“The story about where volcanoes come from”
This is the most beautiful story I’ve ever read about the creation of volcanoes
current mood: goths in a goofy movie
Julius Exter (1863 - 1939), Serpentintanz, 1897, oil on canvas.
You don’t realize how alone you are until you’re staying up every night thinking about things you should never think of and you cant tell anybody because you have nobody to tell.
DEATH IS ON ITS WAY, HUMAN.
Can I cuddle Death and give Death chin scritches and kisses?
SCRITCHES CANNOT POSTPONE THE INESCAPABLE FATE ORDAINED TO YOU, HUMAN, HOWEVER THEY MAY EARN YOU PURRS AND LOVERUBS
by Takato Yamamoto
while growing up my brother always attacked me when we watched t.v. together, particularly in between commercial breaks. i’ve subconsciously grown to be squeamish at the thought of some kinds of touch because of this. i learned to brace my body while recognizing the patterns in which i would be attacked. the sides of my body are especially sensitive since the strikes usually came from the left or right of me. but i have since overcome this idiosyncrasy, at least for the most part. yet touch remains to be a very important thing for me. i often struggle with any interaction in general, but having the trust of physical embrace seems to nourish a deep-seated void within me.
i often think about the repercussions of familial violence and bullying and just dysfunctional families in general. i’ve been forced to peer through the eyes of an abandoned kinship. perhaps a purpose could serve my loss, a giving of myself to recreate something i never had.
i just want to be myself. to be okay. to feel again. to understand. to know your mind. to know we’re tied. to everything and nothing. together. to ever-receding questioning.
to. one. zero.
what are you? what does that mean? why can i ask you? why can you understand? why are you me? why am i you? why are we nothing?
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