#isolated thoughts

[the-way-we-were]

No parking…

[wanderingmindthoughts]

I think we have an issue about how we characterise young teenage girls as "sexualising themselves" because they start wearing makeup, adult dresses, short skirts and red lipstick.

I mean, when we see a 14-years-old boy wearing a suit and a tie, we don't think he's sexualising himself. we just think "oh look, a teenager that's exploring his autonomy and adulthood by distancing himself a little from children, something which is pretty normal at his age". and you can't tell me that it's because suits aren't sexy, because many people think suits are sexy and it's in fact a common fetish.

but whenever a teen girl tries to dabble with a more adult and "mature" presentation, we think of sex. we think she's sexualising herself. I think the root of this issue is that we have thought-patterns based on a fundamental idea inherited from patriarchy that's rarely verbalised explicitly, but that we believe anyway. this unspoken assumption is that the only difference between a girl and a woman is that you can fuck the woman legally. and when that's only difference between a kid and an adult, we can't help but see every sign of teenage normal growth (social, physical and even mental) through the lense of sex. this puts an unfair pressure on girls because we force them to self-police and second-guess every one of their thoughts because *we* (the adults) cannot help but see normal teenage exploration of adult apparel as sexual -but only when it's a girl teen and female adult apparel.

therefore, a girl tries to visually send a message that she's not a little kid anymore, that's she's growing up and maturing, and rather than acknowledging her development and need for autonomy (like we do with boys), we think of sex. and how could we think otherwise? we sexulise adult women as a reflex, everything from their clothes to their bodies. boys can wear a suit; do girls have any equivalent to that? any form of visual self-expression that signals adulthood that is *not* sexualized?

we deny girls the possibility of a nuanced teenagehood, because we (the adults) cannot see a girl separating herself from childhood without somehow thinking about sex. that's disgusting.

[marisfeathers]

I wish I was a cute anime girl sitting in her room all day and wearing frilly tops and mini shorts

[cringecasket]

[jeonjayykkayy]

𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 I 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

—Fading Into You—

Pairing:

Yandere!Y/N × soft!Jungkook

Word Count: ~2.7k

Genre:

Psychological Thriller · Toxic Romance · Obsession · Angst · Darkfic · Tragedy

Content Warnings:

Yandere behavior · Psychological manipulation · Non-consensual intimacy (implied) · Drugging · Emotional abuse · Mental breakdown · Isolation · Dependent relationship dynamics · Power imbalance · Distorted love/obsession · Trauma response · Dubious consent · Gaslighting.

Summary:

Jungkook is trapped in Y/N's obsessive love, where manipulation, control, and dependency become his reality. As the line between affection and torment blurs, he struggles to remember what freedom felt like, while she keeps him bound in a twisted cycle of desire and pain.

He remembers doing it. Every harsh word. Every final tear. The suitcase was thrown open in the middle of the night. The apartment door slammed behind him. The look in her eyes as he left—the kind of pain that etches itself onto your soul.

He remembers the silence that followed. The relief. The ache. The weight of freedom pressed against his lungs. He was supposed to be free. But now, he wakes up in her bed.

The light is warm, orange, and lazy, leaking through blackout curtains and tracing lines across the white sheets. There's a heavy comforter over him, soft as clouds and suffocating.

He can't move—not fully. His limbs are weighted. His neck is sore. The head is foggy and too thick to make sense. Everything smells like her. Lavender, rose, and a faint metallic tang. Familiar.

Intimate. Wrong. He blinks once. Then again. Soft humming. Then a voice—sweet, smooth, and far too calm. "Morning, baby."

His heart seizes. He jerks upright, dizziness crashing down like a wave. She's there. Y/N. At his bedside, dressed in pale silk, her smile was radiant.

She places a tray on the nightstand with a glass of orange juice and two slices of French toast, golden and glistening. She leans in and brushes his hair back.

"Still tired? You've been out for a while. The medicine can be heavy initially, but it helps with the transition." He stares at her, throat dry.

"W-What? What medicine? Where—"

She cups his cheek. "Shh, don't strain yourself—just rest. I've taken care of everything. You're safe now." His eyes dart around.

The room is familiar—but wrong. This used to be her room. Or... maybe not? The walls are painted differently now.

The air smells fresher. Cleaner. Newer. No windows. Just thick curtains that never move.

He pulls at the blanket. Beneath it, he's wearing unfamiliar clothes—soft pyjama pants, no shirt.

His chest is bare, scattered with faint bruises, as though he'd fallen. Or been dragged. Panic coils tight in his stomach.

"Let me go," he whispers. "I... I need to leave." She sits beside him, tucking a napkin into his collar, like they're sharing breakfast after a lazy Sunday morning.

"You left before," she says gently. "It nearly killed me. But you came back. This time... you're staying." His pulse races. "Y/N. I didn't come back. You—"

"Shh." She feeds him a bite of toast. "You always come back. You just forget sometimes. It's okay. I forgive you." He tries to get up. His body won't move.

She smiles, ever so tenderly. "Your body's still adjusting. You'll feel normal soon. You just need time. Sleep some more. I'll be right here when you wake up."

The door clicks behind her. Locked. The hours blur. He can't tell what time it is. Every moment feels thick and stretched.

He slips in and out of awareness. Sometimes she's there. Sometimes she's not. Always the same food. Always the same words.

"I missed you."I love you so much."You're better now."He screams once.

She puts a finger to her lips. "Don't. You'll scare the neighbours." He screams again. She doesn't flinch.

Day five. (He thinks.)

He tries the door again. Still locked. He throws the tray across the room. Food splatters against the wall.

She comes in silently. Kneels before him. Wipes it all up. He watches, helpless.

"You're scared," she says. "I understand. I've studied this. It's a trauma response. But it gets better. I promise."

"Let me go, please," he says. She smiles and climbs into his lap. He tenses. Her hand cups his jaw. Her thumb drags gently over his lips.

She kisses him. Not rough. Not demanding. Sweet. Tender. Loving. His hands remain at his sides.

"You said you missed me," she whispers. "You said you couldn't breathe without me. You were crying when I found you. Shaking. Cold. Alone."

"I—"

"You begged me to take you back."

"I didn't—"

"You did."

She leans in closer, her breath hot against his neck. "And I did. Because I'm yours. Always." He turns his face away, jaw clenched. She doesn't react.

She merely hugs him. Nightfall. Or so he assumes. She undresses him. Bathes him. Gently.

Kisses his shoulders as she towels him off. Holds his hand as they walk—he's too weak to resist. He lies back on the bed, and she slips in beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest.

"You're quieter today," she says, nose buried in his collarbone. "I like it when you're soft like this." He says nothing.

"I want us to be happy," she murmurs. "We can try again. A new beginning. No more fights. No more lies." She kisses his lips. He doesn't kiss back. She doesn't stop.

Day ten. (Maybe.)

He tries to starve himself. Doesn't eat. Doesn't drink. She holds him in her arms like a child. Rubs his back. Whispers lullabies.

"You don't have to punish yourself," she says. "I've already forgiven you." He sobs quietly. She feeds him herself. Spoon to mouth. Sip by sip.

"You're doing so good, baby."

The loop continues. The bed. The tray. Her smile. "I love you."

"I know you love me, too." He wonders how long before his memory fades entirely.

How long before he starts to believe her? How long before he wants to believe her?

The light is too bright this time. Jungkook wakes up again. Same bed. Same scent.

The ceiling above him wears a fresh coat of paint, white and perfect. No cracks. No dust. Not a single blemish to prove that time has passed at all.

He doesn't move. He listens instead. The sound of birds chirping. A breeze. Humming.

Her voice. It always begins like this now. "Good morning, baby." He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch.

She leans over him like she always does, eyes too wide, too loving. She kisses his forehead.

Her perfume sinks into his skin. Her touch burns him. Her lips are a brand.

"You're quiet again. Are you thinking about that? About the last time you left?"She always says the same things.

He's trapped in a carousel made of memories he never permitted her to shape. Days repeat. Movements mimic. Smiles don't change. Neither do her lies. But today—

He remembers something. The pain. The cries. The screaming. The loop. She doesn't know he remembers.

She doesn't know he dreams of her sobbing, screaming at him to love her again, while he claws at the walls until his nails bleed.

The room resets each morning, but his mind is beginning to fray. Cracks she can't patch fast enough. He tries to test it.

Watches where she places the tray. She hums the same tune when she brushes his hair.

She always dresses him the same—grey sweatpants, black T-shirt. Every bruise on his body fades overnight.

Sometimes, he hears the door open. A whimper. A man's voice. Then silence. He's not the only one here.

She makes love to him again. Or so she calls it. He lies still beneath her. Eyes glazed. Hands fisted in the sheets.

She rides him slowly, murmuring sweet nonsense. Kisses his chest. Whispers, "I missed you," as if she were who left.

He turns his head to the wall and counts her moans. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. She comes undone with a sigh and buries her face in his neck.

"You're mine," she breathes. "You're finally mine again." He wants to scream. He wants to throw her off.

But the drugs make his limbs too heavy. He cries quietly. She kisses his tears. Licks them away like they're holy. "We're okay now. You'll see."

Day... twenty?

He thinks it's day twenty. He tries to kill himself. He wraps the bedsheet around his neck, ties it to the headboard, and leans forward.

His knees buckle. The world spins. Then—

Hands. Arms. Her scream. "NO! No, n,o no, Jungkook—"

She sobs as she unknots the fabric, dragging him back onto the bed. He sees red where the rope burned his skin. She kisses the wound.

"You can't leave me again. Never again." She cries on his chest, rocking him like a baby. "What do I need to do? Tell me. Anything. I'll fix it. I'll fix you."

He closes his eyes. He dreams of her bleeding. The room changes again. Slightly. New flowers in a vase. New tray. Different mug.

She paints a mural on the wall—a meadow, filled with wildflowers and butterflies. He stares at it for hours. She sits beside him, stroking his arm.

"Do you remember this place? We went there once. You smiled there.

You kissed me without me asking. You said it felt like home." He doesn't remember.

But she makes him watch a video. A projector plays across the wall.

He and she. Laughing. Holding hands. His heart stutters. Was it real? Was it a dream?

Is she rewriting their memories, or has she pulled him into hers? He screams again.

She turns the video off. "You're still healing," she says. "That's why it hurts." That night, she touches him again.

But this time, he kisses her back. Just once. Just long enough for her to stop crying.

He tells himself he's buying time. He tells himself he's surviving.

But he dreams of her moaning his name with a feverish devotion. Of her nails dragging down his chest.

Her mouth left bruises like promises. He wakes up hard. Ashamed. Sick. He turns to the wall. She holds him tighter. "Do you love me?"

She asks it often now. He doesn't reply, but she smiles anyway. "You do. You're just scared. But I'll teach you again. We'll keep doing this until you remember." She kisses him gently.

His eyes are empty. One night, she cried harder than ever.

"Why don't you love me anymore?" she sobs, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Why can't you remember what we had?" He watches her.

Something shifts inside him. He reaches for her. She flinches. He wipes her tears.

She breaks down in his lap, weeping like a child. "I did everything for you. I gave up everything. They called me crazy. They said I needed help. But I didn't. I just needed you."

She kisses his hands. His chest. His neck. "I know you're still in there. I know you love me." He kisses her. Hard.

She gasps. Whimpers. They fall into the sheets. He lets her consume him. Let's her touch him everywhere.

She makes love to him like she's worshipping a god. He lets her believe it.

When she falls asleep, curled into him like a prayer, he whispers— "I hate you." But the worst part is— He's not sure if he means it.

She touches him, and he doesn't move. She bathes him, dresses him, feeds him like a child—and he lets her.

The man who used to kick and fight and cry is gone. In his place is something soft.

Quiet. Obedient. She thinks it means he loves her now. But it's not love. It's a ruin.

"Jungkook?" She kneels in front of him.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, arms slack, head tilted slightly as he stares at the window that doesn't open.

His pupils barely focus. His lips are dry.

"Did you hear me, baby? I said I made your favourite today." She touches his cheek. He flinches. Not visibly, not enough for her to see.

But inside, something shrivels. She waits. He blinks. Nods.

She beams, presses a kiss to his forehead. "That's my good boy." He hates it when she says that.

He used to cry when she touched him. Now, he just sits. Feels.

Feels her fingers trailing down his chest. Her mouth on his skin.

Her voice whispering soft nothings into the hollowed parts of him she's carved out over months. He lets her make love to him.

And afterwards, he curls into her like he needs her warmth to survive. Because he does. Because she's made it that way.

Sometimes he sees her watching him while he sleeps. Her hand cradled his cheek.

Her eyes were wide with a twisted love that borders madness.

"You're perfect like this," she whispers. "So quiet. So soft." He wonders what she sees.

Does she see the bruises she left on his psyche? Does she see the monster she made? Or does she just see her favourite toy finally behaving?

He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know himself. One day, he speaks. "Why me?" She turns.

She was brushing his hair gently, running her fingers through the soft strands. "What do you mean, angel?" His voice cracks.

It's dry, unused. "Why...me?" She pauses. Then she smiles.

"Because you were kind. Because you were beautiful. Because you looked at me like I was enough. Even before I became what you needed." He swallows.

She kisses the back of his neck."You don't remember. But I do."

He doesn't argue. He just sits there, letting her brush and kiss and whisper. His fingers twitch. Not from rebellion. From habit.

There's a calendar hidden behind the dresser. He doesn't know how he found it. He marks the days with a nail.

One for each time she touches him. Two for each time he lets her. By now, the wood is worn down.

He counts over a hundred. She gives him paint. "To keep your mind busy," she says.

He paints the walls with broken pieces of memories. A boy in the rain. A girl in red.

A shadow with wings. A body was curled up on the floor. She watches him and cries. "You're healing," she whispers.

He doesn't tell her he's dying. One night, she lies on his chest and asks him again. "Do you love me now?" He looks down at her.

At her flushed cheeks. Her damp lashes. Her lips were swollen from kisses he didn't return. He opens his mouth.

"Yes." Her eyes fill. "Say it again." He strokes her hair. "I love you." She sobs into his skin.

Kisses his chest. Whispers a thousand I-love-you's. He holds her tightly. And closes his eyes.

He dreams of freedom. But it hurts now. The sun in his dreams is too bright. The touch of other people—too foreign.

He wakes with a gasp, sweating, panting. She soothes him. "Shhh, baby. It's okay. It was just a dream. You're home." And he nods.

Because it is home now. She made it that way.

She starts talking about children. "One day, maybe. A little boy who looks like you. Or a girl who giggles like I do. Wouldn't that be nice?"

He says nothing. She takes his silence as hope. There are no more locks on the door. He never tries to leave.

She lets him go outside—to the garden she built just for him. He sits there for hours, staring at the wind chimes.

They sound like music. Like memories he doesn't want back. One day, she finds him humming. A song she used to sing to him in the early days.

Her eyes well up. "You remember." He nods. He does. He remembers everything now.

And he's still here. They make love again. But this time, he touches her first. She cries. He kisses away her tears.

"Forever?" she asks. He cups her cheek. "Forever." Even if forever means dying this way. Even if love means never leaving.

He clings to her like the broken man he's become. And she holds him like she's saved him.

In the dark, after she sleeps, he traces a heart on her back. Inside it, he writes her name. Because he can't forget. Because she made sure of that.

Because she is the only thing that feels real anymore.

And maybe...

Maybe he loves her now. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to live without her.

Either way— He doesn't try to escape. Not this time.

[just-a-moonflower]

[litchiteany]

If Man is an Island

If man is an island,

Am I breaching sacred ground—

A castaway with open hands,

Asking shelter, safe and sound?

Unmoored upon his shoreline,

No welcome in his tide—

Should I drift past lonely waters,

For land that’s true and wide—

Something rooted, rich with soil,

Not oceans to divide?

Why dwell where echoes linger

In caves of hardened stone?

Where silence guards the passageways

That none have ever known?

Where thorns and tangled grasses

Keep witness far away,

And wild fruit, untouched by hands,

Grows deeper day by day—

Cool streams and hidden valleys,

So close, yet kept at bay.

All this he keeps in silence,

Preserved beneath the sky—

Not mine to know or harvest,

But for another passerby.

🏝️

JI

5-16-2025

[whatareweevendoing]

Starting pride Month off strong. What if my parents didn't have a gay child? Hmmm? What if they had dead straight child?? the latter sounds much better, no?

[akimitsi]

it’s like nobody has time for me anymore. it makes me wonder if im the problem for not being more productive, or if i need to get a life so that im not dependent on anyone’s attention. my childhood friends have all grown apart and gone BOY crazy. and im just here wondering what im gonna do tomorrow.

[wanderingmindthoughts]

highschool years and adolescence are portrayed as this era of your life were you explore who you are, and figure some things out, and meet people, and start thinking about what you want in life because you're looking forwards to the future. and I just can't relate to that experience at all. during my teenage years I was forced into an environment designed to hinder the development of any sort of self-identity that wasn't based on highschool. it was made very clear to me that school came first of all, and that everything I had was conditional on school.

immediately after starting uni I got into a really bad depression that I only climbed out of by dismantling, examining and rebuilding every belief about myself that school enforced into me. so it is only now that I've left all of that behind that I have the time, money and freedom to... have a social life? try things out? do things for fun? I have never felt as much as a teenager than now that I'm pushing 30.

it's hard to talk about the feelings that this realisation is bringing. if my pet dies I have a social reference of how to talk about it, how to bring it up in a conversation. but I don't know how to explain that, even though selling your workforce makes for a shitty and miserable life, working fulltime is the easiest time I've had since I was 12. I don't know what to do when I'm explaining the harm school did to me and everybody stops listening the moment they learn that I wasn't bullied and that my grades were great.

this year I've taken up oil painting. my mother loves my pieces, but every time she praises one of them I can only think about is that I have been yearning to do this for 15 years. I *could* have been doing these lovely paintings for 15 years, but *she* wouldn't allow it because highschool was too important to risk distractions. how I am supposed to talk about THAT?

[azizab-loved]

I haven't said this in awhile but today I feel like I hate myself. I feel like a freak. I have persistent under eye bags and I'm only in my 20s. I can't stop vaping even though I want to because I'll probably go insane. And I'm lonely and isolated here in my bed day in and day out.

And I try. I really do. I have dreams. I want to go to grad school so bad. Don't even have an income right now. Don't know if I can afford my autism assessment at the end of August. And I'm so tired.

[theaenetworks]

Social isolation which can metamorphosed to loneliness create unhealthy environment especially for aged people who are in dire need of such social connections with loved ones to keep the aging process abreast. Young people who battle social isolation develop self-doubt and continuously question his character to get things done in the right manner. When someone can not intentionally reach out and communicate with other people, especially when they really want to have that connection with others. The world has developed massively on technology, aged people are not really built on technology while they strive on physical interactions and communication, with aid of technology to break barrier of social isolation may play little or no role.

Grandparents have overtime become big, in saying that they crave to carry their grandchildren, this is the beginning of fear of social isolation that creeps in when they make such statement either intentional or coincidentally, they want security of communication and social interaction which is very imperative for aged people, as social isolation will likely affect their health status. You need to keep the mind busy, that’s how to strive in those moments of loneliness. That’s why in some part of Africa, grandparents often time persuade to have grandchildren come over during long vacation, they want to occupy their minds as they were, and the kids are the perfect panacea to such problems which unending questions and observations.

When old age gradually creeps in and children live differently far from their parents, it becomes very difficult to adapt especially for someone who used to be very busy in life prior to retirement. Social isolation if it persist may likely create hostile environment for aged people which is very unhealthy considering their vulnerability health wise. Some people will hasten to bring caregivers, but it is always difficult to breed closeness at age old with strangers, even if they tend to make you comfortable more easier if it is someone you have known throughout your life. Social support becomes at the labyrinth, and the trend of social isolation attacks aged people’s health not like young people are proofed from it.

It is important to start thinking on how to improve your social network while you advance in age. Looking out for something that will constantly keep you in communication with other people, probably indulge your mind with little exercise of finding solutions to puzzled questions. Other habit that will help along the line is frequent exercise, healthy eating habit and punctual with your doctor’s appointments. This exposes you to kind of people you will meet every single day and will attract likeminds and that forms the climax of social network, and will perpetually keep social isolation at arm’s length. That’s why constant check up on your aged parents is pivotal for their social network and support.

https://anthonyemmanuel.com/the-dangerous-trend-of-social-isolation-common-with-aged-people/

#socialmedia #socialisolation #agedpeople #aged #oldage

[dontbemeantomepls]

lonely, lonely, lonely

lonely, lonely, lonely

let the words drape around

your shoulders, tight with unease

you don’t have to fight the

lonely, lonely, lonely

you can try and think it away,

me, i become someone else

when i stare at the cars

on the free-flowing highway,

a career man,

a single mother

a bartender,

their lives— as little as mine,

trapped in a silver box, sealed tight

all barrelling one after another

into the

lonely, lonely, lonely

i see me in them and them in me

my own worlds and words woven,

they gain slack, tighten, deceive

i am friends

with the sweet honey-drop whispers

of a man i’ve created inside my own head

he says,

there’s no need to be so

lonely, lonely, lonely

you see— this is the thing

in a conversation about you,

i’ve somehow turned it

all about me;;

i’ve marched out of every room

in this house,

tangled up the thread

‘til it became the web you see now

i wish i could make things easy

but i’m sorry to say

that the loneliness, too

is a ghost imbued in these walls,

the scent i’ve gone blind to,

the underpainting beneath joy,

the weight of the flood

before the flowers bloom,

the thumping of my heart

as it goes

boom, boom, boom

[theknightofsolitude]

Let GOD sort ‘em out.