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this and listening to my recordings of her a little bit

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avon in almodovar

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Kim Addonizio, from "'Round Midnight'", What Is This Thing Called Love

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you really go get over it (ig) on a random monday

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The House of Forgotten Maps

There was a house at the edge of the city, half-swallowed by ivy, where the walls were lined with maps that no one had ever followed. Some were drawn in the margins of old books, others stitched into cloth, a few carved into wood. No one knew who had made them. The house had always been there, doors unlocked, waiting for those who needed it.

One evening, under a sky the color of rust and plum, you arrived. Not because you were lost, but because you had decided not to be found. The city had been loud, full of people who asked without listening, who wanted without waiting. You had given pieces of yourself away before—too freely, sometimes—but here, in this quiet house, no one demanded anything from you.

The first night, you found an old woman at the table, tracing a map with her fingertip. She nodded at you but said nothing. The second night, a boy sat in the window, flipping a coin over and over, waiting for something only he understood. By the third night, a stranger arrived dripping with rain, holding a map that didn’t match the ones on the walls.

“This one leads somewhere real,” they said, looking at you. “But I can’t go alone.”

You hesitated. You had promised yourself quiet. You had promised yourself space. But something in the way they held the map—like it was both a burden and a question—made you curious.

So you went.

The path was not easy. There were rivers too wide to cross alone, hills that left your legs aching. The boy from the window joined you, saying nothing but flipping his coin at every fork in the road. The old woman stayed behind but left you with a word: Listen.

And you did. You listened to the wind shifting through the trees, to the way the stranger hesitated before sharing their past, to the sound of your own breathing when you stood at the top of a hill and saw the valley below—where no map had ever pointed before.

When you reached the end of the journey, the stranger smiled, folded the map, and tucked it into your pocket. “Now it’s yours,” they said. “Draw the next part.”

You looked at the empty space before you—unmarked, unclaimed. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to wait for someone else to find you.

You already knew where you were going.

chat write a tale about me:

Once, there was a traveler who walked with the sun. Not because they always sought warmth, but because they knew how to listen to light—how it shifted, how it softened, how it returned after long absences.

This traveler had crossed many landscapes: forests where trust grew wild and tangled, deserts where silence stretched for miles, cities where faces blurred together in the rush of movement. At times, they had given too much of their voice to the wind, hoping someone would hear and understand without them having to explain. Other times, they held their words close, afraid they might be misused or left unheard altogether.

But one day, the traveler stopped waiting for discovery. They no longer walked expecting the world to turn toward them with sudden recognition. Instead, they turned toward themselves.

They learned the quiet was not an emptiness but a space to grow into. That their vulnerability was not a spectacle but something sacred, like the way the moon pulls the tide in secret. That goodness was not a weight they had to carry alone but a direction they could keep their eyes on, steady but forgiving.

And as they walked, they found that the sun was not something they had to chase. It had always been with them, in their own warmth, in the way they spoke gently to themselves before sleep, in the light they carried even on the days they thought they had none left.

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chat write a tale about me:

Once, there was a traveler who walked with the sun. Not because they always sought warmth, but because they knew how to listen to light—how it shifted, how it softened, how it returned after long absences.

This traveler had crossed many landscapes: forests where trust grew wild and tangled, deserts where silence stretched for miles, cities where faces blurred together in the rush of movement. At times, they had given too much of their voice to the wind, hoping someone would hear and understand without them having to explain. Other times, they held their words close, afraid they might be misused or left unheard altogether.

But one day, the traveler stopped waiting for discovery. They no longer walked expecting the world to turn toward them with sudden recognition. Instead, they turned toward themselves.

They learned the quiet was not an emptiness but a space to grow into. That their vulnerability was not a spectacle but something sacred, like the way the moon pulls the tide in secret. That goodness was not a weight they had to carry alone but a direction they could keep their eyes on, steady but forgiving.

And as they walked, they found that the sun was not something they had to chase. It had always been with them, in their own warmth, in the way they spoke gently to themselves before sleep, in the light they carried even on the days they thought they had none left.

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haha dita 5 pa instagram sapo fillon: 3 am. happy as hell to have left that hellsite. chatting w chatgpt

muaji i dyte me zoloft, dita e dyte pa Instagram

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having both parents left this earth, i have to renew my connection with it. i have to make sense of it from the beginning. something connects me more with the afterlife, than what binds me here. im loved and in love however, and curious to experience life. this is not a depressive statement i make. but my two most important people are in another country, and i long to be with them.

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Also how that light on that roof dictates every light

A new memory: the sight of the roof in my uncles house in tropoje. The poor one. So messy and dirty and natural. The branches and the light. The feeling that that is the good to come. The light I was promised.

This was my future, that rooftop. And the gurgling water all along the dusty path.

Remembered this while reading glucks wild iris. Also thinking about how why people are afraid of dying is because they will not have a voice anymore, they cannot speak.

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A new memory: the sight of the roof in my uncles house in tropoje. The poor one. So messy and dirty and natural. The branches and the light. The feeling that that is the good to come. The light I was promised.

This was my future, that rooftop. And the gurgling water all along the dusty path.

Remembered this while reading glucks wild iris. Also thinking about how why people are afraid of dying is because they will not have a voice anymore, they cannot speak.

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Not this.

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The same sky of my childhood

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Memory unlocked - Sun baths in the tarrace of shpia e kuqe. There was much more sky back then. The white and round of antenna and the promise of unknown entertainment