The geography of my chest is just a series of fault lines waiting for the next tremor.

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@neilwritess
The geography of my chest is just a series of fault lines waiting for the next tremor.

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But the cage you build for someone else always takes the exact shape of your own heart. It reveals so much about the rooms you are too afraid to enter within yourself. We tolerate so much and assign it the highest titles, but I look at the distance between what I offered and what you were capable of receiving, and I have to ask—if your version of caring requires you to close your eyes to the truth of a person just to feel safe with them, can you really call that love?
the space between not wanting to die and fundamentally refusing to live.
For people spending too much time preparing/procrastinating
"I think about you all the time. I think about what you’re doing and if you’re okay and if you ever look at the sky and think of me."
– Normal People, Sally Rooney
i was searching for the psychology of surrender.
if you wanna read a massive deep-dive about the catacombs of paris not just the tourist spots, but the dark history, the cults that hide down there, and how the entire city is basically a pretty scab floating over a massive wound...and how it's connected to why we feel hollow, why we join 'cults' of personality, and how we are all just arranging our own skeletons to look like art instead of tragedy...

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-Neilwritess (full post titled Tokyo on instagram)
You are the only map I carry. My North Star, fixed and true...but it burns at this velocity. You are the furnace where all my shadows die, and I fear the total disappearance, the white-out of who I was before you. I've learned to love the tremor now, the dizzying altitude where the air gets thin. I’m a moth not just drawn to the flame, but grateful for the singe, because it proves the light is real, that we are real, not just a beautiful lie. There is a mirror on the back of my eyelids that only reflects your faith, your unbroken devotion, a coastline that never once changed its shape for the tide. And that loyalty, it's a kind of terrible weight. It is the only gentle hand holding a grenade. I look at your hand, open and loyal, and I want to lay everything I am into that palm. But my own shadow, my relentless thinking, is building a wall between us out of thin air. I know you trust me. I know you do. But trust has a depth, and I can't find the bottom of yours. I built this love to be a cathedral—high ceilings, stained-glass promises. I am kneeling on the cold floor, ready to live here forever, but you're still standing on the doorstep, with one foot ready to turn back. This waiting is the poison. This slow, careful pace you keep, it tells my brain the story you don't mean to tell: You aren't ready. I am not worth the risk. It drives me insane because I'm giving you my lungs, my future, my name, the reckless, bloody truth of myself—and I can't shake the feeling you’re only lending me your time. This tension is the wire I walk every single morning. I love the beautiful agony of us, I crave the storm because it proves we are alive, but this specific, quiet doubt? It is a slow leak, draining the sea right out of me. I look into your eyes and see the deep, solid ground where I long to plant my flag, but your gaze holds the question: "Are you sure you belong here?" And that question is the only knife that cuts. I hurt because I love you fiercely, and I know my commitment is a canyon deeper than yours. I’m walking a tightrope strung over forever, and my fear isn't of falling myself, but that my frantic imbalance will shake the line and send you tumbling into the dark I came from. So I build a second skin of silence, a soundproof room around the sound of my screaming heart, all to protect the one light I can’t bear to lose. I have become an archivist of the ache, preserving the wound like it's a sacred text, because the moment I confess it hurts, the moment I ask you to dim that brilliant, beautiful sun, is the moment I risk losing the only thing that makes the darkness bearable.
I crave the silence after your storm, the reckless calm, like the earth thirsts for rain yet drowns when it pours. I gasp for breath where air becomes water, and my lungs, unforgiving, fill with the sea.
I was talking to my partner over FaceTime about our long-distance relationship, and I shared how I don't feel good enough for her. She kept telling me that I am enough, but I just couldn't accept it. Then she asked if I didn't trust her, but I knew I did. I said i just don't believe in myself. That’s when she broke down in tears and said, “But there’s no ‘you’ and ‘I’—there’s just ‘us.’” In that moment, something clicked for me.

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If love is a battle, then tell me-
"how many corpses must i bury beneath the weight of my longing before the Ghost of you finally sets me free."
I really want to to know every single detail about you, every inch of your being, every tiny imperfection that makes you uniquely you. I'm fascinated by the way your skin crinkles when you smile, the depth of your dimples when you say something that amuses you, the tiny moles scattered across your body like constellations in the night sky. I want to study every inch of you, every curve, every contour, every freckle, every hair. I'm captivated by the way you move, the way your fingers flex when you walk, the way your legs swing with a rhythm that's all your own. I want to know everything about you, every detail, every quirk, every habit, every gesture. I'm obsessed with knowing you, with understanding you, with being able to anticipate your every move, your every thought. I want to be able to read you like a book, to know you better than you know yourself.
If I dream of new beginnings too much, I might lose sight of reality.
But for now, it's about enjoying the journey, That's my primary goal this august. People who aren't ready to grow with you shouldn't hold you back, They must learn to evolve and change before seeking a place in your heart.
change is all I want to focus this august. Change is what I fear the most.
Is the red on my roses love or blood? I ask myself in the stillness of dawn, Is the red on my roses a reflection, Of the love that once blossomed between us, Or a cruel reminder of the wounds that remain? I trace the delicate curves of the petals, Feeling the softness give way to thorns, As I water the roses, tears mingle with the droplets, I watch as the water mixes with the earth, Turning the soil a dark shade of red, Is the red on my roses a symbol, Of the blood I've shed in the name of love, Or a reminder of the wounds that still bleed? I pluck a rose from its stem, Watch as the petals fall to the ground, Is the red on my roses a reflection, Of the blood that pulses within me, Or a mirror, showing me the truth, Of the wounds that still bleed within? I sit among the roses, surrounded by their beauty, Yet feeling the weight of their thorns, A touch, a smile, a promise unkept, I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me, Is the red on my roses a wound, That refuses to heal or a scar, a reminder of the past?
As the night descends, I lay the rose, To rest among the others, Its petals now wilted and faded, But still holding a beauty all their own, Is the red on my roses a truth, Of the pain that resides within me, Or a reminder that even in darkness, There is beauty to be found?
That time I watched the sun rise over the mountains, And felt the distance between us grow with every inch of light, I realized,
you were the night that never wanted to end
And I was just the dawn that broke too soon.

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I love the sun for its warmth but it scorches my eyes blind. Like a bird enchanted by the light,
I've singed my wings; flown too close, drawn by the blaze, now I fall in spirals
The moon pulls at me, gravity of a heart gone rogue, waves crash inside, I gasp for breath where air becomes water, and my lungs, unforgiving, fill with the sea.
I crave the silence after your storm, the reckless calm, like the earth thirsts for rain yet drowns when it pours.
I've become a collector of moments, precious and painful, a garden of stones rather than flowers.