the comfort i find in the rain is kinda unreal
β’π§οΈπ©Άβ’
Me, after another night of drafting, editing, writing, editing, editing again, some more editing
nevermind *deletes the whole thing*
Fuck restaurants and arcades.
Take my hand and bring me here for our first date.
Sylvia Plath, aged 30, in a letter to Olive Higgins Prouty, her mentor & benefactress, 4 months after discovering her husband's infidelity, and their subsequent separation (dated Tuesday, 20 November 1962)
To be alive is to dance on the edge of oblivion, to feel the weight of existence pressing down upon us, even as we reach for the stars.
We are all stardust and storiesβ¨
I was told thereβd be a light at the end of this tunnel.
One more exam. One more application. One more interview. One more job. One more report. One more deadline. Just one more.
Youβve done so much more, so whatβs one more?
Just one more.
And then, thereβll be the light. The love. The joy. The praise. All yours by right.
So you go through life, each day piling on top of the next, each morning it gets a little bit harder to breathe, a little bit harder to believe, a little bit harder to choose to live, but you keep going, you keep breathing, you keep believing, you keep trying, cuz youβve gone through so much more, whatβs one more?
Just one more.
So on and on and on we go, chasing the light at the end of this tunnel, but youβre just as far in as youβll ever be out, and you canβt stop now, its right there, that illusive dream youβre chasing that shimmers on the edges, that keeps you alive, that keeps you waking up every morning, that was promised, because you did so much more, you went through so much more, you can do so much more, of course youβll get it, you have to, right, youβve earned it, itβs yours, itβs coming, its right there, donβt you see it, itβs right there, just one more step, one more breath, one more day, one more try. Whatβs one more?
Just one more.
πππππππ ππ πππ ππππ ππ πππππππππππ, ππππππ πππππ, πππ πππππ ππππππππ πππππ
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