Wistful Thinking - Blog Posts

Craughwell, Co. Galway

A recollection comes to mind in which an educator advised me to cease counting my mathematical equations on my fingers, as there exists a potential future scenario in which I could contract sepsis, leaving medical professionals with no alternative but to perform amputations on both hands.

there’s something precious upon stumbling upon different interpretations of your favorite character.

the way each individual writer weaves their own flair and quirks into the way they portray them? it becomes an endless cycle of falling in love with that character all over again—because thats what it is fundamentally.

you learn to love them all over again through the lens of different perspectives, and maybe you even discover new dimensions to them that you never considered—or even imagined—how it could blossom into.

sometimes i really say to myself, i could post my vision, and let the world run with it. let it flourish— or crash and burn…whichever way fate took it, but i always seem to circle back to simply wanting to perfect it.

but alas, here i am throwing a snippet of my metaphorical baby out of the nest:

Dread.

There’s nothing like the suffocating sensation of utter terror that occupies all available space in the body. It morphs into indiscernible shapes like a ghost, almost as if to perfectly mold into her shape—depriving it of the very oxygen it needs to function. A heavy coldness claws through the center of the chest and up through the throat with a vengeance. The crippling temperature sends rattles to her bones and casts ice to melt into the fire of her blood. It renders her skin trembling to the touch, where fields of goosebumps cover her as a last line of defense against the invisible force.

It burns.

The panic only grows when every inhale is faltered by the crushing pressure against her ribcage, like a snake curling around her frame, squeezing her chest with an indescribable tightness. Every breath, whether delivered in a greedy heave or pathetic and shallow gasp, intensifies the feeling of hollowness within her. The chilling oxygen is not comparable with the sensation of the heart itself throbbing unnaturally against her ribcage. Ghost-like fingers pierce into the muscle, and send constricted pumps of blood to race fervently from it. The blood flows in her veins with heat only known to hell itself, a black—unfathomable degree of flame that feels almost freezing to the touch.

It burns.

There’s nothing like the unshakable tremble that accompanies it. Muscles and nerves twitching almost against her will, as they shift constantly between the desire to fight or flight. The movement isn’t nearly as bad as the shame that fills her mind. It easily drowns out any other emotion, and for a brief moment—

Hitomi wishes she could forget it—forget the way the dread pours into her. The way the dread causes everything else to dull into meaningless static.

If only the dread came with a warning or a precursor of sorts. Maybe, just maybe then, would she be more prepared to face it.

Until then, she would allow it to consume her—praying that one day it would just take her out of her misery instead.

this !!! because why does making something that makes you happy or fills you with a sense of serenity have to be monetized :(( it takes away from the joy in my opinion

“you should do something with your art 🥺” “do you sell your writing?” NO,,, u don’t understand, i dont do this for money i do this because it makes me happy. why is that not enough?? i do other things i hate for money—i do things i like and want to improve at for happy!!!!!!!!!!!!

this but x200 bc of surrender (whenever you’re ready) & something (just like this)

Surrender is singlehandedly getting me through college and it is my comfort fic, thank you thank you thank you

anon!!! you’re singlehandedly getting yourself through college. it seems hard — studying is hard!!! it’s a drain!!!!! but you’re doing wonderfully by pushing through. 🌷