Polkadot

Employer got mad at me cause I said I'm having a fever and wont work on friday and said he'd fire me. But i already know an unemployed dude have a lot to burn than me

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But will we really inherit the loneliness off the sea if we soak our toes in it's cold wave and stare hard enough?

i feel stupid when i talk and write and breathe

Talk to me? Yap to me 🎀

Yesssssssssss

you don't deserve to feel happy about the things you found by luck. you only deserve to feel scared about losing it all, just how you found it.

If I ever go to jail, it's for punching a moody person, omg. Like whyyyyy do you start a conversation yourself and act like am forcing you to converse? Be for real

THE BETRAYAL

Im still waiting for the sun to go boom

Younger me should be executed

Why didn't you reach out, even once, when I vanished into the pea-soup fog that clings to your town like a forgotten shroud? Did my absence not register? Did the silence I left behind not echo loudly enough to warrant a simple, "Are you okay?" Or was I simply not worth the effort, not significant enough to break through the fog of your own life? Ironic, isn't it, that I've painstakingly learned to mend broken connections, to unburn bridges I carelessly torched, yet I've somehow forgotten the exact steps, the precise alchemic formula required to undo the damage. I no longer seek my reflection in the pristine, unforgiving surface of mirrors. I've grown weary of the flawless facade they demand. I am, after all, all grown up now, burdened by the weight of choices made and paths not taken. Instead, I rely on the ripples of water – a rain puddle, a stagnant pool, the swirling eddy of a stream – to glimpse my own image. It's a distorted view, fractured and shifting, never quite clear, yet somehow more honest, more representative of the person I've become. I take a step, then another, always with a hesitant glance over my shoulder, perpetually searching for something solid to grasp, something unwavering to tether myself to in this ever-shifting landscape of uncertainty. I've come to believe, or perhaps desperately hope, that home is not a fixed location, but a state of being, a place I can always return to, regardless of how far I've wandered or how long I've been gone, a sanctuary where I will never be a stranger. That's how I imagine it, at least, though the reality might be vastly different. The sight of carefree, happy faces on the streets still pricks at me, a sharp reminder of the joy that seems perpetually out of reach. But there have been small, quiet victories. I befriended a stray cat, coaxing her closer with gentle words and offerings of food, patiently earning her trust until she recognized my footsteps and greeted me with a soft, insistent meow. I was even granted the privilege of raising her, providing her with shelter and care – a responsibility that felt strangely grounding, a fleeting glimpse into the realm of motherhood. But, as with all things, it was not meant to last. Now, my sadness doesn't manifest as a sudden storm or a violent tempest, but as something far more insidious, far more pervasive. It resembles the clear blue sky – seemingly endless, deceptively calm, yet stretching into an infinite expanse of emptiness. Or sometimes, it appears as the sun itself – a burning, unwavering force, the only thing that serves as a constant reminder of my own humanity, a stark contrast to the hollow shell I often feel like. #shit [when did i even write that]

A life unlived