š¬ļø
Running
not away, not toward, just running.
Up the hill, against the weight of gravity,
against the pull of the world that says, stay still.
But you donāt. You canāt.
The earth soft beneath your feet,
the sky stretching wide,
the wind pressing its hands against your back
as if it, too, wants you to keep going.
And maybe this is all life really is
a series of hills, a series of moments,
where you forget to question why
and simply let yourself move.
Jan 28, 2025
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i used to chase rainbows
walk a few blocks maybe
then turn around cause i always knew it was fruitless
now i do the same for sunsetsĀ
try to stay up for sunrises
i never succeeded but i always look back
i keep swinging and dreaming of the sun rise i never saw
all i have is the orange horizon that never finishes its downfall
i close my eyes and listen to the cicadas
i take a deep breath and ask god to changeĀ
but i open my eyes and the sun isn't set
hours after it was supposed to
my legs are tired but i wish to swing
my head hurts but i can breath
the car lights blind me and i hope they don't think of meĀ
the bright fluorescent lights highlight my growing roots
not blonde but not entirely brown
dull and indecisiveĀ
so the next day, I walked further, I tried to see the sun for a better angle since I once again missed the rise
I seem to have walked quite too far, so the sky was blank, covered by trees and high skylines so I go back and turn around feeling the cars go by me almost hitting me each time, and I immediately regret that I didn't walk even further to see what was beyond the bend, maybe the trees would clear away and iād finally see the set from a perfect angle
I hope one day I'd find myself back to a tall mountain Ridge where I could see the fall and theoretically the rise all by myself and nothing else in mind
but i didnt take advantage when i did have that perfect spot
Mar 30, 2025
šŖ¦
Falling into a hole, again and again, each time saying, āThis is not my grave. Get out of this hole.ā Climbing out, only to stumble into another, muttering, āThis too is not my grave. Get out.ā Another hole, and then another, holes within holesācascading, endless. Falling, rising, falling again. Each time insisting, āThis is not my grave. Get out of the hole.ā
Sometimes youāre pushed into the hole, defiant as you climb out, shouting, āYou cannot push me into this. It is not my grave.ā Other times, you fall unprovoked, tumbling into spaces already carvedārigid, ideological, impersonal voids. Holes whose walls were long dug by others. And sometimes, you fall into holes with others. Together, hands and arms forming ladders, you rise, proclaiming, āThis is not our mass grave. Get out.ā
There are times you willingly fall, choosing the hole because it seems easier than resisting. Only once inside, you realizeāthis isnāt the grave either. So, you climb, slow and deliberate, discovering that even after this hole, thereās yet another. And another.
Some holes linger, holding you captive for days, weeks, years. They may not be graves, but escaping them feels insurmountable. Still, you claw your way out, knowing the horizon holds an endless field of holes. Occasionally, you stop to survey them, yearning for a final, dignified place to restāa hole of purpose, of completion. Yet even then, you wonder about others who have fallen, who never climbed out. Sometimes, you think, perhaps they found peace in staying.
You move forward, torn between avoiding the holes and contemplating their inevitability. Sometimes, you fall with resignation; other times, with a stubborn resolve. But each time, you rise, saying, āLook at the strength, the spirit, with which I rise from what resembles the grave but isnāt.ā
Feb 24, 2025
Why would you do that to me?
I keep trying to locate the moment everything broke. Like itās a pin on a map I can circle in red. But there is no clear shatterpointāno clean fracture, no dramatic climax. Just pressure. Gradual. Relentless. Until one day, I couldnāt carry it anymore and I donāt even remember deciding to drop it.
Maybe the line was never drawn.
Maybe I was never taught I could draw one.
Is that my fault? His? Does fault even matter?
Was it an accident? Was it cruelty? Was it just the consequence of being small in a world that teaches people to take what they want?
I donāt know.
And Iām learning to live with not knowing.
But latelyāstrangelyāI think Iām healing.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. But quietly, like the way snow melts: slow and almost imperceptible, until suddenly thereās grass again.
Iām letting go of the obsessions that gnawed at me.
I have energy again, like I finally remembered how to move.
Iām picking up pieces of old joy, half-buried but still intact.
Iām remembering the things I loved. The things that loved me back.
And maybe, most importantly,
Iām forgetting the things that never really mattered at all.
5d ago
Top Recs from @sophiafone
Something cool I learnt recently is the theory of social thermoregulation. Itās a concept that suggests warmth, whether physical or social, can influence our feelings of connection and emotional well-being. The theory, in essence, proposes that our brains are wired to perceive warmth as a form of social comfort. When we feel physically warmālike when weāre holding a hot cup of teaāour brains associate that sensation with social closeness and feelings of security, even if weāre by ourselves.
Next time youāre feeling a bit lonely or disconnected, consider reaching for a cup of teaānot just for the taste or the comfort it offers, but for the warmth that could scientifically be helping your brain feel less isolated.
Jan 14, 2025
I think Iām obsessed with the way people talk after sex. The rawness of it, the unraveling. Not sex itselfāno, sex is almost alwaysā¦ not what you think itāll be. Itās not what movies promised or what your own mind built it up to be. Itās hands and limbs and sometimes good, sometimes okay, sometimes youāre just waiting for it to end. But, the moments after.
Itās messy, but not in the way sex is messy. Itās messy in the way people are messy, when their guard drops and the words spill out in no particular order. The room smells like skin and warmth and whatever happened before, and somehow, this feels more intimate than the act itself.
Theyāll say something random, like how their mom used to burn toast every morning, or theyāll ask you about a scar you forgot you even had. Theyāll let a sentence fall out that feels so tender, so unguarded, and you just know they didnāt mean to share itābut now itās yours. And maybe you say something back, maybe you donāt. Maybe youāre just lying there wondering how you ended up in this moment with this person you thought you knew but didnāt, not really.
Jan 28, 2025
Jan 14, 2025