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#dark academia writing
marsgalaxias · 1 year
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"she is the poem" by june bates
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disguisedfeelings · 9 months
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I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean 'sugary.' It's dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain.
— Catherine Breillat
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journalsofanaesthete · 9 months
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" I want to talk about everything with atleast one person as I talk about things with myself. "
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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"Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined."
Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
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october-elliot · 4 months
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My toxic trait is that I think everything I write is divinely inspired and amazing but also refuse to share it with anyone irl because what if they think it’s bad
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mibastalaluna · 2 years
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currently being eaten alive by paranoia and melancholy but hey, autumn is coming yay
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raniahlilithshahnaz · 7 months
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“I think we should see a therapist”
I say to the mirror.
we stare at eachother.
I can hear the faucet taps echoing between us.
“what if we see a therapist?”
I ask the mirror.
we stare.
tap. tap. tap.
I look over my shoulder.
it’s too expensive to get the pipe fixed.
I look up at the fogged window above it.
The night almost doesn’t feel real,
or perhaps,
its the daytime that is unreal,
because everything now is always so intense, truthful, and prolonging.
I turn back to the mirror.
She looks at me blankly.
We don’t know each other.
“Do you want to see a therapist?”
My lips numb cold as the words leave.
She doesn’t look happy with the thought.
It’s too cold in here and the faucet is still tapping.
I look away from her
get up
close all the doors
and just go back to sleep.
- Raniah-Lilith Shahnaz
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Momentary home by me
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dionyrtal · 2 years
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augustories, day 7 — conversation with the other me
this short (and very impulsive poem) was interesting to write, to say the least. you can follow me on instagram to see more of my poetry & writing!
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cryinginmyroomsposts · 4 months
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Finals season motivation! I got this! And so do all of you
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poorgirlblog · 6 months
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marsgalaxias · 6 months
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if you like friends to lovers yearning here's a little writing piece I did
'I frequently have such vivid, realistic dreams where my brain throws together what I call a perfect little mind salad. The perfect person. Someone caring, gentle, funny, soft, sweet. When I wake up, there’s this terrible, terrible feeling in my chest. That perfect person is torn from me, and I’m left with the bitter reality that no, no one has loved me like that. I spend all day reflecting and mourning that dream, that person. What hurts the most is the fact that I cannot see their face after I wake up, I can barely recall it once I stir. And so I mourned for someone I never knew, who never lived.
Last night felt like one of those dreams. So perfect that I was scared that as soon as I left the moment, I would never return. I’d wake up in my bed and realize that no, they did not exist, and I was truly losing my mind. But I woke up today and I went to school, and there they were, in the flesh. For once there was no need for a funeral.
I don’t typically connect well with people. I’m able to get an instant sense when I’ve run into someone who I know I will get along with. It was like that with them, that intuitive feeling that this stranger who I tracked down on the internet would be important. I just wanted to acquaint myself with people who would be in my class, and they happened to be one of the first I stumbled upon.
Even more rarely do I feel that I am completely alone with someone. Very rarely do I block out everything else but the person I’m with. But with them, that’s exactly what happened. Nothing existed outside of the now, in those moments. I can still recall the fine details, the way their messy hair flipped about in the wind, the green boxed flannel they wore, the rings on their hands as they gripped the steering wheel, the soup they ordered from panera, what songs they softly played in the background.
I will be honest, I was not picturing a small bridge when I imagined what we would get up to that day, rather a dock. However, that's still eerily similar. How it lined up so perfectly. I shot a few polaroids, and then I sat back and we chatted. But there was still so much distance between us. I hate it, the way I’m so eager for their presence. So I laid down, knowing it was only natural for them to follow. Slowly, as the sun sank further, we grew closer. I have never had the chance to meet someone so genuine, honest, open. From a foot apart, to shoulder to shoulder, my legs eventually bent up and resting against theirs, absentmindedly fiddling with their hands while they felt mine. By the time we had to leave, I found our faces only inches apart. And they curved a hand around my cheek, holding me like I was paper, like I was too delicate to truly grasp, lest they harm me, but they had to keep me from blowing into the breeze.
It was too early for a kiss, and I think we both knew that, but I think we both dearly craved for our flesh to connect. Their thumb brushed my lips, the closest they could get to them now. When we finally pried ourselves from the wooden boards, I clung to them. They clung to me. I was so scared to let go, to let this energy go. I was scared to wake up.
I’ve rewound the film in my head, over and over. I played it while I muttered my choir lyrics, while my English teacher droned on, while my friend babbled about some dumb assignment. I’ve found myself reaching my hand up to my face, to re-feel what they felt, because I am too scared to love them like that openly. I wish I wasn’t, but I’m so scared. Scared that I’m wrong, that they don't actually care that much, that I’m being tugged along by someone who will discard me in the end, because words seem to mean shit to anyone else. Time after time of being left by people who I would have died for, I’m so scared to go through that all again. To plan more funerals.
I’m so deep into this already. I’ve lost my appetite. I’ve lost sleep. I’ve lost focus. I have been infatuated with people before, but it’s never been this bad. I wonder how they would feel, knowing all that I’m going through because on that bridge I refused to sit how friends sit.
“And I know you’re scared, well I’m scared too, but everytime I try to make lunch for someone else, in my head I end up dreaming of you. And you come to me, good morning,” you sang as I weaved my hand through the wind out the window. You’d sworn that the chorus was good, to be patient, and apologized if it was a song I disliked. Now I sit here and I play it on loop, because as I write, the film is becoming blurry. I’m scared I’m waking up like I thought I would. And you’re off playing with your friends, and I know I shouldn’t panic, I know I shouldn’t rotate around you, but I can’t keep my mind off of it. I’m so scared that if I don’t keep watching the film, I’ll lose it. And so I’m still watching. I’m still watching us tip toe around the topic we both are internally begging to discuss. I’m watching us silently explore how the other person makes us feel. I’m watching someone touch me with one of the purest forms of love I think I have ever experienced. I’m watching a dream.
But it’s not, and I know that, but it may as well be. We’ll never discuss it, especially not at school. This tightrope we’re walking is very, very fine. I tremble with each step, and you hold me as if to promise I won’t fall, but we don’t say a word to each other.
“I get lost, I freak out, you come home and hold me tight as if it never happened at all.”
Can you sense my desperation? My fear?
“Show me the place where he inserted the blade.”
Perhaps that’s a story for another star gazing session.
“Good morning.”
Good morning. Am I still dreaming?'
(the song referenced is The Place Where He Inserted The Blade by Black Country, New Roads)
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disguisedfeelings · 8 months
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To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
Oscar Wilde
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journalsofanaesthete · 9 months
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On somedays everything looks sorted and clear while on some nights nothing makes sense at all.
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"I need a father, I need a mother, I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God but the sky is empty."
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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october-elliot · 2 months
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A poem I wrote a while about removing shame from stimming / watching others stim
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