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[writeish]

Why does my mind act like a tropical fish. Floundering in water of too high temperature. Lulling in too low. Swimming in circles of meaningless meanderings oft 'bout menial tasks.

Why must my breath hitch and heave in fear at a mear fraction of perceived failure. A slight hint of the possibility that I won't make it to the pacific ocean. The oasis that IS what I dream for myself.

Why does my mind race like a track dog chasing the mechanical rabbit... Stare into space like a border collie without a herd.

My head spins at the thought that something is amiss. That I myself am fractured. That I'll be forgot and I'll deserve it. That these ideas are a disgusting desire to find depth in a soul without any.

Am I destined to despise myself. Constantly disappoint, and interally discipline, after digging so desperately to reach an OUNCE of this so called potential that others saw in me. The potential that I passionately picked at, polished and powdered to gain some semblance - a slither of a self in.

Am I a snake eating it's own tail. A worm that will cynically cut itself in half, just to grow it back again, in an attempt to appease it's environmental pressures.

I'm aware that my spirals are nonsensical. Likely irrational. That I will find a new meadow to sow seeds in if - WHEN - these fleeting frights show themselves to be true in nature. When the degree of my anxiety turns out to be right and warranted.

I'm aware that it is overwhelmingly probable that I will find some other activity to fill my days, as days drift on by. That I may find solace in scattering these sacred wishes to the seven seas, winds, or the cosmos to float and fly among the stars I had imagined skillfully soaring towards as some may have believed I would.

It isn't unlikely that I'll find a decent enough paying job. Rent a one - maybe - two bedroom house for the rest of my life and be content. But will I be able to call myself happy? Successful even? When I gave up on the thing I suffered most in an attempt to obtain?

What factors allowed me to evolve into a creature that thinks in these sparatically unsustainable patterns? What sickly, decriped, sour, itching form of humour was that.

To plant the poison ivy of brain chemistry in me, that scrapes against and scales up my skull in the most SUSPENSEFUL of breakdowns. That creates a chill in the nape of my neck that pricks like needles at times and hammers like nails at others.

I can almost forget that I'm wired this way. That my head for as long as I've known it has been filled to the brim with doubt and unanswerable questions. That I continue to scower and search for facts and measially morsals of information to drown them out. That I listen to music CONSTANTLY in order to hear myself breath. And sing or mouth along to feel myself untethered from the endless worry that wobbles and wurrels round and round. A spinning top in a world without friction or air resistance.

Why does my mind act like a tropical fish. A being that needs the perfect temperature. Like a tenaious dog needing a constant goal. A garden infested with a viscous weed. A spinning top that refuses to stop for even a second. Why does my mind act like a tropical fish.

[writeish]

It's my 2 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[writeish]

Aziraphale keeps the scientific articles that contradicts history he was there for in the friction aisles of his bookshop. Cue students that come in having trouble trying to finding them. (He keeps them around 'cause 'Humans come up with the silliest of things', and he likes to hear about it regardless.)

crowley the creationist but only because he was literally there

[writeish]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Inko, Bakugou Mitsuki Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Ghost Midoriya Izuku, Haunting, Lovesickness, Hurt No Comfort, Pain, Goodbyes, Bakugou Katsuki is Whipped, Bakugou Katsuki is a Mess, Bakugou Katsuki is a Little Shit, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Middle School, Middle School Student Midoriya Izuku, Middle School Student Bakugou Katsuki, High School Student Bakugou Katsuki, Quirkless Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki Needs Therapy, Bakugou Katsuki Needs Help, Bakugou Katsuki Needs a Hug, Midoriya Izuku is a Good Friend, Midoriya Izuku Needs A Hug, Midoriya Izuku is Not Okay, Midoriya Izuku is Not a Hero, Midoriya Izuku is Not a Villain, Midoriya Izuku is So Done, First Kiss, Last Kiss, Aggression, Aggressive Bakugou Katsuki, Passive-aggression, Sad, Sad Ending, No Smut, No Sex, Angst, Depressed Midoriya Izuku, Grief/Mourning, Apologies, Soft Bakugou Katsuki, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant Series: Part 1 of KatsuDeku Ship Week by IiamWriteish Summary:

[Ghost!Deku], [Haunting], Angst, No Happy Ending. aka Izuku sticks around after death and Katsuki doesn't like it (at first). ❗️S**cide, Blood & Main Character Death❗️

[writeish]

Please do not pass. Stop, watch and post. I need your help and support for me. If you cannot donate, post to your friends. We need you. We are in Gaza. Our situation is catastrophic. We no longer have a home 🏚or a source of livelihood.You have destroyed all our hopes and the dreams of my children. Please help me spread the donation campaign..

[writeish]

A Gift.

My birth name was a gift. It was a lovely home for me to snuggle up and hide from the cold shoulders soon to come. It was a garden to nurture and grow my self-esteem. It was a blanket to cover myself with and deter monsters that wish to crawl up from under the bed.

Eventually, the lovely house wore down. The cold shoulders made it in. My identity and self-esteem outgrew their pots. The monsters began to rattle the bed, and I found the strength to throw the blanket behind me.

My name was always mine. It will always be a home, and has been built to intertwine with my identity. My self-esteem is now planted in wildflower patches, and woods of never ending trees, with the space for leaves and branches to fall. My name and identity are a sword and shield that, combined with my previous experience protects me better than a blanket ever could.

My birth name has always had my back, and it will continue to fly close behind me, a cape, a symbol of all I've gained; thanks to a gift.

[writeish]

My cousins searched for chips in vain🥺

Resorting to lighting a fire to fry pasta 💔

Trying to satisfy their craving for chips 😢

Please help me evacuate my family. Every 1$ makes a difference in our lives

[writeish]

10 posts!

Wooo

[writeish]

https://pin.it/4aoz6rh

Her eyes scam and scroll over the ornate cravings that spread through the trims all across the room. Four fingertips caress the spines of the books stacked along each shelf, murmuring the title inward as she passed. She'd barely seen a percentage of the books on display here. She sunk into the endless thoughts of possible contents.

If she had the technology available to us, she'd have taken pictures or a video of all these intriguing books. Or better yet, find them online before coming to the ball altogether. Then maybe she'd have something to talk to all the young bachelors about. Yet, she was only here because her uncle was attempting to send his daughters off with one of the young lords. As the daughter of a Duke herself, she is much more eligible than her virtuless lady cousins. But to her dismay, uncle refuses to mention his brother. And through extention her past and comingsfrom.

She came to wonder if anyone would mind her pacing time reading on the loveseat instead of in the party.

'Surely not...'

[writeish]

Lime, Fern, Olive, Jupiter. Green incompasses me. The beauty of the world can never be ignored in the vast gardens all over. They complete us in some way, cover us, restore us, treasure and revere us for having such an enate ability to move and explore, create and adapt, all within our self. While the greens of our outer world must share with fast incoming generation to even dream of catching up. They are green in many ways. Envious of us, grounding us as to share a moment of movement together. At the same leisurely pace. Some variaties grow unique petals, devour devious, putrid pests, and express elaborate scent, just to be picked to be closer by. Others so hateful at our accomplishments attempt to poison or prick us to slow us down. We are always drawn in - as they want us to be. Yet, I don't see the harm in partaking in their fruitful labors that do most nothing but calm my mind and breath.

x - x / x - x 🍃

[writeish]

Down, down, down. Inch, by inch, by inch. I sink into the obivion of the most shameful parts of me. The sorrow piles in bricks across my back, and a whole is drup into my stomach. The weight brings me further into my fears, deeper into this ditch. Holding me hostage. Stilling my legs. Ruthless ridicules and specific slanders surround me. Slowly, they cover me up, another skin. I am powerful - until it squeezes me with the strength that I seem to no longer have. It pierces me, invades me most innerself, claiming it as its own. I feel as though I may turn into nothing but these words. I must push them out; fighting may be my final chance. But what if they have taken all I could have used to stop them.

[writeish]

🏳️‍🌈?

🥰

[writeish]

Papers stack in a feverous frenzy, straightening themselves. A shaking sticky type writer litters lyrics and sentences to fill every pages. Red, brown and black thread the papers together and a tub of glue binding them to the cardboard covers.

Small breezes carry the words to their rightful stop on the shelf; organised by theme and then author, to await their final reader. Their new home. In a dusty old attic or as a teatable centerpiece.

[writeish]

Rays of sun kissed the tops of small branches and stretching leaves. Only if time slowed its brisk pace would you be able to note all the wonders of forest; trees would dance to the birds sweet tunes, foxes would playfully pounce on their pairs and frogs would jump from place to place to find the perfect perch.

source

[writeish]

Melancholy, Part 1

An eerie song plays alongside the hushed, whisper-like calls of small birds and rats. Although it is evident that there are far worse predators than that. Blood, a deep shade of burgundy can be found splattered all across the meadow. Even on feral bunnies' backs as they jump from one patch of grass to another, disrupting the fresh morning dew. It is hard to lose it, the fear that you too could be taken by this merciless being. You're better off just getting used to it and preparing yourself. You wouldn't be able to survive otherwise.

A purple mist lurches from the base of every other tree, causing yet another reason to fear this place. A snake slithers towards one of these trees and you wince, knowing what is about to happen. The yellow and green snake strikes the air as it enters the mist's unforgiving grasp. It is held jaggedly in the foreign body's clutches. In a way, it resembles the black geometric patches that trail down the snake's back. ‘What a shame...,’ you thought, yet another lost to this place. However, only the fittest can survive, you've come to realise that now.

(No adaptations or add ons for this on. This is a long-term story I plan on seeing through.)

[writeish]

Also feeling bad when its a short story because they will never have a fuller life in a way..

do you ever feel guilty for starting a new story? Like you’re letting your characters from your other story down even though you know they don’t really have feelings and control everything they do but you still feel bad?

No? Just me? Okay.

[writeish]

Life.

Life sometimes shatters the soul that experience it, yet those that don't wish with all the energy within them to join the fun. Calamities and heartbreak be damned. Blobs or green, blue, pink, and purple of all assortments rejoice as another leaves the plane; internally begging for their time to come. When other returns, they become bombarded with bashful, repeative, and sometimes conniving queries of their adventures in the different universes they had delved into. Each reacted differently.

Older souls drowned in the questions of their younger peers. Often telling their stories in great detail, however saving the sweet and sourest of them all only for themselves.

Those that had little experience in these worlds asked and told little to seem knowing and mysterious, but keeping a figurative ear out for anything that may be useful later.

The youngest would sputter and jump around in their retellings, trying their best to first share the best parts before minor plot lines later. Friends would try to digest as much as they could before asking questions, but many got lost along the way.

Tales popped out of nothing to help the listener image the ever expanding lanes of each. With vivid colours and the finest strokes capturing every word. But the creatures depicted were never as they looked in life. All were shown in a common style to the souls themselves, with surges flowing throughout whenever a strong emotion plagued a character.

Time moved strangely here. Spirits would sometimes take minutes, other times years to return. It was never predictable, though many tried making games out of it during longer stays.

When it was time to go a small space in the plane, they would call to them. Each was eager to go if not to experience the same life as the last, then to live a better one. Speaking short goodbyes, they would ease through the gap. On returning, they would enter through the same spot as through nothing had changed. To be greeted with many curious faces and kind welcomes before settling down to wait for the next.