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sometimes writing feels like dragging your brain across gravel. but at least the gravel is sparkly. and covered in metaphors.

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Guys I need help with a name, which one do you all like best? And if you have one that fits these vibes comment it , I'd love recommendations and ideas.

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the first draft won’t kill you. it will just chew you up and spit you out and make you better. like emotionally. or like. worse. but in a literary way.

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When you're just casually writing, far enough along that you're not encountering any major issues, and then you come across the kind of plot hole where you have to close the doc and stare at a wall as you rework the entire plot

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I’ve decided that my 20s are actually age 25 - 35

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Oh shittttt I forgot this was my one wild and precious life

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Via Pinterest

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did you know public libraries are free and beautiful

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I've always been afraid I'll die before. Before what? Just before anything meaningful happens.

I was 13 or so and It was way before sunrise. I was awake sobbing to whatever gods existed to let me live. My mother would be awake in a few hours, and that would mean cereal and tea. But I couldn't sleep, I just cried until the pain stuttered my breathing and tears swelled the delicate skin around my eyes. Maybe they heard me when I begged for life, maybe that's why I'm still here. I always seem to be terrified of dying but at the same time I won't step out my front door to live.

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The progress of a solar eclipse. This Changing World. 1933. Internet Archive

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All Eyes on the Sumud Convoy

SumoudConvoy-tracker

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It's already June. Halfway through the year, sixth month and the sixth full moon.

The Celts called it the dyan moon; the midpoint. When balance and the slow decline towards autumn began, they also called it the mead moon; referencing the mowing of meads and meadow. I hope the next six months pass slow or at least slower than the last, I hope that I'm sustained through to autumn and winter, I hope I've mowed enough meadows, collected enough warm days and hopeful rays. I've slept through most of spring and now summer rings, I feel the itch to wake up.

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Eyes on the madleen freedom flotilla

freedomflotilla-tracker

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An old man is wandering down the sweets isle

Looking for something

Something he's lost

or forgotten

It's hard to know the difference

Can he find it in a bag of boiled sweets

His hunched figure, grey and pale is the image of "Don't forget me"

No one wants to be forgotten

If all he has is what hes lost

How much do you have

The old man has found a bag of boiled sweets

They taste like childhood

They smell like home

His children never answer the phone

He eats the whole bag alone.