#type: journal

[shisasan]

February 16, 1930 Virginia Woolf, “A Writer’s Diary” (1918 - 1941)

[learnhowtosway]

When Mount Pinatubo erupted, my family and I survived 6 metres of lahar and mudslide by climbing onto the roof of the church next to our home. Large rocks from the volcano evaded direct contact with the church, which would have caused it to collapse, and that was the only time I believe I witnessed a miracle.

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

[opalstonedyke]

A butchfemme valentine's day for me 💖

[hereiswhatremains]

"I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise."

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

[threewordusername]

untitled (10.5.16)

d.b.a

[keepingupwithzaynmalik]

Zayn by Alex Loucas

[sunsbleeding]

I would have bitten the curb for you, tasted the cement on my tongue, I would have walked over broken glass from busted trap house windows just to get into your backyard, I would have given you the last five bucks in my bank account and then robbed a bank at gun point if you handed me the weapon and a script for how to commit crimes like a saint, because why is your halo intact and mine is bent? It’s not that you, either one, wanted any of this, but this is just to say that my devotion was a sick sad thing, a cancer I didn’t want, a pathetic symptom of the dreamer, the lover, the damned, devotion sprouted like weeds in my spinal fluid, twisted around my throat, the main artery pulsing, squeezing just enough to remind me that I’m alive and I must breathe to continue …if you had just asked, I’d have been your puppet, your marionette and I would have tied the strings myself, I’d dance for you and pretended the tears in my lower lashes were from joy not shame, if you just gestured to your pain, the thing sitting in the corner of the room, I would have ripped it open at the throat, let the blood spray like rubies on my bare face, I’d do it just so you didn’t have to face it, only to look back and see you grab another can of cheap cold beer, snort a line, unbutton your shirt, tune your guitar… oh well, I’ll be here, dying on your thrifted cross, smiling about it, because for a moment your skin brushed mine when you hammered the nails into my palms, because for a moment we were so close enough I could have kissed your throat and you would have liked it, the steel nails entering my flesh had nothing on the way your eyes would meet mine, I must have reeked of loneliness, it’s a putrid thing to live for the love of others, my crown of thorns highlighted nothing but my vulnerability and shame… I was transparent to you, less than an apparition, even less than a ghost, I was an idea in a pair of thigh high red boots, a concept to be eaten out on the rug, while the turntable gave us a soundtrack for dying to, yeah maybe I’m crazy but you’re both brainless, more concerned about your reputation than anything I had to offer, and offer I did, slaughtered lambs, ordered rare British vinyls, paid for expensive dinners, eaten over the sink while we laughed at the shear absurdity of our time together, you played me like checkers, and let me win just enough so that I thought I was in control, you saw stars in the stucco ceiling, reeling from powders and pills, nudity and bite marks and you made a map of the places we would go, now I can’t tell you apart, two men, two pretty voices, two guitars being strummed over my naked body, oh lord, the rings of hell I pranced through just to fall asleep in some junkies arms, to feel the heat of another for just a night, to wake up to a breathing warm body in my usually empty four post bed, neither would care if I was dead or alive, hospitalized or at home, and still i say it nicely “what’s mine is yours” and the curb is in my mouth once more, because some people love the taste of cement when it means a hand to hold on to after they bust your face open with their work boots….

[sehsfav]

— Imam Ghazali.

[shisasan]

February 16, 1941 Virginia Woolf, “A Writer’s Diary” (1918 - 1941)

[the---hermit]

15|02|2025

Today is a half day of study because in the afternoon I am meeting with a friend. I am very happy of having finished working on the chapter I started yesterday, so that next week I'll have a fresh start with new materials. Next week I'd like to work on at least three more articles, and maybe start giving a look at the materials for my other class.

6/50 days of productivity

read first thing in the morning

finished working on the second article for my spaces of knowledge class

organized the rest of my materials for that class

Irish on duolingo

📖: Witchcraft For Wayward Girls by Grady Hendrix

[doctorcurdlejr]

it's just a game, and you're playing it!

[celerydays]

journal tour ⋆ [Part 1] | Part 2

[harvsinthestars]

who's gnna be the navy blue to my green?

[cloverwood]

started a kin journal today ✨

[hereiswhatremains]

"Whatever our souls, are made of, his and mine are the same."

— Emily Brontë from Wuthering Heights (via @bnmxfld)