Bruh There's Something Comforting In Knowing That No Matter What I Do Or Where I Am, Some Part Of Me

This world will never be enough for me. I'll never get to lead an army into battle and drink to our victory. I'm never gonna be the first wanderer to map the skies and lands of an unknown world. But, gods, will I try to. My mind is one of an explorer, a wild soul that cannot be tamed, but can be lost in books, music and poetry. A spirit that is kept alive thanks to the beauty of nature, whose eyes are filled with stars. Such a soul knows no death. I have roamed the Earth since the begging of time, searching for that spark of excitement that will ignite a fire. I have had millenia to adore what I am and what I've conquered and learned, but it will never be enough. I don't want it to be enough. An explorer with no places to go, or no hope to drive them, is dead. Thus, I have given myself to immortality.

dear author of my life,

respectively, what the actual fuck

the fact that is impossible for me, in one life, to study classical studies, archaeology, international relations, all the literature in the world, get a languages degree in italian, german, greek, latin, russian and french; learn how to play the violin and also piano, cello, guitar and the flute; learn how to sing, both modern singing and classical singing/opera; is my villain origin story.

Ok fine, I’ll make one of these too

Please interact:

lgbtq+ people, aspiring marine biologists, people who have pins on their backpack, tired people, dog people, bookworms, bakers, folks who don’t own boats, canadians, people who wear bucket hats, anyone that doesn’t live in wyoming, those with niche interests, people that do theatre, mutuals (<3), embroiderers, artists, people that had an obsession with egyptian gods at some point, atheists, people who put the Hamilton playlist on shuffle, cool folks

I'm once again fighting the urge to fake my death and move to a small city and open a little florist shop or cafe filled with books

i have a whole day planned out for myself. art museum. second hand bookstore. barnes and nobles. poke.

i’m about to go feral on the streets i’m so excited

obsessed with mass market paperbacks. their pleasing rectangular proportions. how they fit badly in a hoodie pocket so you can drag them around everywhere with you like a temporary little buddy. the way they fit in your hand because they're MADE for human hands and not as bookshelf decoration. the way the pages feel when you riffle them gently with your thumb. How pristine and crisp they look when you get them and how creased and folded they look when you're done, even if you try to be nice to them. how that wear is okay, how that's correct actually, because they're made with the philosophy that books aren't meant to be PRETTY, they're meant to be read. that little ripple new ones get on the left side from where you hold them when you're reading, the way the ripple only goes as far as you've read, because u change stories by reading as they are changing you. how you can find thousands of these creased and folded and loved little dudes in every thrift store and used book shop and neighborhood library and you can instantly see the ones that someone carried around in a backpack for weeks or read to pieces or gave up on halfway through because they wear being read like fresh snow wears footprints. I love these poorly made, subpar little rectangles so much. truly the people's books.

i’m at my bridge and i’m ready to burn it

absolutely love using the term partner

business partner?

lover?

partner in crime?

good cop bad cop?

all the above

I read. Obsessively. Because, when I read, there is purpose to my loneliness.