e-m-o-c-e-a-n - Tumblr blog

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

Many a times I feel less

Then I think am I that cruel?

Am I not that human?

Then a leaf fall

And I'm crying

And I think that may be...

May be I am not that bad...

And may be I am a lot more human

Than I thought myself to be.

So I look at my friend who I was about to lose

And think that I'll get through this

I won't miss you much

And the time gets near

Inside me a fear is instilled

I miss you

I miss you

I miss you

I am human

Not so much bad too

Because I miss you

And my cheeks are stained with tears...

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

When I whispered my pain to the sky, the night bled through my eyes.

And I asked with solemn eyes, is it me or is it you who should survive?

An aberrant chuckle was heard from the heavens

And a mirror was placed.

"Now tell me child, is it you or is it you who should survive?"

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓮

❀Nesh

❀187 (y/o)

❀a hermit (most of the time)

❀has a deep affection for the stars

❀will probably cry at any given moment

❀dreams a LOT

𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓮

❀ my abyss my thoughts

❀ emocean's

❀ my reblogs are tagged as #muse of words

[Navi created: 17th September 2022]

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓼 𝔀𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓮𝓽𝓻𝔂...

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[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

Tumblr gives me the vibe the everyone here lives in a depressive small city, culturally dead, with not many opportunities, and that somehow feels like a village of 50 people. Which is why the trope of lovers running away, someone whisking you away, or stumbling upon a magical world by accident it's so popular.

That, or I'm projecting way too much.

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to Theodorus van Gogh and Anna van Gogh-Carbentus (Monday, 17 April 1876)

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

— Vi Khi Nao, Fish in Exile

[text ID: She made my body feel like literature, a place for the endless gaze.]

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

girls will see the moon everyday and be like MOON!!!?!!!?!!?!!?

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.

My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.

But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

“I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds — but I think of you always in those intervals.”

― Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

My Abyss My Thoughts masterlist

Welcome

Found You

Fake It

Chained

In The End

Hero

Wish

Darkness

Your Memories

Drift Away

The Art of Letting You Go

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

- N. M. Sanchez on Instagram

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

we are all but lovers... of stars, of the sky, of poems written in torn pages, of shared laughter with loved ones, of lingering scents from childhood, of friendships long left behind, of music on a rainy afternoon, of hidden love letters, of memories, of lover, of beloved... we are all but lovers... lovers of love...

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

Love should be easy, like sunshine on a summer day, like peeling oranges. It should be easy, but it isn't.

Some nights I still love the boy I loved when I was 13 even though I never think about him. He wrote me letters every time he missed me and played Panic at the Disco a little too loud. A girl I once held hands with all night told me that a full moon means the sun was happy that day and I still try to make the sun smile every time I look above. And it shouldn't have hurt when I told her I didn't love her anymore, I didn't. But some days I still do.

Love should be easy but it's old photographs, it's love letters that I still keep in a black box by my bedside table. It's puzzles whose pieces don't exist in my memory anymore. Love should be easy. It isn't.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

Grandpa always carried the rope grandma made before she died- a string of yellow, red and purple. And I tried to write a poem about that but it's not easy to make poems about a love that survived death, a love that kept living even when the lovers perished.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[e-m-o-c-e-a-n]

Mother, tell me what to do. How do I breathe without also choking on the air? How do I grow up without also losing my innocence?

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned