pages i won’t burn.

What really gets to me is how people will always remember the bad things someone did, even if they don’t know the full story behind it. They don’t ask what someone went through, what was happening in their mind, why they acted that way. It’s easier for them to judge than to understand.

And honestly, people can be so hypocritical. When they mess up, it’s “normal, “everyone makes mistakes.” But when it’s someone else, suddenly they become the most self-righteous, loudest critic in the room. It’s so unfair. People are so close-minded sometimes, like they refuse to see anything outside their own perspective.

I guess I’m just tired of being in a world where people don’t care about what they say or do as long as it benefits them. They don’t think, they don’t reflect… they just react. And if someone gets hurt in the process, it's okay.

heres the link

Twilight: A New Dawn - Maiden Blue - Wattpad

here's the link

I come from a broken family. My dad left us when I was just a child because he chose another woman. He walked out and never looked back — just like that. And my mom? She's happy but not here. with her own family and I totally get that.

My brother and I grew up in our grandparents’ house. Not because anyone sat down and said, “this is best for the kids,” but because we were left. There was no home with mom and dad — only a quiet hand-off to our grandparents.

When we got older, my brother moved in with our mom. because she couldn’t shoulder both of us. She could only manage one, and he needed to be closer to his school. So, I stayed.

I stayed in this house that never felt like home.

And in 2023, I lost the only person who made it bearable — my grandma.

She was my safe space. My comfort. The only one who really showed me consistent, genuine care.

When she died, the entire house changed. Actually, maybe not the house — maybe it was just me. Because suddenly, there was no one left to protect me.

My grandpa… he became the loudest voice in the house. And unfortunately, the cruelest.

He judges everyone. Constantly. If it’s not his belief, if it doesn’t align with his Bible-thumping perspective, it’s evil. He says the harshest things with no filter, no empathy. He compares. He humiliates. He degrades.

He tells me I don’t belong here. That I’m just “living in someone else’s house.” That I was abandoned. That I was left behind — and that I should just leave.

And the part that hurts the most? He does this while acting holy.

Every Sunday, he goes to church. Every morning, he reads his Bible. He acts like he’s close to God. But how can someone who claims to love God speak with such hatred? How can someone who calls themselves a follower of God choose cruelty over compassion?

It’s always the same story: those who hurt the most are often the loudest about their “faith.”

I’m not perfect. I’m not the best granddaughter. I have my flaws. But I also have feelings. I’ve never once asked to be treated like royalty. Just with respect. Just like a human being.

And I’m tired of being told that I deserve this. That because I’m here — living in this house — I should accept every insult, every scream, every reminder that I was “left behind.”

I never asked to be born. I never asked for this family dynamic.

Don’t tell me “he’s old” or “he doesn’t know any better.” Because he’s always been this way. Even when I was young.. he's been like this. And when someone wants to hurt you, they will — age has nothing to do with it.

Some days, the pain gets so loud that I find myself wishing it was my grandma who was still here, and not him. And I hate myself for thinking that, but that’s the truth.

Because she made this place feel warm.

He just makes it feel like I’m trespassing. Like I am not family. not their OWN blood.

Right now, I’m a college student. I’m entering my 3rd year. I carry my studies, my future, and my trauma all at once....

But I’m going to finish.

I’m going to graduate.

I’m going to work hard.

And one day, I’ll leave this house for good — with peace.

I will create a home where love is soft, where voices are gentle, where faith doesn’t come with insults.

And all these nights I cry silently, all the emotional scars, all the words I’ve been told that I pretend don’t hurt?

One day they’ll be part of the story that made me strong.

Because I may have been left behind — but I will never stay behind.

Hey Tumblr,

So this might sound a little spooky, but I’ve been sitting with this thought for a while: Is using a Ouija board actually dangerous?

I lost my grandmother in 2023. She was such a huge part of my life — the kind of person whose voice stays in your head long after she’s gone. Lately, I’ve been thinking about trying to reach out, not for anything dramatic, just to feel a connection again.

I know people have mixed opinions about spirit boards — some say it’s just a game, others swear by the paranormal risks. I'm not looking to invite anything dark; I just genuinely miss her and wonder if there's a safe, respectful way to try and say hi.

If any of you have experience with Ouija boards (or know safer alternatives for contacting loved ones who've passed), I’d love to hear your thoughts. Mediums, dream rituals, candle work — I’m open to learning.

When I was a kid, I used to secretly watch The Craft—you know, that 90s witch movie that makes you feel like magic could be real if you wanted it bad enough. Back then, I didn’t even realize I was already feeling things... energies, shifts, intuition. I just thought I was weird. I didn’t know there was a name for it. I didn’t know other people could feel that too.

I've always dreamed of having a coven. Like, genuinely. A small group of people who just get it. People I could do rituals with, manifest with, charge our crystals under the full moon, talk about our dreams and signs and energies without judgment or second-guessing myself. People who feel like magic in human form.

But where I live, witchcraft isn’t really a thing. It’s mostly people just going about their lives, being… well, “normal.” You know? Normies. And I’m not saying that in a bad way—it’s just, I haven’t found anyone who shares the same pull toward the metaphysical, the unknown, the energy around us.

Sometimes I walk past strangers and I feel them. Not in a creepy way. Just… there’s this flicker of recognition in my chest, like they know too. Like we’re on the same frequency. And yet, nothing happens. No words exchanged. Just energy. And I get this gut feeling that maybe it’s just not time yet. Maybe we’re not meant to cross paths now. But I feel like those people? They’re my people.

I yearn for a coven. A real one. A chosen family of the spiritually sensitive. The in-betweeners. The people who feel too much and say too little because the world doesn’t always understand us.

Today, it hit me again. In college, I laugh and I talk and I blend in. But deep down, it’s like I’m acting. Like I’m performing “normal.” And I know that’s part of adulthood—fitting in, being functional. But there’s a difference between being functional and feeling like you belong. And lately, I’ve been feeling the weight of not belonging. Not truly. Not soul-deep.

Sometimes I stare into space and just wish—wish there was someone beside me who’d look at the same moon and feel the same kind of magic. Someone who’d say, “Hey, let’s light a candle and talk to the universe tonight.”

I believe they’re out there. Somewhere. Maybe reading this post. Maybe walking past me again tomorrow.

If you're out there… I see you. I feel you. And I hope we find each other soon.

Today, I felt a natural inclination to do protection work. Not because anything necessarily felt wrong in the moment but because I've realized that magic isn't only about responding. It's also about getting ready, safeguarding, and protecting the energy we've laboured so diligently to build. I wanted to centre myself and take ownership of my space as holy, and the tool I reached for? Something really, really simple and really, really underutilized: salt.

Salt has been utilized throughout cultures for centuries as a protection against negative energy and a means of cleansing environments. It's an emblem of the Earth element—grounding, cleansing, stabilizing. There's strength in its simplicity, particularly when combined with intention. I began by establishing a peaceful environment in my bedroom. I turned off most of the lights, lit a tiny white candle, and cradled a pinch of sea salt in my hand. As I focused, I pictured a safeguarding glow encasing me softly as a veil of gentle light. I proceeded to my window and door. my house's energetic portals and poured the salt slowly along the entrances. As I did so, I whispered softly a spell I had composed for the occasion: "With this salt, I draw the line. No harm may cross, no ill may bind.". This house is consecrated; this place is mine. So, mote it be, sealed by intent."

As soon as I'd done it, I took a deep breath and sensed that something had altered. Not dramatic—but there was absolutely no doubt that it had. The energy was lighter, and I felt more connected emotionally. I didn't feel scared or tense I felt strong. It was as if I'd re-drawn the line of where I stop and the world starts. I knew that protection magics wasn't about keeping everything out. It was about respecting your space, your energy, and your right to be in peace. There is magic in taking that back quietly.

Something I'm discovering as I dive further into my practice is that witchcraft can be powerful without being complicated or pretty. Even the most mundane objects—such as salt—are made sacred when you do something with them. The magick is in the intention. And today, my intention was clear: I guard my energy. I maintain my peace. This space belongs to me.

Day 4: Imagination? Or Something Else

I grew up in a small village — the sort where everybody knew everybody. Our little world even contained a school within it, and many of my classmates were neighbors as well.

I had a very active imagination when I was a kid. I had so many imaginary friends that I didn't even think much of it. It was just normal for kids. or at least I thought so.

I remember there was this one day when I was in fourth grade when something occurred that I still can't explain. It was approximately 5:40 PM, just about dark. My friends and I, Sally, Clara, and Camille, decided to play hide and seek within the school. (Yeah, we were pushing a few boundaries — kids weren't allowed to remain after 5:30 PM.)

Clara offered to count, and Camille, Sally, and I took off to hide. Camille and I hid behind a large classroom door, and Sally hid in another room. We were laughing, holding our breath, believing that we had the best hiding place.

I recall looking out and observing Clara enter our room. She smiled and yelled, "I know where you're hiding! Gotcha!" But rather than peeking behind the door, she dashed to the teacher's desk — a big, cabinet-like thing you could crawl under — and shouted, "Boo!"

We came out of our hiding spot, laughing and joking with her. But Clara simply sat down in one of the chairs, her face as white as could be. Sally joined us as well, and we all swarmed around, bewildered.

Clara explained, "I thought I saw a person hiding under the desk. I saw black shoes. and white ruffled socks." The point is, we were all not wearing black shoes. We wore jogging pants and sneakers, our PE uniforms. She went on, "The socks looked old, like something from another time."

We were at a loss for words. All I can recall is how we screamed our way out of that building and were reprimanded by the guard at the door. Even now, when I am 23 years old, every time we get together we find ourselves recounting that story as if it occurred yesterday.

As I matured, I came to understand that perhaps it wasn't my imagination. I became more sensitive to energies, to things I couldn’t explain. That’s how I ended up practicing tarot, deep-diving into witchcraft, and slowly understanding the supernatural side of things.

In my 20s, things started to get even weirder. I began having visions — blurry glimpses of events that would later happen in real life. Occasionally, I'd dream about random numbers that seemed significant, as if they were messages I couldn't quite decipher.

And the most terrifying — or perhaps the most intriguing — aspect? There were evenings when I would observe myself sleeping. Like, literally. I'd be floating over my body, observing myself sleep, and sometimes venturing into other weird locations. I didn't even know what was going on until it happened more often.

I'm continuing to research it all, trying to put the pieces together. The more I read about astral projection, premonitions, and dreamwork, the more all of it starts to make sense — from that odd childhood encounter in back of the teacher's desk to what I'm having now.

It's a path, and I really feel like I'm only just beginning. ????✨

With all of the things going on around me—good, bad, confusing—I've made a decision. An easy one: to enjoy the little things in life.

The older I get, the more I know that life is short and unexpected. Time seems like it's accelerating, and I don't want to waste any more of it on individuals who don't care about me, or things that empty me rather than nourish me. I used to spend so much time on what was missing, on who wronged me, or what didn't happen… but now, I want to spend time on what I do have.

Because no matter how painful some of the past events were, choosing to appreciate life gave me a new perspective. It doesn’t erase the hurt—but it helps me see beyond it. It reminds me that even on the roughest days, there’s always something worth holding onto. A quiet moment. A kind word. A song. A sunset. A breath. A reminder that I’m still here.

I understand that I cannot dictate everything in my life, but I can dictate how I react. And opting to look for the beauty in the small things—that is how I heal. That is how I proceed.

Recently, I've been carrying this quiet weight. It's that kind of feeling you don't always talk about, but it stays with you—particularly when you're scrolling through your feed and everyone appears to be doing well. I glance around and it feels like everyone else is making progress in life. They're buying cars, getting married, booking trips, starting businesses, settling down. Meanwhile, I'm here—still in school, still trying to figure things out, still attempting to make my many dreams something tangible.

And to be honest, it gnaws at me at times. That voice in my head continues to ask: "When will it be my turn? " I say that a lot. Perhaps too much. It's not that I'm not pleased for others—because I am. I really am. I've learned that sometimes, you have to clap for others, not because you're supposed to, but because it teaches you humility. It reminds you that life is not a race, and that good things take time.

But still… Some days are just more difficult than others. It's hard to watch the people around me get ahead when I feel like I'm still at the starting line. And I know that everyone's timeframe is going to be different, but that doesn't make it any less infuriating. Especially when social media only shows you the highlight reels—the wins, the glow-ups, the perfect moments. Nobody really posts about the nights they cried themselves to sleep or the mornings they woke up lost.

So here I am, basking in the pressure, the fear of failure, and the burden of expectations that I hadn't even requested.

I've considered giving up social media countless times. But it's not as easy as that. Most of my contact, my relationships—all of that's in that realm. Severing it means severing the world, and that just compounds the isolation. I used to dream big. Truly big. But now I feel like the older I get, the lesser my dreams become—not because I want them to, but because life makes you question yourself. I'm scared of ruining it all. I'm scared of letting people down, letting myself down. But even amidst that fear, there's still part of me that would want to believe. A part of me that desires to flourish, to make my existence worthwhile.

To be me in totality, unapologetically and authentically.

We're around each other all the time, and there are memories we share, but it's just not the same as when I was in elementary school and high school. The feeling is different now. It's like they just occupy space in my life, but I don't feel that same connection anymore. I'm the one who would do anything for a friend, who would do everything, but sometimes I regret it. I think, maybe I should've spent all my energy on another person someone who actually appreciates me.

It gets to me more when it comes to small things, like jokes and teasing. Sometimes I feel like I'm not actually part of the group, not actually understood for who I am. When I was growing up, I was never referred to as "maarte" (fussy), although I know I can be. I've always been fussy about cleanliness—I didn't like anything dirty, smelly, or sweaty, and I've always been like that. It's just how I was brought up, not in a negative way, but it's just me. Yet, sometimes when I’m with them, it feels like no one really gets that side of me anymore.

I want to open up, say what's on my mind, but something prevents me from doing so. Perhaps it's because I'm just so tired of the drama. It's tiring pretending like everything is okay when it doesn't feel like that. I suppose I don't want to keep forcing it when it isn't mutual. But perhaps I need to stop seeking validation from people who don't perceive me the way that I perceive them.

I've spent most of my life struggling to define myself, and to understand who I am and what I am supposed to be. I've landed in other people's expectations, in my own fears and doubts, and the quiet space where I am just. here, existing. There are things too big to put into words, so I say them here. This is where I don't have to explain. Where I can simply be.

I won’t burn these pages, even if they’re messy, confusing, or incomplete. These are the moments, the thoughts, the parts of me I’ve kept hidden, waiting for a place to belong.