shunrehihosumedha

Latest Posts by shunrehihosumedha

𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯

- Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

Radio (2012)

sorry if i was a bitch i probably wanted to go home

Franz Kafka, from a letter to Milena Jesenka featured in "Letters to Milena,"

— Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse; Fragments [translated by Richard Howard]

Will be turning 23 in less than 12 hours. I am honestly blessed to meet such wonderful people in last couple of months that I can’t even imagine my life rn without them. I will always owe this to the universe for brining me close with the people I deserve and cherish whole heartedly. Iloveyou all so much🧿♥️

1st image: Art supplies by Big Lohan

2nd image: Stitch merchandise by Sofia and his boyfriend small Lohan

3rd image: Kuromi by Big Lohan

her (2013)

Old room, old images; 2023 was 2 years ago. Dangerous how the time flies by.

Franz Kafka, from a letter to Milena Jesenka featured in "Letters to Milena,

Hans, The Mermaid's Son, from Andrew Lang's The Pink Fairy Book by Henry Justice Ford (1897)

to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. by A History of My Brief Body by Billy-Ray Belcourt

Unconditional love isn't a free pass to hurt me.

yes sex is great but have you ever had someone fall in love with your personality and be so damn in love with you simply just for being you.

𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡

“And I’ll make a cup of coffee with the right amount of sugar, how you like it.”

Coffee by Beabadoobee

“Et in Arcadia ego”

(Even in Arcadia, there am I)

I will tear my heart out; before this cathedral of flesh lets me go

The pink ribbon scars remain, delicate inscriptions of things I never dared say aloud

I have bled in silence, tried to scour regret with ritual and rainwater… but it clings, a second skin, soft as memory, heavy as guilt

My angel wings; once alabaster, now bound in velvet chains; a slow suffocation beneath borrowed holiness

They ache when the wind moves.

They remember flight.

My belly burns with the echo of choices, each one a blade turned inward, an inheritance of fire

There is no absolution here; only the architecture of longing, and the dust that gathers in the mouths of the dead.

Latin verses echo in forgotten halls

I gave you a love so vast it could have swallowed cities whole. I built galaxies in my chest just to make room for you, carved out pieces of my soul and called them home so you would never feel alone. I was there and offering, but you… you only ever loved the echo of me, the shadow I cast in your mind, not the woman who bled herself dry to be enough. You didn’t love me. You loved the idea of being loved by someone like me. And that was the slow undoing.

You were never really there, not when I shattered quietly in rooms we shared, not when I fell asleep hoping you would see me again, not just look at me. I held up the heavens for us while you watched, arms folded, eyes elsewhere. And still, I stayed. Still, I gave. Foolish, maybe. Devoted, definitely.

Now, that it’s all gone. I have crossed oceans of pain to reach a shore where your name doesn’t burn on my skin anymore. I am somewhere better, freer, lighter. And just when I have stitched myself together with gold thread and midnight prayers, you come back.

You come back with a whisper of apology, a handful of words you never had the courage to speak when I was drowning right in front of you. Why now? Why always after?

It is the cruel theater of time, isn’t it? The final act where ghosts knock at your door once you have already exorcised them. People see your worth only in absence, crave your presence only when it is no longer a gift they are entitled to. Love should never be a posthumous award.

And yet, here I am, haunted not by you, but by the echo of who I was when I loved you. And that is the deepest ache of all.

(Darjeeling’22)

Life is short, fuck a tumblr mutual.

Heinrich Kley (1863–1945) - Walpurgisnacht

illustration from ‘Jugend’ Vol.33 #20, 1928

source

Inferno by Dante Alighieri (translated by John Ciardi) Paolo and Francesca da Rimini | Amos Cassioli, William Dyce, Gaetano Previati, Gustave Doré, Ary Scheffer, Nicola Monti

“He’s the one who always lifts the lens with quiet reverence, capturing me in frames I never ask for. He knows I’m camera conscious, yet he clicks away like I’m a masterpiece in motion.

He never seeks the same in return, never turns the spotlight on himself, only smiles when I laugh, as if my joy is his reward. And truly, what’s more fascinating than a man in love? Not in grand declarations, but in the soft, unspoken gestures that make you feel seen, adored, safe.

When a man truly loves, the person beside him begins to bloom, and suddenly life tastes sweeter, time feels kinder, and everything broken begins to mend.

I wish I had the words to measure how fiercely I love him, how deeply I ache to be his, not just in this fleeting life, but in every realm beyond it, until stars fall silent and the universe forgets its own name. I feel blessed that I have him next to me.”

(Salvador Dali’s Art exhibition and others, VAG, February’25)

So write like a meteor falling, burn bright one last time. The dead before you, live in you and sing. This planet is one big graveyard of silver spoons, diamonds and crowns. You were born with none. So write flowers, write love letters, mouth poetry, kiss it blue. One day you will be debris too, so write.

- From Bad Poetry and This Loving, Sakshi Narula

What if my biggest red flag is me wanting him to feel my absence as a poison spreading in his blood streams.