#Spilled Writing

[fehck]

[fracturedporcelaindoll]

Love the word play ~

As an alternative to 'sugar, spice, and everything nice'

I present: 'salt, vinegar, and everything sinister'

[knebellindemann]

[bebx]

457 // prose I found on pinterest that reminded me of them (but couldn’t find the author)

[fracturedporcelaindoll]

This ~

Some stranger somewhere still remembers you because you were kind to them when no one else was.

[baesharamm]

tumblr dynamics is a real thing, I mean people do get attached to other bloggers, they check every post of them. It is like peeking into their favourite person mind. Their absence do affect and brings sadness to the mind

[wordx]

You’ll miss the way I loved, the way I stayed, and the way I forgave—because that person is gone.

[my-aletheia]

nobody’s love ever feels like yours… i miss yours

[fracturedporcelaindoll]

This ~

I’m content with the quiet things, the soft times, and the gentle moments. I’m at peace in the rain, reading on a porch as the wind so gently blows by. I’m satiated by the way the leaves rustle, and the gentle dance of the branches. I’m contented by the little pieces of time in living.

[lunawintress]

💘

[threewordusername]

the monster became a poet X: the monster became a poet

d.b.a

[arylleth]

There comes a time when the soul, wearied by the noise of the world and the dust of its many roads, longs not for elsewhere — but for home. Not home as place, but home as self. “Wishing you a safe return back to yourself,” someone once whispered to me, as though they saw what even I could not: that I was drifting far from the shores of my own being.

How quietly one can be lost — not in foreign lands, but within. The soul does not vanish all at once; it ebbs, gently, like a tide beneath a moon that does not care.

I have worn many faces to please many eyes. I have spoken in borrowed tongues, thinking them eloquence. I have smiled from a place where I no longer dwelled. And in that forgetting, I became unhoused.

As T.S. Eliot once wrote, “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” But what a journey it is — this pilgrimage back to the self. There are no signposts. Only silence. Only ache.

And yet, I begin.

I begin by listening for the voice beneath the voices — the one that does not shout, but waits. The voice that spoke to me as a child when I lay under stars and knew things I had no words for. That voice still speaks. "You are not a guest in this house," it says. "You are the builder."

Virginia Woolf once said, “I am rooted, but I flow.” I want that again. To feel the ground of my own spirit and yet move freely, unafraid of my own shadow. I want to reclaim the small rituals — the scent of morning, the hush of dusk, the sacredness of solitude.

I want to remember that I am not a performance. I am not a résumé. I am not a role. I am not even the sum of my pain. I am not all my failures. I am not what was done to me. I am — I am — something, someone, that I am defining.

Let the world hurry. Let it roar. I will walk slowly. I will gather the scattered pieces. And when I return to myself — oh, when I return — I will not knock. I will open the door and walk in.

Because I never stopped being the home I was looking for.

To all who read this: wishing you a safe return back to yourself.

[golden-letters]

bitch this is all you’re gonna get. this life, this face, this body. you better not ‘maybe in another universe’ your way out of everything. sit your ass down and face this. go make tea and have a picnic and read a goddamn book. kiss your loved ones, send that damn text, and hug your siblings. this is all you’re gonna get.

[fracturedporcelaindoll]

Beautiful ~

“She did not need much, wanted very little. A kind word, sincerity, fresh air, clean water, a garden, kisses, books to read, sheltering arms, a cozy bed, and to love and be loved in return.”

— Starra Neely Blade (via perrfectly)

[sleeplessv0id]

what doesn't kill you makes you weird at intimacy