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have whimsy have joy you ask why there is a cut on my finger and that is because my favourite mugs have always and forever been the small ones with large rims because they feel real and heavy and yet small and delicate and so really it was fate for me to drop this mug, one i flinch every time i take and it hurt me back but no one else saw the blood over my hands because they looked at my boots from the last summer i spent in stockholm which ive need to fix for so many months now but i don’t think i ever will. theyre too big so the cut isn’t the real pain right now, the steps are.
1d ago
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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
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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
That's what I wrote two weeks into the cupboard after a healthy dosage of crying. Picture shows the state of the cupboard at that point. My home was fucked.
While cutting wood, I once again caught myself seething at my father. He stuffed my head with a million useless bits of nonsense but never found the time for actual knowledge or skills. So I stepped into the big world armed with the wisdom that "all Germans are fascists," "you shouldn’t stand out," and "razor blades can be changed once a year, don’t fall for corporate tricks." Meanwhile, I had no idea how to properly hammer a nail.
Waltzing on the edge of slicing my fingers off, I cursed him to high heaven. Every skill had to be begged from YouTube or acquired through cuts. And that’s on top of digging out a hundred idiotic clichés and racist banalities from my head. Thanks for nothing, you piece of shit.
But then, somehow, I felt lighter. Fuck that asshole and his colleagues in the grand guild of assholery.
I’m at the age where I definitely don’t need to become the "best version of myself" anymore—enough of that, please.
I just need to be a decent version of my own responsible adult.
The kind who explains, teaches, entertains, and helps. The kind who doesn’t try to destroy or sadden you. And in this concept, where you’re your own Parent 1/2/15 Pro Max, it becomes easier to look at both age and baggage.
You’re standing exactly where they failed with you. Don’t fail yourself. Help, make yourself laugh, and don’t let yourself slice your fingers off.
Feb 3, 2025
Top Recs from @ajajksaaaa
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i know, it sounds obvious, but when i get home late from work i never wanted to do that final extra step until about a week ago. its changed my life. the pasta tastes so much better and it doesn’t even take that much longer. i beg you, boil the water first. you’re worth it.
4d ago
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cd went platinum in my moms car and now that ive found it again i never want to stop listening, picture to burn is my new favourite post-breakup song and i will not stop screaming it
May 25, 2025