#differentbut

[ghostr0tz]

Valentino trying to bedazzle Vox' crutches and Vox having to stop him because he still needs to look professional.

dumb idiot did it on the handle otherwise vox would've begrudgingly kept it

[marblebagcollective]

rewatching some old c!ranboo lore .. wanted to draw that guy

[1-nexomon-a-day]

4/8/24 - Bira

[stanleyparable]

Like im literally doing nothing with my life and i think ahead a few years and i cant imagine myself doing anything differentBut also i desperately want to escape this cycle but im too tired and i have no motivation.how does that even make sense. I desperately want something else but i dont have the motivation to get it. brother the motivation is right there. at my core im a very lazy person And such a thing is quite life ruining Like i imagine where i could be right now if i were just less lazy and it literally makes me want to rip my heart out of my chest

[cool-gollys-facts]

"DID YOU KNOW? you can get goldys age by minusing the current year (2025) by 2000, so now they are 25! Yay!"

Im somewhere else right now so i had to do it differentbut here it is, Happy birthyda goldy!!!!!!!!!!!!! (januayr 14th)

[homesteadsissies]

Weekly Update: 11.30.24

This week slipped by like whisps of steam over a cup of coffee. We could barely breath the moments in before they were gone.

Funny how this all looks differentBut it feels the sameLike how life never stops changingBut some things never change So fill your plate and fill your drinkAnd fill this house with familyThe kind of love that all these years can’t wash away Ben Rector, “The Thanksgiving Song” Photo Credit: Grace Gage This week slipped by like whisps of steam over a cup of coffee. We could barely breath the…

[writinginnorthnorfolk]

Hippy at Heart

I look back on those carefreedays of the nineteen-seventiesand smell pungent Afghan coats,see maxi skirts and knee-high boots,although I preferred to go barefoot.I loved Indian cheesecloth blouses,bangles, beads and loon trousers,bird-covered and scoop-neckedt-shirts, and velvet Biba rejects,patchouli oil, hats and mood rings,and so many other thingsthat I thought made me differentbut, of course,…

[williecthepoet]

Poetry: Old Soul

He been selling his soulWorking all-dayOvertime hours, for bullshit moneySo he could set out hereJust waste his life awayHe goes back homeRoll a bluntAnd smoke the rest of the night awayWith his fingers dancing off the strings of his guitarWith a glass of HennessyWords from his drunken mouthHe says “It’s a damn shame”Wish he could wake upAnd things are differentBut he knows that’s not the…

[beanrecipes]

Thought about making something different…but nahhhh SALMON kale CAESAR, avoca… Thought of making one thing completely different...however nahhhh 😂🤷🏻‍♀️ SALMON kale CAESAR, avocado, and candy potatoes are simply so GOOD!

[poptod]

Thoughts (Elliot Alderson x Reader)

Description: He keeps coming back to you and there’s no reason; you keep coming back to him with no reason, either. His thoughts try to make sense of it.

Notes: this ones a bit differentbut honestlyi saythat about almost allmy short fics so oh well. also myspacebuttonis stuck so you canimagine writing this was a pain inmy ass but anywaythis is an attempt at a sortofelliot monologueif that makes sense? its pretty angsty buti  hope you all likeitanyway WC: 1.8k

+

God, I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. Why would I ever imagine I could be normal, even for a single night? It's far too late to leave now and too early to depart. No one else has left. Would you even notice if I was gone? You said hello to me an hour ago, and now you're wiling away your time on the edge of the circle, but I can see the tension in your face. You think you're so good at hiding it. No one is.

The bathroom, like in many places, is the only room to find relief in. It's quiet in here, it's still in here, and there's an easy excuse to lock the door. The counter is still freezing beneath my already frigid fingers, only aiding my headache to dig further into my skull. Nothing, nothing. I wish I was dead, and there are footsteps outside the door, who ask for an attention I don't want to give. Not right now. I need to smoke more. I need a drink, or I need to know what to say; I don't know how to do this anymore. Did I ever know? Or did I just imagine that I did?

"Elliot?" You ask, rapping your knuckles twice against the white wood. "You okay in there?"

"Yeah," I say, but my voice cracks, and it sounds like I'm crying despite the fact that I'm already too high to cry.

You're quiet for a moment. I can see you past the door––leaning against it, your brow furrowed with an anxiousness found common in your expression, and your teeth biting your lip.

"Let me in, El."

Is the door even locked?

It is. My hand slams down on the door handle, unlocking the mechanism before it falls back onto the counter. A second later you slip inside the dim, candle-lit room, unable to stand anywhere but in my space, yet incapable of looking at me. It's alright––I'm just the same. I hate looking at you; how it makes me feel, like ants are crawling over my skin, like some bug is burrowing into my heart. I'm not going to be able to delete this––this bug is already engrained in my coding.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to," you said quietly, your arms crossed as you lean back against the small counter.

Usually I'd be staring at myself, at puffy eyes and a stupid, quivering lip, but I don't want to see you, your clothes or your face––again, it's too much. Too much. I can only stare at my hands.

"I know," I mumble. My fingers are digging deeper into the cold counter.

"Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing," I say, but we both know it's a lie, so I try to come up with something better. "I don't know, I don't want to talk about – I don't know."

"Did someone say something, or do something?"

"No."

"Well – was it me? Did I do something?"

"No."

"What happened then? Is it – did this start a while ago?"

"I don't know."

"Elliot," you sigh, and your tone is so familiar I almost chuckle, but it comes out as discomfort and distaste. I know you're picking up on it.

"You're not – you're not going to understand, you're not like me, you're – you've made an art of pretending to be normal," I say with a dry chuckle, and without thinking. I should know better. Why did I say that?

There are things I know about you that I shouldn't, private things found so easily across the internet. I can't let on what I've done––mention how achingly hard you stick out when you don't mask your neurodivergent behaviors.

"I've made an art of it?" You scoff. "You've made an art of pretending to be alive. Don't judge me just because I'm trying to be a better person."

A sharp breath rips through my dry throat as my fists clench involuntarily. At last some source of energy fuels me, and I can raise myself to the mirror.

"You really think this shit's gonna make you feel normal? Like you don't have any problems?" I ask in his words, gesturing violently towards the locked door. "You think hosting parties just to feel lonely while surrounded by people is gonna make you feel better? It's not. It's gonna make you feel like you're made of plastic, fucking dead like the rest of us."

You're staring at me in my reflection, and despite you having an even voice and mine cracking all over the place, you're the one with red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm trying," you whisper out through the tension in your chest.

"To do what?" I ask. It's too harsh.

"I don't know," you say, and a few stray tears are now tracing these lines of silver down your cheeks. I have to bite my cheek to avoid wiping them away. "I feel like a bad person and I am. How do you deal with that?"

Of course you'd ask me. I know what you think of me; I know you think I'm pessimistic, and depressing, and apathetic. I know, and I hate it, and I don't know what to do about it.

Maybe this was my way of trying to absolve that, coming to this party; of course now I'm just solidifying your mindset, convincing you this is all I am. Cruel words from a bitter man made so by a crueler world. Why do I have to be like this? There's something burning in my bones; something that leaks into my nerves and my heart, crystallizing the already weary muscle. Is this what modern love feels like? This feeling of helplessness? I don't want it anymore. Could I liberate myself of you, or would the process rip from me what little is left of my mind?

I don't know you and I still miss you. I hate the feeling of people's hands on me even though they're always there; but you always adhered to that rule, despite the fact that I never told you to. I wish for a lot of things and your name has been whispered between my lips in those atheistic prayers.

You chuckle and shake your head. I must've taken too long to respond.

"God, I fucking hate you sometimes," you mumble, and before the last word ever leaves your mouth, you're gone out the door, slamming it behind you.

I really, really don't know you, and you don't know me at all, either. We're drawn to one another like dust into stars, like heroes to ruin, and there's no cure or fix for this fallacy. It's another constant of the universe that I wish I had the power to change; you don't need to see me, and I don't need to see how the life drains out of your eyes whenever I step into the room.

Yet I'm here again, approaching your side, imagining how I could quell the shiver in your chest with my hands; how I would've warmed you in a different life, or kissed you as a different person.

"Moth to flame, huh?" You say, staring at the lit cigarette between your fingers. A small grimace is on your face. "I'm gonna burn myself one of these days."

"With a cigarette?" I ask.

You stare at the embers before raising your eyes to meet mine.

"No," you say with a soft, humorless chuckle. "No, not that."

I never seem to understand you. There was only one time when I thought I did, when you came crashing into my apartment sick with drunkenness, wailing about not being alive or being human. Even in your haze you knew who to come to, and I thought that meant something.

It didn't. It never does. I don't understand you and I don't think I ever will, but to be perfectly fair, you're probably thinking the same exact thing about me. Do you wonder if I like you? Do you imagine I'll be brave enough to reach out to you? You left before I could speak to you that morning, and you're leaving now, trying to slide past me on the tiny balcony.

Something raises my hand to your chest, stopping you when you're near enough to feel the heat radiating off my neck. Beneath my fingers, I can feel how your breath tenses, how it halts as your gaze falls to me. How you try to swallow when I look you in the eye.

Can I say anything without sounding stupid? I've got your eye, your ear, everything for once––I have you, without anger or doubt or sorrow, and nothing comes to mind.

I love you is too much.

I'm sorry is too little.

Words are far too small for you, but these images and feeling swirling around me are entirely invisible and impossible to communicate. Action is the only solace, the only answer in a world full of failing promises and flat lies, and it's the only thing I can manage in the blissful silence between us, isolated from the worlds upon worlds below us.

You know what I want, even from a flicker of my eye, and you stay still when I kiss you. It's barely a kiss, barely even a touch, but this tiny shudder runs through your body, and a fierce sense of protection seizes me to pull you in, deepening an affection I'm not sure you even desire. But you're unmoving––a statue amongst the drifting clouds, above the bustling streets, within cavernous parts of me where my screams still echo from anguishes long forgotten; the ones that still linger nameless on the edge of my consciousness. I am too much and too little, too much catastrophe and too few words. No one wants that. No one wants someone too broken to fix.

You taste a little like tobacco and whiskey––it's enough to distract me from the fact that your hand came to tug at my sweatshirt, scared of fully touching me but desperate to pull me in. For your sake I shift closer, and I feel the way you release, how a sedative of chemicals washes over your usually anxious demeanor. Your lips are moving against mine and I could swear I'm short-circuiting, incapable of anything but taking whatever you're willing to give.

Please be mine. Please belong to me. Please stop this endless game. I can't keep chasing and running away at the same time anymore.

When you part, there's hesitation in your hands and eyes, in the way you linger to feel my breath coasting back across your skin in the winter chill. Then you meet my eye and I finally see you're crying again.

"I hate you, Elliot," you say, pushing back past me. "Make me feel like shit and then pretend t' try and make me feel better?" You pull your sleeves back up onto your shoulders. "Real fuckin' funny."

The door slams behind you, blocking me off from the party inside. It's what I wanted, isn't it? Isolation.

Nothing.

I wish I was dead.

[n0-im-dirty-dan]

Okay soooo im gonna discontinue my nsb & changed it to nsb 2 by simmer-esmie, its just bc i’ve retsarted this challenge multiple times & im also doing a differentbut similar  version of it on my other blog & im enjoying that more :]

[gabzcervo]

VIDEO VLOG 6: MY FRIDAY WORKOUT IS OFFICIALLY OUT NOW ON YOUTUBE! #fitness #fitnessmotivation #workout #bodypositivity #differentbutabled #vlog #youtube (à Flex and Cuts Fitness Gym) https://www.instagram.com/p/B2i297OnXQx/?igshid=4axkzqazj574

[introverted-slothpanda]

Hey guys!! I've taken my first step into the world of writing and I've posted some of my works up for a competition..

Please have a look at the links to my writings below and if you like them give them some stars and help me win😁😁

If I win, I will definitely start posting my works here on my own feed.. so please support 🤗🤗

Below mentioned are the link to my writings on the website:

*1.*

*2.*

https://hashtagkalakar.net/something-to-think-about/

*3.*

*4.*

https://hashtagkalakar.net/not-so-bad-after-all/

*5.*

*6.*

https://hashtagkalakar.net/wrong/

*7.*

*8.*

*9.*

https://hashtagkalakar.net/rediscover/

*10.*

@malfoytookmyheart @thelastfunctioningbraincell @ivythebookgeek @zombiezakk

[sciatu]

Fiori

Perché per parlarti d’amore, devo parlarti di fiori?  se l ‘amore è tutt’altro, se i suoi mille colori sono quelli dei suoi petali delicati e taglienti, se la sua vita è più breve di quella dei  fiori stessi e il suo profumo ti perseguita nei sogni dominando ogni altro desiderio. Perché unire la fragilità della natura alla durezza dei sentimenti, una provvisorietà stagionale a un’inquietudine eterna, a questa prolifica dipendenza dove ogni tuo istante vive grazie ad un’altra vita, sogna grazie ai sogni di un altro. Perché poi chi ama, non trova in se nessun sollievo e tutto quello che sente e vede è solo la cornice che racchiude chi ama? L’altare su cui santifica la sua religione personale, il fuoco che brucia nella parte più nascosta del vulcano della sua anima? Perché unire la semplicità delle forme, dei colori e dello stesso esistere alla complicanza dei sentimenti, perché dover capire cosa si prova per poi non saperlo esprimere per come lo si sente, con parole e gesti che spesso si vestono di follia a dire la pazzia che affligge l’animo e distrugge il cuore. Per quanto io cerchi e per quanto pretenda di far entrare nella mia piccola ragione, questo immenso semplice  mistero che è l’amore, posso solo dire che senza un piccolo fiore, nessuna pianta vivrebbe o avrebbe senso, ogni vegetale sarebbe prigioniero della sua arida eternità  e solitudine, vivrebbe di sole senza restituirne la gioia tra i suoi petali e così, per quante parole si possono spendere ed esempi riportare, lo stesso sarebbe per l’uomo senza l’amore.

Why do I have to talk to you about flowers to talk to you about love? if love is something differentbut, if its thousand colors are those of its delicate and sharp petals, if its life is shorter than that of the flowers themselves and its scent haunts you in dreams, dominating every other desire. Because combining the fragility of nature with the hardness of feelings, a seasonal provisionality with an eternal restlessness, with this prolific addiction where your every moment lives thanks to another life, dreams thanks to the dreams of another heart. Why then does who loves find no relief in himself and everything he hears and sees is only the frame that encloses the one he loves? The altar on which he sanctifies his personal religion, the fire that burns in the most hidden part of the volcano of his soul? Why combine the simplicity of shapes, colors and existence itself with the complication of feelings, because having to understand what he feels like and then not knowing how to express it as it feels, with words and gestures that often dress in madness to say the madness that it afflicts the soul and destroys the heart. As much as I try and as much as I pretend to let this immense simple mystery that is love enter into my small mind, I can only say that without a small flower, no plant would live or make sense, every vegetable would be a prisoner of its arid eternity. and loneliness, it would live on the sun without restoring its joy among its petals and so, no matter how many words and examples can be given, it would be the same for man without love.

[amanomaya]

leon if ur still doing these !!

pride, fire, gold, cotton nd  warmth