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Henrik Ibsen, from a play titled "The Wild Duck," featured in Six Plays by Henrik Ibsen

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its incredibly funny to me that the rest of the internet thinks tumblr is some sort of internet deadzone but every reference they make can be traced back to this website somehow. they dont think they’re quoting a tumblr post from 2011 but they are. they think they came up with goncharov but don’t know it started with a fucking shoe

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Just spilled green tea down my lips… guess I needed a reminder that some things are meant to be felt, not just sipped.

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Inside the sun, There’s a soul, afraid of lights, You’d never see her, For she lives in a dark room, Whilst the sun shines on us so bright, Perhaps what glimmers outside is all dark and drab on the inside. sparkandashes

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On my bed I lie with my phone,

Thoughts swirling, I feel so alone,

The pain inside, heavy and slow,

A dull throb, I can’t let it go,

Coffee’s warmth, but it brings no peace,

Exhausted, I just want release,

Frustration fills the air around,

Weakness settles, no strength found,

I wait.

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working through the period pain like a tortured victorian poet today.

today’s vibe: cancel everything. cry a little. maybe nap.

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Reminder to self:

Anxiety isn’t caused by what’s happening. It’s caused by what you think is going to happen. So, stop overthinking. Everything’s gonna be alright.

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Nowhere Town

The empty streets hum soft and low,

No sirens wail, no voices call,

I chose to stay; I will not go.

The world moves fast, but time is slow,

Here silence drapes like a gentle shawl,

The empty streets hum soft and low.

A town the maps forgot to show,

Where dusk and dawn are one in thrall,

I chose to stay; I will not go.

No neon lights, no traffic flow,

Just moonlit dust on crumbling walls,

The empty streets hum soft and low.

Some call it lost, but they don’t know,

That peace can live where echoes fall—

I chose to stay; I will not go.

No place to be, nowhere to go,

Yet this nowhere is my all.

The empty streets hum soft and low,

I chose to stay; I will not go.

@sparkandashes // a villanelle

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Hold me here, in this moment

where fingertips hesitate,

where the air is thick with asking,

and the answer is already known.

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A smile is free, but pretending everything’s fine? That’s exhausting.

social media is free but somehow, it still costs my mental health.

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Me after every book:

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The mysterious part about being a writer is that your muse doesn’t know they are your muse. They have no clue. No idea that a passing glance became a paragraph. That a throwaway comment now lives in ink. That the way they exist—careless, unknowing—has been rewritten a thousand times, just to get it right.

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