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Genuinely amazed the people in my life don't instantly block me when this is how I respond to everything.

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The Vault,  Andrés Cerpa

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So my partner was on pinterest and found this

Who did this

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Bark bark

The dogs barking outside the window again

and you still can’t sleep

The sheets are too hot even with the fan on

your skin is even worse

Toss and turn

Toss

And

Turn

You still can’t sleep

Lying down makes everything good settle

to the bottom of your skull

Memories that felt happy

feel suffocating and weighty now

Every noise and tiny beam of light feels

like splinters in your head

The barking is only getting louder

and your neighbor is nowhere to be found

But eventually, the dog runs out of breath,

and the barking stops

The air cools as the night continues

and sleep starts to feel not so impossible

After all

Everything will pass

- Magpie

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- October 7, 1915

- The diaries of Franz Kafka, 1914-1923

[ID: Insoluble problem: Am I broken? Am I in decline? Almost all the signs speak for it (coldness, apathy, state of my nerves, distractedness, incompetence on the job, headaches, insomnia); almost nothing but hope speaks against it. End ID]

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Fuck it.

If this post reaches 10k notes by the end of. Say. March 2023. i’ll read the entirety of Homestuck.

Do it fuckers you won’t.

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🤠🤠🤠🤠

(Link)

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Fuck it.

If this post reaches 10k notes by the end of. Say. March 2023. i’ll read the entirety of Homestuck.

Do it fuckers you won’t.

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I was bored so I wrote a poem about Tommy and sewing.

“His hands shake, and yet he keeps creating

Weaving clothing and braids with aching

Hands that hold onto a dream he cannot seize

A budding flower in a violent breeze

Thrives nontheless, blooming

Like bruises on skin as he continues pursuing

Peace, or a facsimile thereof

It aches but he smiles; it’s a labour of love

Thread stitched through fabric and flesh nevertheless

Cannot sew together a mind subject to unkindness

He grasps for peace of mind while pieces of mind fall

Through the cracks and the misused protocol

Of the Pandora’s Box yet unopened

He left his hope in

There, when hands around his neck

Ended his life, a colourless void stretched

That was peace of a sort, he supposed

But it was a place where nothing grows

And when it does, it’s for the worse

A curse on the mind he’s left to nurse

It hurts, but he’s grown numb to pain

Grown used to the urge for opening a vein

He’s done searching in vain for an escape

As his broken body gains more scrapes and suffocates

He sits and he sews like he used to before

Before disks, before nightmares, before all the wars

He sits and he sews and he hopes and he prays

That’s something that no one will ever take away.”

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in a few days, i’ll be on a beach so bright i can see the sun through my fingers, each thin vein lit up blue like a heron’s leg. this poem is not so much about a beach as it is about arriving, blowing stop signs until the coast affirms that lines are always changing, and the tide tells me my body can morph as many times as it needs.

“Summering in Wildwood, NJ,” Water I Won’t Touch, Kayleb Rae Candrilli

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Watch me build a life and feel fed. I’ll leave hurt at the door. I am so painfully full of love. I could even say my heart is simple, again.

— Kayleb Rae Candrilli, from “Transgender heroic: all this ridiculous flesh,” Water I Won’t Touch

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I am learning to imagine the future:

My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.

Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.

I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.

I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.

There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.

But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell

and on the other side, I see a tree

There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.

It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.

Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die

in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.

I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).

I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.

That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:

Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home

say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now

I am learning to imagine the future. There is a crack in the wall of this prison, of this machine, of this darkness, and through it, I see a tree.

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Sugarblood, Liz Bowen

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There's all these statistics, right, about addiction and mental diagnoses. I laugh, a little. I've always been one for sick irony. My relationship with alcohol lasted longer than any of my actual relationships. Granted, I always loved it more than them.

-my poem

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what do you guys think of this "rhyme" scheme?

I'd rather die than ever leave this place while I am still alive. it's not that I (I think) am brave - I don't know any other cove

is this air that hard to breathe? I thought that it would make us lithe. this place to me is like a lathe, the same one that you seem to loathe

this building has a feral ease. truths, once spoken, sound like lies. the hollowed land on which it lays pollutes my ears like scarlet prose

if I followed would you lead? I worry we've our love belied, I worry we've too long delayed. you carry such a heavy load

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Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

Allie Ray, Holler

Richard Siken, Crush

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At night when I can hear me breathing in you  and your skin’s warm under my hand                                I see through a cloud of colours,  on your right shoulder there are the water’s sunny reflections,                                my childhood, in a new alliance  of shore and water, and the water’s risen, and I was almost too tired to make it up the hill, I made  it, and then I was in a blue atmosphere,                                I could see a boat I raised my hand, and the water, it went on rising.

In my memory, have I undressed you,                           you, in my memory, a creation of caresses, a seaworthy rock in my lap.  Sun, and a sun in my hand, I down through my years, a tern-plunge in the water, ah, ooh, and out, even the  waders find each other in these waters.

There are maples                 all over town, last spring leaves even sprouted from the trunk,  l’m waiting for this tree to grow into a shade for my hot room, each spring it stretches up its crown,                         its blossoms  are in the window already, its window  on your eye-level in this town,                        from this height  it’s a single tree, from below it’s many.

– Mirkka Rekola, from Puun syleilemällä (‘Embracing a tree’), 1983; translated by Herbert Lomas