#existential musings

[leo-fie]

We all know existential dread, but I propose (and please tell be if this is already a thing) existential awe.

Sometimes when I handsew or weave or something I get this immense feeling of connection to humanity. People for thousands of years all over the world have sat down and sewn a garment. Archeologists find needles and awls all the time. When I'm tablet weaving I have the same frustration at the arduous process of threading the tablets as the person 2600 years ago must have felt when they made the bands that were found in a celtic man's burial mount not far from my home. They probably also felt their back after a few hours of this.

[infpisme]

[liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiily]

do you ever feel like your soul has a color? mine shifts with the stars

[incorrect-bridgerton-family]

Colin: What are we doing?

Eloise: Wasting our lives.

Colin: I meant for lunch.

[wordsfromwise]

[ares-exists]

by the way

do you think the birds in the sky take flight into the sky just to enjoy the breeze

or the tigers in the jungle prance in the tall brushes just to take in the greenery

or the mountain goats climb the highest peaks just to look at the world so small

or the fish in the ocean dive deep within just to submerge themselves into the abyss?

i don't know, but i hope so otherwise, im glad to be human.

[angrybookslibrariesfoodsports]

And what if she wasn't broken? What if she was a stained glass window. A mosaic piece of art layered with a miscellany of colors. Lilac. Umber. Azure. Each of her broken pieces laid together and fused into a larger picture.

[elisaenglish]

Sometimes a moment settles, sometimes it resurrects...

[barbaraa0911]

𝑊𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠,

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.

𝐸𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒, 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟,

𝑊𝑒’𝑟𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑎𝑟.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙,

𝐵𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑡 ��𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙.

𝑆𝑜 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠,

‘𝐶𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑠.

𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒—

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒se 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡,

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦, 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑢𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑡’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑤,

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑤.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒,

𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑡.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓-𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑎 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛,

𝑌𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛.

𝐼𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠,

𝐴 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛, 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐 — 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑚, 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑡, 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑒—

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡,

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡.

𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒, 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑑,

𝑇𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑑.

𝑆𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑜𝑤.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑛𝑜𝑤,

𝑌𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑-𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑤𝑒.

𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠,

𝑊𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑 —

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑, 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡, ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.

𝐸𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑎𝑥𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑡

( 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑑. )

𝑆𝑜 𝐼 𝑏𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠, 𝐴𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑤𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑙

𝑇𝑜 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒.

[lalithemidnightmuse7]

is fiction disagreement our new way of fighting ?

I do wonder—have we always been this hostile about fiction, or is this a new-age affliction? I’ve seen nations divided by politics, by war, by faith. But a movie? A character? Was my opinion on a piece of human imagination really that threatening? Did I have to love what you love to be good, to be lovable, to be sane?

Once, we crossed oceans and cultures to build bridges. Now, we tear each other down just to feel taller. We sharpen our words, not for insight, but for the thrill of being right. to be suprior!

‘I know this story better. I understand this character more. You just don’t get it.’

what if I don’t?

Stories were meant to unite us. So why are we fighting?

Maybe a person’s opinions on fiction reveal something about them. Or maybe they reveal nothing at all. Maybe, just maybe, some of us are just here for the pleasure of the story.

truly yours,

laly.

[dustanddivinity]

why i dream of something more

sometimes i think i was born in the wrong realm.

not just the wrong time, not just the wrong place—

but the wrong pattern of reality altogether.

the way people chase things that mean nothing to me.

the way everything feels hollow unless i breathe new meaning into it myself.

the rules. the roles. the way you’re supposed to fold yourself into what already is.

i’ve tried. gods, i’ve tried.

but the more i bend, the more i vanish.

and i’m not ready to be gone.

i want to build something that holds me.

not the version of me they pity.

not the version they try to "fix."

but the wild, aching, luminous one they never saw coming.

the one who knows there’s more.

i don’t want to be understood by this world.

i want to grow a new one.

one that feels like home.

one where the strange are sacred.

where symbols are language.

where softness isn’t weakness.

and where longing isn’t shameful—it’s a compass.

this isn’t escapism.

this is a reclamation of reality.

this blog is my altar.

a quiet place to whisper the things the world refuses to hear.

a place to honor the visions, the ache, the divinity buried in the dust.

if you’ve ever felt like a misfit god in a world that only worships sameness—

then maybe, just maybe, this space is for you too.

[laurachouettepoetry]

Weight of Ink

It is easier to write words that are not true, To imagine something worse than someone is, And to bleak the world with one’s own tainted hands.

Leaving marks all over imaginary people, Self-loathed places and cities that carry one’s own name, With nothing but a page to drown them in.

The weight of the world rests like a sheet of paper On a writer’s desk — filling up with ink that turns it dark, And still worth no more.

— Laura Chouette (The Willow Tree)

[oppsmuse]

The solar quarrel

‎The sun was so done, turning red seeing again a stupid human adding that tiny moon to their romantic gesture.

"Why is it always you? I give them life, yet they never romanticize me."

To which the moon smiled softly, "Maybe I'm not as bright as you? Maybe because I let people hide their real selves with the little light I cast over them and let it be dark."

Deep in thought, Sun sighed, "So you just hiding that inner rat inside those brats makes them like you?"

"Nope, me because I know how to use myself. I change, yet they love me."

[growingsoftly]

sitting on the floor of my room, wondering what the point of existence is. and i guess the point is to feel everything, even the bad and especially the good. because you can’t know one without the other. with that, i resume crying on the floor of my room.

[bellaj1977]

Solitude

Solitary In my stance Let the waves Wash over In a hypnotic trance Catch a breath In a gulp of a frantic glance Touch the crests In a dream per chance Sigh of latent wisps Fragile in the last dance Hold on to the delicate treads Caress the moon in the deep expanse Flow with the atmospheric rhythms Grasp the air in a invisible prance Undercurrent begins to swell Acuity in the tow adheres to farewell Swimming to the island enhanced By the blooms of the violet Immortelle I see my life woosh by in a flash Startled jolted anew On the discovery of happenstance

[aalysspace]

Pretty please could you watch my short film?

I've been collecting film clips since I bought my first camera when I was 12. I finally put them together during covid, and revisiting these memories after being diagnosed with a brain tumour helped me rediscover my own mind post memory loss.

TW for next paragraphs: abuse and suicide

Like many others, my childhood was rocky; full of abuse, anger and pain, I never felt like the houses I lived in were home. This film represents to me, the home I built for myself on my own. Through finding the beauty in the world, each clip represents one more reason to stay.

I share this now, after the death of a friend. He took his own life, left behind his dog and many friends. It can be especially difficult, losing someone in the same way you nearly lost yourself. There is guilt, anger, sorrow and loss.

It is in this loss, I think back to the years spent building this archive of memories. Tiny spaces in time that are safe and mine. I hope that in sharing this film, it inspires someone to seek their own pockets of happiness, each one a brick to build their own sense of home.

If you find yourself longing for a home that never was, please reach out. You are not alone. You are one of us. Thank you.