etherealhiraethsworld - Tumblr blog

[etherealhiraethsworld]

Sweet Nothings.

I allow my mind to fill with sweet nothings as he whispers them in my ear. His greedy hands running over places I do not want to be touched. 

“I love you” 

“Don’t you love me?” 

“Your body is perfect.” 

“Please, just this one time?”

“You’re so beautiful.”

But I am not beautiful. I am not perfect. At least not in the way he thinks. I’m beautiful in the way that I pretend, for everyone, that I am good. That I am worth keeping around, if only to satisfy yourself. I’m beautiful in the way that I suck in my stomach, aching to be desired by someone. I am not beautiful in the way that I don’t give kindness, generosity, or courage, but I’m always too eager to prove my “love.” 

It wasn’t love when he shoved his hand down my pants and wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t love that motivated him to cry and beg and apologize. I’m not sure what love is--maybe it’s butterflies in the stomach, or excitement at the prospect of spending time together, or maybe it’s the ability to open up and learn together--but it’s certainly not this. Not fear, panic, and screaming. It’s not trapping someone and ripping the fabric from their body to satisfy your own cravings. Love doesn’t create a desperate need for escape or dreading spending time together. 

There are things you hear, but refuse to accept. I never wanted to believe people like this existed in this world, or that I’d ever cross paths with someone and hate them so much. 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

Hurt to feel.

Why? Well. Pick a reason. I’m exhausted. Angry. I feel I deserve it. I can barely force myself out of bed. I’m going through it all alone. The pain is exhilarating, the only time I feel anything. I want to die but I can’t and and and -- Or do you prefer an explanation that you can easily swallow -- I’m sad and I do it for attention. Because, really, I’m fine. I’ve always been fine. I’ve always had to be fine. 

I’m fucking tired of keeping all my friends alive when I don’t want to be. Are we sick? Or is it just because we’re teenagers? 

“It gets better.” 

When? How long do I have to wait before I can feel some relief? I’m not a patient person; maybe you’d understand if I held your head underwater and made you wait for air. 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

My room.

My room is a time capsule of everything I’ve been through. Every phase I temporarily entertained. Every breakdown, countless bouts of uncontrolled laughter, sleep overs hosted with friends. From the “mom” written in sharpie on the back of my door now covered in grey paint to the millionth tiny hole I put in my wall tacking up something I loved or thought important. Projects left scattered and abandoned, the ruins of my fixations. 

Trinkets on every surface, little nick-knacks I’ve collected representing the weirdest parts of me. Journals filling my shelves, ink spilled across pages revealing my darkest parts of me, my most traumatic experiences; the accompanying books that got me through it alone. Rufus on my bed. The bear that’s absorbed every tear since I was nine, my little man I can’t sleep without. The quilt, made by my grandma, of scraps that were once my favorite color; a color I now despise, the same color of my walls. The camera collection that I cling to for fear of losing my most treasured memories. My nightstand covers a spot on the wall left from a candle... I now understand why I’m always warned not to leave them unattended. 

Bags of clothes from periods I want to leave behind, a safe with a notebook inside full of letters, a drawer concealing a box of blades. The towel hidden behind a set of drawers, containing my worst moments. Walls that have heard my sobs, comforted me with their familiarity, and allowed me to mark them with my progression through life. Stuffed animals I’ve had for as long as I can remember and a chest full of stickers kept on the same shelf. Everything I love most is kept within these walls, a confine of my own making.

[etherealhiraethsworld]

Travel.

The pain I feel when I say I want to travel is visceral, almost palpable, as though I could extend my hand and grab it out of the air, pulling it from within my body. There’s simply no way for me to articulate the ache I feel in my soul. Every word is too mundane for what I wish to accomplish. 

I want experiences and knowledge. I see a video of a forest next to a mountain highway and I want to cry. The deep, intense pressure in my chest and a burning feeling spreading down my throat. I feel desperate, completely feral in my need to leave. To go somewhere and never stop moving. I hear coworkers, family, and friends tell tales of places they’ve been and I’m jealous. My innate desire to travel manifests into a physical pain I feel coursing through my entire body, hours upon hours spent daydreaming of of these places I’ve never been. Running through the waist-high grass of a field in a valley between mountains. Driving down the Pacific Coast Highway at 65 mph watching the sun set over the ocean. Walking through a forest at dawn, sun streaming through the branches of the trees to be absorbed by the mossy carpet. 

I hear the sounds of birds every morning before the sun begins its daily ascension and I wish, with every muscle and tendon--down to the most infinitesimal scrap of my genetic makeup--that I could be one of those birds; to be free, no chains, no entrapments like money or borders. I hear the laughter of my favorite people and I’m placated, but not for long, because I’m reminded between breaths that I am not meant to be in one place forever. 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

I am mad.

For 17 years, I’ve missed out on friends. Sure I’d had some sleep overs and birthday parties, maybe weekends at the [race] track, but up until this year I’ve watched my friends go out and walk around town. I’ve listened to stories of them hanging out without me. I waited two years longer than I should’ve to get a job because my parents needed help at home and mom wanted me in the cities.

I had to get my own rides or wait until it was convenient for Dad to go to town in order to see my friends. My life has always revolved around Dad’s schedule. I felt SO guilty asking for rides and money to do these things. I’m standing in front of my mirror buttoning my shirt while my hands shake, eyes filled with tears, repeating “I’m fine” over and over again. I’m never allowed to break down or cry. I can’t break shit or scream or yell at anyone. I can’t say “Fuck you. Fuck off. Get out.” I want to scream and break things and fight people and I want to be allowed to be mad. I’m mad that I missed out on my childhood. I’m mad that I was always too scared to freak out, like being angry meant I wasn’t worth loving.

I’m mad. So god damn fucking mad I couldn’t have food or friends or be in clubs, but [step-mom] will spend 2 hours a day in the car so [little sisters] don’t go to a school that requires masks. I’m fucking furious that I had to grow up alone and that I never fucking had anyone there to wipe my tears and make it okay.

I am so fucking angry that I have to learn how to take care of myself emotionally and physically because no one taught me how. I learned yelling and greed and violence and take what you want and “I’ll give you a reason to cry,” “fuck you she’s a fucking bitch,” “you’re stupid,” “you don’t know anything.” I am fucking sick and tired of doing what’s asked of me. I want to break rules and sneak out and have fun. I want hugs and kisses and “I love you, it’ll be okay” and dancing in the rain. Popcorn on movie nights, sitting in the living room without fear of being shunned by a person who was a better mom than my own. I want “I’m happy you’re here, I’m happy you exist,” not comments about my self-harm and “you’re lazy,” “you’re weak,” “clean your room.” Do this, do that, don’t fucking complain. Oh you’re taking a nap? You better fucking not be, you contribute nothing to the family. All you do is sit on your phone and hide in your room. “Look who finally left their room.” Well FUCK YOU. Fuck you for not making me feel safe being myself, fuck you for the slurs, fuck you for convincing me that hating myself for who I am is a good thing, fuck you for making me think I’m worthless unless I work myself to the bone.

Fuck you for making me feel like I have to earn my place in this family. I don’t need to work or do chores without being asked or get perfect grades to be loved. My life doesn’t have to revolve around yours. I’m sick of hiding who I am and what I believe in for fear of being bullied by my own family. Fuck you all and fuck this stupid ass house, I hate this fucking town. Fuck you for making me feel like a bad person for eating. Fuck you for putting the idea in my head that keeping me alive and feeding me cost too much.

Fuck you for excluding me and telling the girls I don’t love them because I don’t hug them enough. Fuck you for making me feel like having the body I do is wrong. Most of all, fuck you for never fucking listening to me. I have to fight and cry and scream and wreck myself just to get you to hear me, and still, you don’t. I get good grades, I do my chores, I’m respectful and quiet and don’t bother anyone unless I’m asked and you still don’t fucking listen. I’m angry, I’m sad. I want to die, I want to be free, I want to be a child, I want to heal. I don’t want to have to break my body to be strong and make you happy. But that makes me weak. That makes me selfish. I can’t ask for help, I can’t be excited, I can’t have hopes and dreams. That’s all too selfish. How dare I want my own life. How dare I be or do anything except come home for you to poke and prod and make fun of. How fucking dare I be my own person with my own thoughts, wants, needs, and human nature.

I am not a burden. I am not yours. I do not and will never belong to anyone but myself. Being curious doesn’t make me selfish and wrong. Fuck you.

[etherealhiraethsworld]

words I’m in love with because I wish they loved me.

Hiraeth: a homesickness for a place you’ve never been; a nostalgia for the past  

Ethereal: extremely light and delicate in a way that seems too perfect for this world

Caelum: the sky/heavens 

Idalia: behold the sun 

Novalunosis: the state of relaxation and wonderment experienced while gazing upon the stars

Apricity: the warmth of the sun in the winter

Kalon: beauty that is more than skin deep

Amaranthine: eternally beautiful, unfading, everlasting, undying, immortal

Eunoia: a pure and well-balanced mind

I hope one day my partner describes me using these words. They tell everyone I am an ethereal being. I am so beautiful to them that the hiraeth they feel for me is overwhelming. I want to be selfish with their words, I want them to talk and talk about the ways they love me and why. I want to be loved in a way no one has ever loved another corporeal being before. I want them to say they see caelum in my eyes, idalia in my soul, and that my presence feels like apricity. I hope they show people pictures of me and say “they have kalon, more than anyone I’ve ever met.” I want someone to tell me that I am amaranthine, to its truest definition, and that their memories and love for me are the same. When they describe their love for me I want them to say that loving me gives them eunoia. And most of all, I can’t wait to wake up in the morning in a cabin in the forest with the person I love the most and tell them they are every single thing I wish they would describe me as, because I love with my entire being and being with this person and experiencing novalunosis with them is the only thing I could ever want. 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. 

- Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

[etherealhiraethsworld]

helluo librorum 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

Look at everyone else... they are mere words, while you are poetry 

- Timothy Joshua. 

[etherealhiraethsworld]

Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.

Robert Siltanen