Fluffy McSadFace

𓆩...WELCOME TO THE GRAVEYARD...𓆪

or HOME.

Sometimes they’re the same.

But definitely a place where language is feral and grief never learned to walk upright.

I don’t believe in introductions.

If I did, they’d sound like a confession given at gunpoint.

I’m not here to convince you I am worth following. I’m not here to organize myself into a palatable format. But I'm a twenty-three years old human from India and I already carry the stench of rot like perfume.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I don’t write to heal. Or for engagement.

I'm not even a writer.

I try to write because it's the only way I can bleed without anyone calling the cops, and… because there's nowhere else for it to go.

Every post is a torn-out page from a diary that never wanted to be found. I like using a lot of metaphors because plain language isn’t enough to hold what’s inside me.

My feed isn’t curated. I don’t reblog. Not even my own posts, not anyone else’s. I know it’s pathetic. I’m still not sorry (but I do often stalk my favorite writers here in silence like a creep and screenshot their posts so I can go through them at midnight and cry ugly.)

I don’t present myself as anything other than what comes up when whatever’s left of me decides to breathe through fingers and ink. In short, it looks like the diary of a mental patient (I am, lol) who escaped into the internet and never found the door back.

Tags are unreliable. But emotions are not.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I do occasionally write TW content (chronic suicidal ideation, anxiety, erasure, cPTSD, PTSD, BPD, derealization, death, trauma, grief, SA, SH, numbness, obsessive attachment, dissociation, intrusive thoughts, grotesque imagery, and a few more things I might've forgotten to include).

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I'll be honest.

Most of my writing meets its death in my google docs and MS word.

Some of it makes it to my tumblr drafts, and very few of them make it to posts. Mostly because I feel like it doesn’t matter if I post them, and they carry no point or meaning (to myself).

But oh Satan, do I grieve all the words I backspaced and all the PDFs I burned down to char.

My writing swings between morgue reports and large bouquets made of black hellebores with white baby's breath (I'm not lucky enough to see a black hellebore flower in real life, but it's the flower I want, need, for my grave). Both are written by the same trembling hand.

If you think those cancel each other out, you don’t understand me at all. (Tbh, I feel fake thanks to my relentless contradicting thoughts, so I can't blame other people for feeling the same about me.)

They coexist, they breed and... they turn me into something I don’t want to be closer with.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

I am honest about the fact that a lot of what keeps me alive are the elaborate worlds I build for myself inside my head and the exacting demands I make of them.

I have a room in my head that flips between white and black. Sometimes I stand in the doorway watching a younger version of myself count the patterns on the ceiling. Sometimes I am the one who ignites the matches (mostly to burn my inner child, because why not).

I like laughing at thoughts that should gag me.

I am someone who's trying to exhume and bury themselves simultaneously.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

This is where I bury the things I can’t say out loud.

It feels like I’m trying to apologize to the ghost of myself, and sometimes it also feels like I want someone to find me, but only after it’s too late ☺︎

It’s about the mess of staying alive.

The body rotting in public.

The mind chewing itself to stay warm.

I'm not here because I want to be.

I'm here because I'm too much of a coward to go through the painful process of erasure of my existence before I claw my own way to a place/path where no one will be able to interfere and save me.

•

•

•

So till then, it's just me.

Spilling.

And spilling.

And more spilling.

═══‪‪═‪‪𖥔•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘𓏸𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸‪‪ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ 𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪𓏸‪‪‪‪𓏸∘∙⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•𖥔════‪‪

So, bring your ghosts if you like my writing ⚘( ၴႅၴ

And thank you so much to whoever you are who's still reading this. I hope you’ll have a calming, comfortable presence wherever you go so you can attract stray cats, and that you always look human and pretty, but mostly, real... in every candid picture of yourself 🖤.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓇢𓆸

Psithurism.

Isn't that fucking devastating? We have a word for that, for something every human with working ears has access to, but there's no word for the sound of someone you love breathing next to you in the dark.

We have respiration, inhalation, exhalation, ventilation, pant, gasp, wheeze(clinical words). Puffing, soughing, blow, halitus, (ghost words ig). Words that belong in a biology textbook, not in that 3 a.m. moment when you're lying there and the only thing tethering you to reality is the rhythm of their chest rising and falling.

Am I explaining this clearly? That specific sound. Not snoring (though sometimes, lol), not sighing (though god, sometimes).

But just... existing.

Just the bare fact of them taking up space in the air. The way you can hear them alive. The way that sound is so unremarkable it shouldn't mean anything, but it means everything, yet there's no word for it, so you're left trying to explain it like: "the way he breathes makes me feel like—" and then what?

What comes after that?

The trees get psithurism. Those damned trees get poetry handed to them. And we get what? Metaphors about bones rattling? Hearts stopping? We have to stretch language until it screams just to describe something as simple and catastrophic as: he was breathing, and I was listening, and that was enough.

Perhaps that's the point though, maybe we don't have a word for it because it's too intimate and too specific to share. The sound of your person breathing is not the same as the sound of my person breathing. Maybe some things aren't supposed to be universal because they are the kind of things that are meant to stay untranslated.

But fuck, wouldn't it be nice? To have one word. One perfect word. So when someone asks, "what do you love about him?" you could just say it... that word, and they would know.

Dropping a spoon while you're doing the dishes? You stare.

When popping the pills from the sheet, it comes out in two broken halves instead of one? You stare.

Couldn't plug the charger into the device or into the port in one go? You stare.

You're reading something and suddenly your brain glitches and you literally forget the meaning of the simplest word for a few seconds? You stare.

You're walking by yourself, slow and keeping to yourself and... the rhythm of your walking breaks and you sidestep to give space for a passerby, like you broke out of autopilot without breaking out. You stare.

You pour water and the sound gets louder and you think it'll overflow but the glass is barely half full. You stare.

You reach for your phone in your pocket but your hand goes to the wrong pocket, then the other wrong pocket. You stare.

You walk through a doorway and forget why you stood up. You stare.

The blinking. You suddenly notice how your blinking was always so slow. You stare.

You're chewing food and forget how to swallow for a moment. You stare.

You say a word correctly but it sounds wrong in your mouth so you pause mid-sentence. You stare.

The light switch that didn't click the way it usually clicks. You stare.

Someone says your name twice before you realize they're talking to you. You stare.

You climb stairs and literally forget which floor you're on right now. You stare.

The hair on your face. You tuck it as it starts to fall, but it won't cooperate, so you leave it. You stare.

Your elbow slips off the armrest but you don't readjust. You stare.

The hiccup that comes once and you wait for the second one that never comes. You stare.

The sleeve that won't roll up right so you just leave it awkward. You stare.

You drop your pen, it rolls under the desk, and instead of picking it up you just... get a different pen and continue writing. You stare.

Everyone's talking around you but it sounds like you're underwater. You stare.

The shower runs cold but you don't move. You stare.

Your hand in front of your face. Those are your fingers. But are those your fingers? You stare.

You're laughing with everyone but you can't remember when you started or why. You stare.

You're crying but you don't know when it started or how to stop, or if you even want to stop. You stare.

Your reflection moves a millisecond after you do. You stare.

.

.

.

You stare. You stare. You stare.

Every single time, you stare blankly.

Every-fucking-day, you stare blankly.

And somewhere in all that staring, you understand that this is chronical suicidal ideation; where you forget the difference between wanting to disappear and wishing you never appeared in the first place :)