atorturedpoetsquill

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Spring nap by  SelynnDraws

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There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.

- Jane Austen

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take a break

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Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus, originally published: 1977

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when you think about it, it’s crazy colin confesses. he has no idea penelope has loved him for years and as far as he knows, she truly wants to marry debling and THEN she says the idea of him having feelings for her is laughable, like the hits just keep on coming but he’s still like yeah yeah cool but what if I did? have feelings for you?? he does NOT waste anymore time, he said this is how my parents got together and what my mom said to do and if I am anything, it is a mama’s boy

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"You smell like flowers and... and fresh things," he cried out quite joyously. "What is it you smell of? It's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time."

Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

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Artist credit

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I write, because I talked to people and they belittled my feelings.

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At first, i thought the whole Colin teaching Pen would be a bit of a mess, but then it becomes clear that he's not teaching anything other than telling her she's already great, she's smart and charming and that she should show the world how great she is and, by being whom she really is, she would surely make men fall for her. That he was too damn dense to understand that this was clearly how HE saw her, how wonderful she was, and that SHE was everything that he wanted & admired in a woman makes everything even tastier. Bless that kiss. He found his way home and never left.

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I need people to hear me out:

Colin Bridgerton is NOT this type of male lead:

He is this type of male lead:

And I love that.

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a band of ants march on

[sugar for the soul.] a band of ants march – god knows what they sing of – pound the penny-sized platform beneath their pinprick feets, tasting with their limbs like how a dog sniffs out the unknown, the animals of the hunt gather… and rise. and walk. tinier than a trickle of tap wa ter th ey g o.

i imagine it to be a daily affair almost, as if the mother with the biggy bottom wakes her children and sends them off for groceries. they'll wreck havoc like little kids in the cookie jar/sugar jar/ and return home, return home, return –

three lie dead. no funeral procession. just a stampede of more than a thousand up and down as if life never mattered if you weren't moving towards sugar. it wasn't children from the same eggs but, i'd grow up to learn, worker ants that had nothing to see or feel except the rush of saccharine in their tongues. four lie dead. it's a mini universe i look at and i see another one collapse. as if all we live for is the something that they force-fed us the moment we were born, telling us the very path that we should march on. towards undying heaps of white/white money or white status/ white as much as we refine it with lies in factories five lie dead. the march moves on. like only one lived for his own, bellies swinging full of greed greed/need/want/thirst/agony of limbs being crushed with work and fingers falling off before mama dear laid more to just eat the shells of your exhausted self to discard/to leave with nothing on you except a faint trace and smell of rotting sugar and honey and cookie and eating upon living cockroaches and eating everything upon sight – a band of ants march towards death and none would ever know what it means to live before they crumble.

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“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it

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This is so good!

You are stuck in a time loop, but you have no intention of ever breaking out of it. After literally millions of resets a new person appears in the loop and asks you why you are still in the loop.

#holy shit

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Be stronger than your excuses.

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i'll ask who

my name isn't there, isn't there, when i look under my tongue. when there's another tomorrow, i'll ask who'd made me with my eyes blurring on their own accord hands sharp-stabbing on their own accord. if someone drew me — my life like a sinking ship — would i be there or would there be the empty canvas? oh, picasso, we're just boxes and lines oh, van gogh, we're just swirls and sighs. my age isn't there when i look under my nails. when there's another tomorrow, i'll ask who gave me a body that forgets on its own accord a body that dies on its own accord i'll ask what am i except a prison cage what am i except metal chains? when there's another tomorrow — there is another tomorrow. and tomorrow i will walk in call myself by my name and no one will bat an eyelid because who are we to be someone when we will never be?

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𝕴 𝖆𝖒 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖘𝖎𝖟𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖚𝖒𝖓. ☕️🍁📚