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Reccing this because got the intuitive hit yesterday that I need to finally write about my father‘s death and the hellish experience of grief possession I endured during lockdown. It’s felt like this looming experience that I know I’ve been needing to integrate, but was too scared to touch. I didn’t feel scared today when I was writing though, and I’m quite excited to make sense of a time in my life that feels very murky and icky to look back on. Who will I be?! What will I learn?! Time will tell and maybe I’ll share all about my father issues when I’m done 🤪
Aug 16, 2024
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I have had just multiple ego deaths and I just want to write about it. I.guess as a way to process it
Mar 20, 2024
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I've deleted Instagram. I'm stretching my ears. I'm making video diaries again. I write for myself only. I'm secluded, quiet, I'm grieving, I'm burying myself and I am being buried and I am attending the funeral. I'm alone in all of this.
It wasn't a new year resolution that led me here. It wasn't therapy or a fortune cookie or anything romantic. But I realize your story only matters if you plan on telling it to someone. Maybe as a response to something, "what the fuck is wrong with you?", maybe an intimate secret, maybe a drunken ramble. I'm done telling stories.
I've been alone for forever. Occasionally someone will drift too close, and I think maybe this time, maybe, maybe... And I'm left scarred, or left quietly, but always left.
Of course I have things to reflect on and things to take accountability for. But I'll be damned if I present my isolation as pure, as if I am a martyr. No, this is not for everyone's safety or my own digestibility. I am bringing the chisel down in sharp downward motions against myself again and again and and I will carve something new from this stone tomb. I'll never be David. I'll never be Michelangelo. But I can be something more than stone.
I am moving on. I don't know to where or to what end. It doesn't matter. Very little does, now. Maybe it always had such little meaning and I was just too close, to desperate, to see that. I wanted so badly to mean something. Even if it was just to be grieved. No one will miss me, now, as it's always been. But I also don't miss me.
Moving on.
Mar 26, 2025
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This might not make the most sense but if I don’t write it I know I’ll be angry with myself.
As someone who has always naturally been drawn to archives and journals and stories- I’ve found that I’ve been trapping myself in the narrative. The idea that life is a singular, vertical narrative, that pain is not simply pain but part of some bigger cycle of distribution and retribution. That pain is naturally repaid with love or safety or comfort. This narrative keeps me coddled in myself, it keeps me safe from having to face the fact that tomorrow might not be easier than today. That this year might not feel much better than last year. That as some things go on, they don’t always get lighter. They don’t alchemize from emotionally pain into material pleasure.
The hero’s journey tells us that the narrative follows simple steps. We are called- your alarm, a Britney Spears song, plays in the morning. Your car breaks down in an unfamiliar part of the city. There’s a death in the family. Whatever it is, the call is something that moves us from familiarity to the unknown. It pulls the hero into the journey. We will then face the unknown and hopefully overcome it. But what about the calls that we don’t answer? Or when we get stuck in the unknown? What about when we are braver than brave and we still cannot overcome everything? I’ve learned that sometimes our pain doesn’t come with atonement. Sometimes there is no return.
Life doesn’t fit into the narrative. The alarm in itself is a narrative, you set it the night before, or maybe you set it three years ago and you’ve been waking up to the same song every single day. The car is a narrative, the unfamiliar side of the city is a narrative. Why haven’t you been there? The death is a narrative explored and experienced by every person in your family, every friend of the dead, every coworker who called the morning after to see why they didn’t show up when their alarm went off that day. Everything is a million narratives coinciding and to trap ourselves into one, to tell ourselves only one story, is blinding us to the intricate nature of life. We cannot exist in only one dimension, and to choose to exist in various different- sometimes beautiful and sometimes horrible- narratives at once is to choose to stop coddling oneself, to stop following your pain like it always has something to give you.
Sometimes it doesn’t. Maybe that’s fine.
Mar 11, 2024
Top Recs from @mossyelfie
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For some reason this brings me into my parasympathetic nervous system
Mar 28, 2025
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FINDING SOMEONE ANNOYING AND IMMEDIATELY REALIZING IT’S BECAUSE THEY REMIND YOU OF YOUR YOUNGER SELF
OH BROTHER THIS GUY actually needs a lot of empathy and understanding
Apr 2, 2025
Breaking my very thin, almost non existent air of mystery because I got a haircut I actually like, my favorite jeans fit again, it’s a full moon eclipse, 70°, and both of my kids’ birthdays are today!! MAGIC IS REAL AND I AM FULL OF LOVE! 💗 💗💗💗💗💗
Mar 14, 2025