A New Semester Has Begun At My School And Now I'm Back To Writing My Thesis. Something I'm Not Really

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

-My left brain 🧠

— Albert Camus

Sometimes I wonder if people even realize how cruel they can be without saying a word. The way they look at me—cold, dismissive, like I’m something to laugh at or pity. It’s not always about what they say; sometimes it’s just the way they carry themselves around me, like I’m less. I feel overlooked all the time, like I’m just floating in the background, waiting for someone to actually see me. And I hate how much I want to be seen, especially by him. I hate how I catch myself hoping for even a glance from him. It makes me feel pathetic, like I’m betraying myself just to feel worthy for a moment. These past few days, I’ve been so angry. Just simmering beneath the surface. I keep snapping in my head, getting irritated at everything. I’m starting to feel like the angry little girl I worked so hard to bury, the one who, for years, carried the weight of her father’s rage. I hate how deeply I feel things, how sensitive I am. Lately, I’ve been drowning. Not in a river, but under the weight of never feeling satisfied with life.

—A lady and Her Quill, Letters to Dead Children: Ophelia's Journal Entries

𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑤𝑠. 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠. 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

'Karma doesn't always happen to bad people, I must therefore take matters into my own hands.'

—A lady and her quill

Hey loves .☘︎ ݁

My inbox is open for good vibes, deep thoughts, and casual chats. Feel free to drop in, say hi, or share a thought.

I’m always up for a good conversation. Just keep it kind and respectful, no weird stuffs. ˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚

“She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like hyacinth and whose white scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze; a girl as bewitching, and clever, as any girl who ever lived.”

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

𝐻𝑒𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 🌺

𝐵𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝘩𝑖𝑐𝘩 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝘩𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑣𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑣𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠.

● 𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑎☕

● 𝐿𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑎 🕯️

● 𝑅𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑎 🪞

● 𝐶𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑒 🧺

● 𝐸𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐🧚🏻‍♀️

● 𝐶𝑜𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐 🎀

● 𝐶𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐 ☁️

● 𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑎🍀

● 𝑅𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑒 👑

● 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑎 🔭

● 𝐵𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐 💅🏼

𝑆𝑜 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡𝘩 𝑜𝑓 𝑀𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑎 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝘩𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝘩𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑣𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑖𝑡. °𓏲⋆🌿.

𝐿𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑙: https://www.tumblr.com/a-lady-and-her-quill/781024127509299200/hey?source=share

“Shrinking in a corner, pressed into the wall; do they know I'm present, am I here at all? Is there a written rule book, that tells you how to be— all the right things to talk about— that everyone has but me? Slowly I am withering— a flowered deprived of sun; longing to belong to— somewhere or someone.”

― Lang Leav, Love & Misadventure