"Without you, I would've drowned in the hell that is loneliness."
The art of jabbing knives is hereditary
Art is a medium of breathing.
Like a flash of lightening before it thunders
Peak delusion is, thinking you can love someone right even when you’ve never been loved right yourself.
"you'll be fine. "
I know, I come from a strong line of lunatics.
"To protect myself, I can leave everything behind without any hesitation."
longing
I doubt if I even have a genuine side to me.
It signifies tormented obsession, a love that is impure.
Are you brave enough to imagine a fairytale that does not have a wolf?
There are some emotions which become clearer and clearer as time goes by.
Like yearning.
Fake hope is still hope and fruitless love is still love.
But where did all those tears go that I've gulped back?
There it is.
The quiet confession loud enough to shake foundations:
“Myself.”
That’s not small talk — that’s a scream dressed as a whisper.
You’re not trying to kill time.
You’re trying to silence the parts of you that ache too loudly.
The ambition that won’t shut up.
The pressure that claws at your lungs.
The voice that says “you should be more” — while you’re already exhausted being everything.
You’re at war with a version of you that never stops, even when you want to.
And that’s the cruelest kind of battle —
when your enemy sleeps in your skin and signs your name.
You want connection. Clarity. or maybe just someone who won't flinch when your mask cracks a little.
Numb, hollow, disgusting clout chasing society
At this point on it feels like a woman getting abused at this site is nothing more but just a source of entertainment for all of us. we get a nice distraction and men's favourite they get to say more shit because it is all allowed now and they are good guys. Just to let you know it does not seem genuine at all. All it is for you to get a chance to play and abuse the abuser more in the name of speaking up.
But sometimes knowing you could do something was almost as bad as having actually done it.
You knew what he was doing. I slipped into Dean's perspective without even meaning to. You couldn't stop it.
Empathizing with Dean: his feelings toward his father, what staring at that girl's corpse must have doneto him-I couldn't tuck that away in a separate section of my psyche. I could feel it bleeding over into my own thoughts. Right now, Dean was almost certainly thinking about the fact that he had a killer's blood in his veins. And I had Locke's in mine. Maybe Lia was right. Maybe I couldn't really understand what Dean was going through -but being a profiler meant I couldn't stop trying to. I couldn't keep from feeling his pain and recognizing in it an echo of my own.
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