enough time to do so, even the energy. Simply write and create and do and be. I want to write a thousand things all at once, even if the words become mumbles, become scribbles, become lines.

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“It's the same rain you loved, that drowned you.”

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“We don't fall in love with people because they're good people. We fall in love with people whose darkness we recognise. You can fall in love with a person for all of the right reasons, but that kind of love can still fall apart. But when you fall in love with a person because your monsters have found a home in them- that's the kind of love that owns your skin and bones. Love, I am convinced, is found in the darkness. It is the candle in the night.”

— C. JoyBell C.

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“You often feel tired, not because you’ve done too much, but because you’ve done too little of what sparks a light in you.”

— Unknown

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Daddy’s home

My daddy’s home is a lonely place. He lives alone, or he thinks he lives alone, but I’ve seen him sleep next to grief. Grief is quite the lady. She keeps making him cry and gloomy and ill, but she serves a purpose, and it’s to make him feel, because daddy denies himself his humanity of being allowed to feel. In that house also lives nostalgia, a cute old lady that makes daddy think back to when life was kinder to him and we were a family. When mommy still loved him and me and my brother were children with stars in our eyes and hearts full of innocent love. Daddy shares a coffee each morning with hate and sadness. He doesn’t like them very much but he enjoys their company, even when all they do is rot his soul between stale coffees and fast burning cigarettes. I no longer visit daddy, because daddy no longer loves me, not even mommy. I still wear him in my heart, because daddy is a human like me, and a wounded child desperate for love he never received. But I’m also a child, I’m also desperate to be loved. I want to save daddy, but I rather save myself. I still have to admit I miss daddy, but I miss myself even more when I leave me behind to tend to him.

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— via jitterati

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— Timothy Joshua

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- Jane Austen