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spirit of suwanne was good to us 🦄🍄✨

Who else is going to Hulaween?! 🌈💕🦄

Goodnight tumblr 🌸💕

My most absolute despised question to be asked. The answer you’re looking for is calculated and arbitrary. You’re asking for a summation of who I have been in the past, an identity that allows little room to breathe. Ask me who I am today, at this hour, ask me the details of my day thus far and how I felt in moments. Maybe I’m one in few who feel this way. My mind operates in energy, in emotions, and with that being said, words, constructs, ideas- they are all scattered, floating and unformed. This might be why I enjoy writing; it gives me the leniency to be slow, let thoughts paint the scene, let my fingertips do the walking instead of my tongue tripping over itself. 

RIP my pussy

What are you thinking about me, anon?

Delicate and floating, feet barely grazing the surface of the earth in a taunting, teasing, innocent walk. It’s a lot to live up to, being so light that you’re not of this universe. Transient in motion, traveling in a mist of pixels, wisps of radiance in the daylight. What’s it like to be an angel, to cut like butter, to be smooth and flawless? Thoughtless, empty, abounding with opaque sound.. instead, I am my own kind of grace. My understanding of and the only moment I live in ethereal is through the perception of someone other then my own, and usually entering through the lens of a camera. In my mind when I imagine being ethereal, it’s an edited moment of bliss, cut up and pasted with instrumental music playing softly in the background. It’s moments of my fingertips grazing the tips of tall, golden wheat in a field, my hair bouncing, twirling in slow motion. It’s me naked surrounded by miles of earth and no humans. A tenantless earth in this moment, where only I am sparkling and giggling to myself, knowing I am alone. Ethereality looks like my head falling backward out of pleasure, and you see my clavicle and neck lines prominently in a festival of shadows and light reaching through the window above my bathtub. The music is soft, but volume is loud, so you’re not hearing the running faucet, or my moaning - you hear through the visual of my shaking body, my gaping mouth - the sound is, perhaps, piano, or anything decadent and tearing, to watch a behavior so tempting and acute be accompanied with a calm and peaceful tune. But, these are jumbled up visions, a conglomerate of seconds of other ethereal I have seen before, and they are how I understand what that word is. I am my own ethereal, I am my own kind of grace. Unknown, unfelt, seen by others, and I hear stories of it; I guess that makes it real. My head operates on hindsight. I have the eureka after it matters. My ethereal is getting better. I find ways to move in my own way, through my heart, out of my spine. I move in bursts, then I wallow in a merry-go-round of stagnant energy, until the heat of repetition has me boiling. Until I can’t be contained a second longer. I escape, I wake up, every time.

Doing what I want is how I stay alive