“You Don’t Actually Fear The Opinion Of Others, What You Really Fear Is How Their Possible Rejections

i don't pay attention to the world ending. it has ended for me many times and began again in the morning.

― Nayyirah Waheed, Salt

"The reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest men of past centuries."

-René Descartes

is there anything more fun than creating something and being able to say “this is how I feel”

This is secret code used by 19th-century diarist Anne Lister to record her lesbian relationships! And underneath, and sample of her diaries. Anne wrote 6600 pages, or almost 4 million words of these diaries, giving us a treasure trove of information about her life, and one of the only first-hand accounts we have of female same-sex relationships in the 19th century.

Now you too can communicate with your friends in secret lesbian code!

To learn more about Anne, check out our episode and follow-up Christmas special!

sorry for documenting my suffering and delusions online do you still think im hot

A Siren’s Song

When I walk past the places we once stood The air hums with the exact frequency of my soul A song for ears atuned to silence How could I forget them, those words we never did quite say ? They flood my black, night-darkened eyes like white river rapids A whirlwind, a maelstrom, crushing waves and groaling winds Just pure feral strength, sweeping me off my feet Your memory hits me, violent and tidal Dragging me off shore, to the mercy of furies Thoughts that I have not appeased for a long time I fear I will drown, choke on the heartache that fills my lungs I’m not sure I can survive you twice For the deepsea sirens await Like ferocious hounds, starved of food and attention Fangs planted deep in me, things I want to ignore But I once have howled with them For years and years, I called for you everyday My shrieks, silence swallowed them all My hoarse throat strangled with salt and bitterness I couldn’t keep singing and let you become a casualty of me I was deprived, thirsty for storms and thunder But I will swallow this ache, force the tumultuous waters to settle Much like I did back then, I will walk away Let the ocean creatures plunge back to their abyss Return to my darkness

Here is a not very Christmas-themed poem written for and inspired by @heartofmuse. I used phrases from some of her wonderful poems (which every one of you should definitely check out) as well as themes that are recurrent in her works. I hope you like it e.v.e, have a wonderfully merry Christmas and a new year full of inspired musings !

Daydreams

I want to go on spontaneous adventures with you in all the possible places in this beautiful world of ours.  I want to climb mountains in the Gaiain alps with you far far away where we will be completely out of reach. Why is it that your presence is the one I crave the most? everywhere I go, all I crave is for you to be there with me. I want to wake up at 4 am with you as its you I'm besotted by. With you I want to drive down to the beach and watch the sun rise and shine its rays into those heavenly eyes of yours which never seize to enchant me. Just me, you, and the ocean. I want to sit on top of the roof in your embrace, and reminisce about the memories I miss and wish I could relive. I want to listen to you talk for hours and hour about the things you love, the things that make you happy, your dreams and aspirations. I want to hear all the things that make you feel uneasy. I want to have such a strong bond that nothing but truth flows out of our mouths. I want to be able to shower you with all the love you deserve, treat you like the most precious gem that you are, and be nothing but devoted to you.

Excerpt from my thoughts

Empty Vessel

I’m empty.

I’ve given everything I have in me.

I don’t wait or truly ask for anything in return.

But now I have nothing left for me.

Not a drop has been added to my vessel.

And I’m alone and thirsty.

Desperate for some kind of sign that someone still cares.

I try not to ask for anything in return.

It’s not who I am.

But here I am.

Empty and alone.

If I ask now, I’m desperate.

If I’d asked then, I’ve lost my altruism.

They are content to watch me shrivel and dry up.

Their vessels are filled.

They may have some to spare, but none for me.

I’m not worthy.

I never was.

No amount of myself was ever worth one drop of return from them.

Yet I gave anyway.

I was worried they might one day thirst, they might need extra.

But they move on, filled to the brim.

Forgetting about the empty lonely vessel.

I collect dust.

Maybe even get knocked off the shelf and broken into a million pieces.

Not a piece returns a memory of me.

The one who gave her last drop,

To make him happy.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke