Bohombhoclyatt - •~ Jasmine ~•

having curly hair is scripting in every single dr that my hair always looks defined, healthy, and effortlessly beautiful. wash days are quick and easy, and my curls stay flawless no matter what ! 🙂‍↕️

something something father son

let it come to you.

don't force it, let it come to you.

it's already yours, so don't force it and let it come to you.

it's going to happen, it's inevitable. and it's already yours. so don't force it. let it come to you.

Saw this on TikTok I put it in mine

GUYSSSS I SHIFTED LAST NIGHT FUCK FUCK FUCK THIS IS NOT A DRILLL I REPEAT STORYTIME INCOMING IN A FEW..... SHIT

ACTUALLY I'M STILL SHAKEN UP

reminder that you can shift anytime, anywhere, under any condition. it doesn’t matter if you’re exhausted, if you’re spiralling, if you’ve just remembered an email you forgot to send and now you’re in a fugue state of regret. it doesn’t matter if you’ve put shifting on a pedestal so high it’s getting altitude sickness (even then, a pedestal is just a glorified step stool. kick it over. nothing is above you, nothing is out of reach), or if your brain is complied of intrusive thoughts and mental white noise. you could be in a grocery store queue, on a sinking ship, in the middle of a hostage negotiation. and could still shift.

people love a reason why not. alas, the conditions are not set in stone. they never were. consciousness is liquid gold. it seeps through cracks, it adapts. you don’t need the stars to align. you don’t need the perfect night, the perfect mood, the perfect silence. you need exactly what you already have... a mind.

im not gonna lie until today I had always thought it was dramatic to insinuate that gojo was but a weapon. now hearing him admit that he had love and dreams too and express this type of grief and acknowledgement that he would be left behind.

truly heartbreaking

better quality 😭😭

gojo’s undercut 🤲

⸝⸝ ⋮ "why haven't I shifted yet?"

⸝⸝ ⋮ "I did everything right ,, didn't I ?"

・・・・・

Maybe you haven’t shifted yet because you’re standing at the threshold, pounding on the door like it owes you something, so loud and desperate you can’t hear the soft click of the lock unlatching on its own. Sometimes we want something so badly that we strangle it — clutching it like a lifeline, knuckles pale, breath tight, thinking that if we just try harder, it’ll finally give. But shifting isn’t a stubborn jar lid. It’s a dream, and dreams don’t bloom under pressure — they open like petals in stillness.

It’s like trying to catch a snowflake with fire in your hands. The more you reach, the quicker it melts. You wouldn’t scream at the ocean to make a wave crash faster. You just wait, feet buried in the sand, while the tide inches in, closer and closer, until it kisses your toes without asking.

I know you feel like you’ve done everything. You’ve whispered affirmations like secrets into the night, folded your limbs like origami, held visions in your mind until your imagination became see-through. You’ve felt it: that one fragile moment of almost, where your soul swore this is it, just before it slipped back into the dark.

But that wasn’t failure. That was foreshadowing. That was the universe warming up, clearing its throat before the crescendo. You’re not lost. You’re tuning yourself, like a radio just shy of the right station — static humming, music just behind the veil. You’re so close the air is humming with it.

And maybe — just maybe — you’re too awake to shift. Not your body, but your awareness. Like you’re peeking through your fingers at the miracle, too alert, too ready, as if you’re trying to trap magic in a jar. But magic hates being watched. It sneaks in through the cracks when you’re laughing too hard to care. It’s the song that plays when you stop trying to remember the lyrics. It’s the dream that comes back only after you stop chasing it down the hallway of your mind.

Let go.

Melt a little.

Forget the steps and let your heartbeat be the ritual.

And then there’s doubt — the quiet saboteur. Not a villain with fangs, but a whisper wearing your voice, curling up beside you and murmuring things like “maybe it’s not real,” or “maybe it’s not for me.” It doesn't shout. It sighs. But that doubt? It’s proof you care. You ache for this so much, your mind spins storms just trying to protect you from disappointment. But you're not being punished. You're not unworthy. You're just standing on the edge of the pool, toes curled over the ledge, learning how to trust the fall — learning that sometimes the water catches you even when you close your eyes.

You’re not behind.

You’re not broken.

This isn’t a failure. It’s a slow becoming. It’s scaffolding for a bridge you haven’t crossed yet, but one day, you’ll look back and realize you’ve been building it the whole time.

And the wildest part? So many people shift the moment they give up — not in despair, but in surrender. They drop the script, unclench their hands, exhale all the wanting — and then, like a secret handshake, the wind changes. The universe, cheeky thing that it is, was just waiting to see if you’d soften. If you’d open your palms.

Because sometimes the door doesn’t open when you demand. It opens when you become quiet enough to hear the hinge move.

Maybe the answer isn’t more doing. Maybe it’s undoing. Maybe you don’t need to become the version of yourself who shifts — maybe you already are. Maybe the only thing left is to remember. You’ve been turning the key, every night, in your sleep. Whisper by whisper. Breath by breath.

And one night — without fanfare — it’ll click.

And when it does, you’ll realize: You weren’t waiting for the shift. The shift was waiting for you.

・・・・・