You Don’t Talk Too Much. You Aren’t Too Loud. You Aren’t Too Needy. You Aren’t Too Sensitive.

in the morning, it's light academia at night, it's dark academia in the brain, it chaotic academia

And,  Wherever I go,  Wherever I end up being, these eyes, These eyes keep looking, only for you For, you're still the face My grieving heart keeps searching for in a crowd, For, I had once found my meaning in love, And I found it, with you.  But then one day you left, taking away With you the meaning I found. So I kept searching, kept looking, in places, in Names, amongst faces, and not one of them yours. So tell me, where do I find another you. For, you're still the face My grieving heart keeps searching for in a crowd. For, I found my meaning, in love,  And I found it, with you.

Munchi

cleaning my room and the living room ✅

hoovering ✅

uni work ❌

steve harrington fanfiction ✅

Other people's emotions are deep and complex and beautiful but mine are proof that there is rot at the core of my being

Whatever you do, don’t imagine todd the night after neil had passed, after the ceremony and all the days events, sitting alone in his room staring straight at neil’s bed.

the messy bed with the blankets thrown back and the pillow still creased after neil had woken up and left for the play. and how none of the poets had dared to touch it.

how todd became so distraught while staring at it he climbed into it and curled up under the covers and started to cry as the blankets still smelled like neil.

how todd spent all night in the bed sobbing his eyes out and holding onto the blankets for dear life, until the morning came and mr nolan came to collect all of neil’s stuff.

don’t imagine how todd fought to stay in the bed and keep neil’s stuff; sobbing and reaching for neil’s belongings as they were carted away like they were nothing but a collection of disappointments.

don’t imagine how todd stole one of neils sweaters without mr. nolan looking, along with one of neils books and kept them for himself.

don’t imagine how when mr nolan had left, and todd was left with nothing but the sweater and book, he curled up on the empty bed, devoid of all blankets, and read.

and how todd had found a poem neil had written, jotted down in messy scrawl on a piece of ripped paper, shoved in between two chapters. and how multiple lines were crossed out and rewritten with the intention of getting it perfect.

And how the poem was addressed to todd,

and how it was a love poem.

don’t imagine it.

I think of her alot,my younger self,what if she meets me someday or i meet her someday or someone like her or someone like me,

I barely have cool things to tell her about how I've been,

Maybe she'd know how to be me,

Maybe she'll sit quiet and listen to me,

Or maybe she'll crack a joke here and there and laugh with me,

She'd be so small,

I could pick her up,

She'll probably ask me alot of questions,

All the things that she couldn't but i can do now,

She'll be content to hear me out

Maybe I'll meet my older self someday,

Maybe she won't say much,

But she'll tell me things that are going on in her life,

Maybe I'll sit quiet and listen to her,

Maybe I'll crack a joke here and there to comfort her,

Maybe she'd be the same as me ,

I'll ask her alot of questions,

All the things i can't do but she can,

I'll be content and hear her out.

-tamanna

Cogito, Ergo Sum

I write ugly things.

That’s who I am.

I expel the bad onto paper.

Otherwise it gets stuck in me. Emotional constipation.

That’s probably why people hurt each other.

They need to get rid of it. The ache.

Can’t keep it in. Easiest way to get rid of hurt is to pass it onto someone else.

Most readers like it though. The hurt.

Look at Bukowski and Hemingway. They’re successful. Apart from the alcoholism and suicide.

I don’t understand them all that well.

You’re too young to understand, they tell me.

I don’t know about that.

I think I just don’t understand men who create their own suffering.

I’ve had enough pain. Disease and dead friends and all that.

Good thing for a writer though. To suffer.

Suffering brings validity to narrative.

I hate that.

I hate that perspective only matters if the writer has gone through something horrible.

Suffering adds to character. Solidifies it.

I also hate that.

Identity should not be so fickle.

It should be made of curiosity, interests, relationships, passion, and peace.

It should be made, fostered, cared for.

Not victimized.

But maybe that’s just the way we are.

We must rot so that others will salvage our blossoms.

We must dish out counterfeit pain to remember we are alive.

Mortal.

Look at me, you say, beaten red.

I bleed therefore I am.

Ben Barnes | Francesco Carrozzini | Salvatore Ferragamo