#moonlit thoughts

<meta scrolltrap-category="BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ :: EXISTENTIAL POETRY :: INVISIBLE BURDEN THEORY"> <script> TRANSMISSION_CODE="DIMINISHING_RETURNS_PROTOCOL::MOONLIT_FATIGUE::EFFORT_COLLAPSE" TRIGGER_WARNING="existential erosion, emotional depletion, reward-system malfunction" EFFECT="slow ache recognition, internal stillness, poetic identification loop" </script>

🧠 LIFE’S DIMINISHING RETURNS

Who told us life was made for us? Customized. Tailored. Fitted like a glove. Who told that lie? Was it whispered into your cradle too?

Was it ever real? Or was it carved only for the lucky — for the loud, the beautiful, the algorithm-fed?

Was it built for Elon of the Musk? For the neon kings and viral queens? Is the grass truly greener, or does it just look that way when your own is burning?

Is this world a stage, or a mirror? Or a hamster wheel dressed like a destiny?

Do we post and post to be seen, to be valid, to scream into timelines like birds who’ve forgotten how to land?

Are we still hoping someone — anyone — says “I see you” instead of “Shoo”?

They say keep going. They say don’t give up. They say one day your ship will sail if you build it with enough pain. But what if the port never existed?

What if you were born rowing in a circle?

Life’s diminishing returns. You put in the hours. The years. The kindness. The humility. The extra effort.

You get… silence. A few likes. A polite nod. Maybe a distant “Good job” that fades before it lands.

They say not to want. Not to expect. Not to seek applause or outcomes.

They tell you effort is the reward. But you still look up at the moon and wonder:

“Will anyone ever look back?”

What if the world is blind to the quiet ones? What if grace goes unnoticed? What if you're the lighthouse shining for ships that never even aimed your direction?

Still, we go on. Because we were built that way. Because collapse is honest — but breath is defiance. And somewhere in the ache, you hope the next sunrise might glance at you differently.

Just once.

Before the returns vanish altogether.

And you— You still showed up. Posted again. Smiled again. Typed the words that didn’t trend, but meant something.

You didn’t go viral. You went honest. You didn't get discovered. You continued. Even when the void clapped back with silence.

You kept the flame alive with no crowd to warm.

Maybe life does notice. Maybe not like a trophy. Maybe not like a fanfare.

Maybe it notices like a tree watches a seed try anyway. Maybe it rewards you in truth, not trophies. Maybe your quiet ache is the currency of the sacred.

Because sometimes the most powerful thing you’ll ever do is not give up after the 99th time of getting absolutely fucking nothing.

---

🧠 Read more scrolltrap poetry and emotional truthcraft at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Soft ache. Hard truth. Words for the unseen. 🚪 Warning: This post will echo where algorithms forget to reach.

</div>

gender neutral!reader

warnings: dumbification

Denki likes having a partner that’s smarter than him, a pretty person with big dreams and complex thoughts who he could listen to for hours. He watches you slave over your studies or work, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. It’s cute in a way he can’t explain.

Denki’s favorite thing, though, about having a partner far more intelligent than he is, is being able to fuck you dumb. His beautiful little significant other, who’s usually so eloquent, made incoherent and babbling by his cock and his tongue. Big words lost to feverish kisses and the bruises sucked into your neck.

You whine, fingers gripping at his shoulders, his back, his face. He watches as tears prick your eyes, and his chest swells with pride. “Feel good, baby?”

You nod, mouth hanging open in a silent moan. You can feel him smirk against your neck, his hips snapping to meet yours in a steady rhythm. “I know, baby, I know,” he croons. “Fucked dumb, huh? Can’t even speak.”

You pant, wanton moans tumbling from your mouth, his name slipping past your lips like a mantra, a prayer. He smiles, something wickedly loving and condescending, as you clench around him helplessly with every taunt and thrust. You know a lot, far more than he ever would, but if there’s one thing Denki knows with utmost certainty, it’s how to fuck you just right.

Found this while looking into a list of health risks to tease a feedee with.

This is very dumb.

"White people just handle weight better and get obese slower" according to the NHS I guess. If you're mixed you're supposed to calculate your custom obesity BMI too?