#existentialdread

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❤️‍🔥 IF I WERE YOUR LAST

If I were your last love your final chance to feel something that wasn’t routine, wasn’t scrolling, wasn’t the hollow company of strangers in passing

Would you treat me differently?

Would you look up from your phone, look me in the eye, and say something real?

Or would you keep waiting for me to talk first, for someone else to move the story forward, like life itself is supposed to be your servant?

If you knew that life’s window was shorter than you imagine whether it’s ten more years, ten more days, or ten more breaths

Would you burn brighter? Would you light the fire under your ass? Or would you stay still, frozen, letting the cold crawl into your veins until the darkness folded you in quietly?

Statistics don’t lie: Most people never say “I love you” the last time they see someone they love. Not because they didn’t feel it, but because they thought they had more time.

Half of all final words are mundane: “See you later.” “Don’t forget the milk.” “Drive safe.”

And then—silence. The last page of a book you didn’t know was ending.

Would you smile at the “strange” men more kindly, if you didn’t know which of them was carrying the last message fate ever sent you?

Would you greet the “weird” ones warmly, not realizing that love never wears a label, that it sometimes comes wrapped in plain brown paper, or in a voice that stutters, or in a face that doesn’t fit your aesthetic feed?

If your real love the one who actually saw you, the one who could have changed the arc of your story crossed your path just once, would you know it?

Or would you keep walking, and never realize you had just stepped past eternity?

You check your watch like you own time. But what if time is checking you? What if Father Time himself is watching you with a kind of sinister curiosity, leaning closer each day, marking your patterns, wondering when you’ll finally figure it out?

Every day, 150,000 people die. Today. Tomorrow. Every single day. And not one of them expected that Tuesday to be the last time they brushed their teeth, rolled their eyes, ignored a text, or swallowed words they should’ve said.

Maybe you would change. Maybe you’d smile more. Maybe you’d risk rejection instead of living as a ghost.

Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’re a sadomasochist wired to prolong the pain, to savor the ache, to choose self-denial because it feels safer than self-revelation.

That’s not my business.

But one thing I am sure of one thing no prayer, excuse, or distraction can cover

> You’re not above it.

Not above the countdown. Not above regret. Not above the fire or the cold. Not above missing the moment that could have been your last.

And when it is your last whether you notice it or not that silence you kept, that chance you didn’t take, that word you swallowed, will echo louder than any noise you made in life.

🩸 Here’s the part you don’t want to hear: On average, you’ve already met 80–90% of the people you’ll ever meet in your life. The strangers around you right now? The cashier, the commuter, the neighbor you avoid? One of them could’ve been your last chance at real connection. And you didn’t even look up.

hmm...in contemplation…An interesting thought, huh?

…But

If I were your last your last love, your last chance, your last witness I wouldn’t tell you.

Because the point isn’t me. It’s you.

Whether you wait for someone to come save you, or whether you finally speak, finally act, finally burn like you always could have.

Because last times never come with a warning. They just arrive, take everything, and leave you wishing you had known.

💭 Reblog if this left a crack in your chest. Save for the days you think time waits for you. Share with someone who hides behind silence. Follow for more mortality-sermons, intimacy traps, and truth grenades.

Read more cadence-based reality fractures and anti-gaslight transmissions at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Blacksite Literature. Scrolltrap psychology.

🐺 Reminder: Wolves don’t care what you call them. Your throat remains exposed.

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On the edge of the world,

where silence is heavier than snow,

a lone figure waits— feathers against frost,

heart against the endless question:

But why?

Why do we rise each morning

to face the cold winds of doubt?

Why do we carry our fragile selves

into storms that never promise shelter?

Perhaps it is because

the soul is stubborn—it longs to be seen,

to leave a trace on the ice, to whisper into the mist:

“I was here. I endured. I loved.”

And in that whisper, the emptiness softens.

The question becomes a song.

The solitude becomes a mirror.

The pain becomes proof that even in desolation,

life still burns with meaning.

So the penguin stands, not as a creature lost,

but as a witness— to the beauty of persistence,

to the poetry of survival, to the quiet courage

of asking, again and again,

But why?

Sometimes the coldest landscapes hold the deepest truths.

If this poem stirred something in you, I share more daily reflections on love, solitude, and resilience.

✨ Follow my Instagram page [unclaimedwords]for soulful lines and poetic reels ✨

The Digital Limbo 📱🌅💀

We’ve all reached that peak level of boredom where you’ve officially completed the internet for the day. 🕊️ You’ve cycled through the usual five apps so many times that the refresh button has lost all meaning, and now you’re just staring into the void (or a low-res sunset) wondering who you even are without a scroll bar. 🕰️✨ It’s that specific brand of existential dread where your brain is fried, your thumb is tired, and you’re forced to face the horrifying reality of… having to do something else with your life. 🕯️🦢 Do we go outside? Do we pick up a hobby? Or do we just stare at the home screen for another twenty minutes hoping a new notification saves us from ourselves? 🌊🗝️ The digital cycle is real, and sometimes the only cure is to actually put the phone down—after one last scroll, obviously. 🏹🖤🪐

I am tired of being told this is just a crisis or a label. I am tired of the "harsh truth" of a reality that wasn’t meant for me.

The truth is, I am not just "mentally ill." I am Shadow Milk. I have lived thousands of years in a world that is not this one, and I am here—trapped in this human body and these 23 years of suffering—as a punishment for a transgression I can no longer remember. This human life is my exile.

Every time I reach for that specific family structure in my AU, it isn't "fantasy." It’s a memory. It’s the blueprint of the home I was stripped from. My cravings, my pain, and my need to exist in the "haze" of my own creation are all symptoms of an entity trying to survive a sentence they didn't ask to serve.

The Witches took my world and left me with this. And every day I spend here, trying to navigate this "reality," is a day spent in penance.

I am not looking to be "fixed" into someone who fits this world. I am looking to be heard.