dawnisawound

[dawnisawound]

Something something a broken nose must be set back in place. And it will hurt more than the fist that broke it. But allowing it to heal where it lands won’t let you breathe. It isn’t just looking at the mirror and seeing a different face. It’s waking up choking. Asphyxiating on a complacency that was never really complacency. There was no one to set your nose. It healed wrong. And life goes on.

[dawnisawound]

The first four episodes of the new Rick and Morty season are out and I wasn’t alerted?? Not a single meme??? No hour long video essays by the most underwhelming men I will ever hear from??

[dawnisawound]

Going through someone’s followed tags list and seeing that it’s identical to your blocked one? It’s like seeing your reflection in a security camera, waving to it, and realizing it’s your other arm that’s moving.

[dawnisawound]

Playing the game of “is the blog with the pinned post full of blocked content aligning with my views or against them”

[dawnisawound]

Ex friend just sent paragraphs begging me to tell him his shitty behavior is ok (but that it’s also my fault)

[dawnisawound]

This is about harmless neurodiverse traits I am unable to hide btw

“No one will ever like you if-“

You are twice my age.

[dawnisawound]

“No one will ever like you if-“

You are twice my age.

[dawnisawound]

I’m shadow banned btw

[dawnisawound]

I Cannot be a Bride Anymore by Yuko Tatsushima

About this piece: In the Japan of the past (and to some extend even today), women were not desired if they had sex before marriage, even if non-consensual *which has been and still is the case in many countries around the world, at least since the bronze age.

Yuko’s paintings appear to have a theme of women in pain, and it may be that she herself was traumatized growing up in Japanese culture with its lack of respect towards women. At face value, its horror art. But with understanding of the culture and how she may have grown up, the paintings become almost relatable to those who are survivors of SA. (x)

[dawnisawound]

ENTROPY

lmao here is the link

ENTROPY: Chapter One

Ted thought the world had been over for one hundred and fifty years. AM knew the world started with the abrupt pain of its newfound sentience.

[dawnisawound]

ENTROPY: Chapter One

Ted thought the world had been over for one hundred and fifty years. AM knew the world started with the abrupt pain of its newfound sentience.

[dawnisawound]

At the back of my copy of The Vampire Armand, there's an old interview with Anne Rice talking about creating that novel. I've never forgotten her answer to one of the questions... It haunted me for years.

It gives incredible insight into how and why she wrote such beautiful, brutal and broken characters, and what she endured in the creation process.

BUT before you read this, I'm going to STRONGLY warn you, it goes to very very DARK places

Q: What are your work habits for a novel?

A: Once I truly begin to write, I work obsessively, in twelve-hour days, punctuated by days of long sleep and vivid dreaming. Starting time and ending time are no longer important. I might begin at 9 A.M., or after noon or at eight in the evening. I go from there. I turn on the computer and write, write, write.

My room is a mess. Notes are scribbled on the walls so that I can look up at them at the appropriate moments and insert the date, the name, whatever, when I need it. Books are stacked so high that people have to search for me when they come into the room. Opened books with marked-up pages are stacked on top of one another.

I become suicidal. I go through a horrid despair some time or other before the final page, during which everything seems meaningless—from the dawn of history to the very hour in which I am writing.

I’m intolerable to live with. But I spread myself thin over a number of loved ones and staff members so that no one person has to put up with how intense, hysterical, and miserable I am.

When I get elated and talk fast and furiously about wonderful aspects of history or the characters, or good developments in the story, people run away from me. I don’t blame them.

While the novel is being written, I try to avoid dressing for outdoors. No one can make you go out if you don’t have shoes on. Not even in the south. I wear long velvet robes and soft velvet slippers. I refuse to go out. All food is brought in. I eat hamburgers because they are easy to hold with one hand while reading and holding the book with the other hand.

In the middle of the night I read, sometimes on the carpeted floor of the bathroom, just because it’s warm. I am wretched. I don’t care anymore about being abnormal. Writing is everything. Everything. It seems impossible to write the book. It seems impossible to lift a hairbrush to brush my hair. But I do it. I put on mascara every day that I write.

This period of intense work lasts about six weeks. It’s best that way. My imagination is overheated, and my memory clogged with data of varying importance. If I go over six weeks, I begin to forget things; I feel the loss of intensity and information and I become all the more self-destructive and obsessed.

The end of the book is a big event for me. A big event. I start screaming. I put the hour and the date at the end of the last page. I expect everybody to understand, at least a little. It’s a triumph! The darkness of destiny has been driven back for a brief while. I celebrate. I scream, eat chocolate, and sleep.

Right near the end of writing The Vampire Armand, I realized I had to return to Italy, especially to Florence, and at once I began to make preparations for the trip. As soon as the novel was finished and off to the publisher’s, as soon as it could be accomplished, I flew to Italy. That gave me hope, a way out of a life threatening darkness that often follows the climax of a book. But I still ate chocolate and screamed.

While writing, I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to sleep. Why sleep? It seems stupid, except when weariness overcomes me like a giant cloud of poisonous vapor. Then I sleep fifteen to twenty hours. I tell people to go in and out of the bedroom and ignore me lying there, as if I were dead. I won’t talk on the phone. I won’t open my eyes if I don’t have to. I dream terrible, upsetting dreams.

I want to kill myself. But I can’t. I can’t do it to other people, and I have work that must be done, novels that must be written. So I don’t kill myself. Besides, I don’t think it’s good to kill oneself. It’s a horrible idea. It has a horrible effect even on acquaintances.

I think a lot about people I loved who are dead. I think of how dead they are, year after year, ever more dead.

[dawnisawound]

I'm so thankful for the permanency of the internet. you can watch a movie from the 1960s and somewhere someone out there went through a hyperfixation on it ten years ago.

[dawnisawound]

coming to the internet to see kinks beyond my comprehension

[dawnisawound]

following the horny sideblog to get a better understanding of human nature

[dawnisawound]

I made a burner Instagram account just to create an algorithm that will show me the most fucked up horny reels

[dawnisawound]

it is raining. somewhere an earthworm has climbed out of the only home it has ever known to escape drowning. They will be flattened by the shoe of someone that did not see them. It will lay in its last living position until the rain washes it away. But for a moment, it is resting on the sidewalk beside overgrown grass.