and if i dont want this kind of life anymore
who do i run to
not a single soul in my circle
can fully understand
what it feels like
to be inside this head
i am never going to be able to swim at the surface
i cling to people who are most likely to understand but even them
turns out to be not the personality i imagined them to be
my mind
is killing me
A Young Woman in a White Dress by Joannon-Navier, 1896
Something deeply painful is the fact that seasons, especially fall, dont feel the same. Not because of individual maturity but because climate change has impacted the weather patterns so so so much that we cant even experience the same annual shifts that our ancestors have for centuries
I feel displaced, i yearn for the spring, summer, fall, and winter that i can barely remember experiencing
To make things worse, if you’re under 50-60 years old, you can’t even remember what normal seasons were like because you weren’t alive to experience them
In the graph above, you can see how there’s a clear tipping point in the late 1970′s, which is when global temperatures first began to really skyrocket.
I was born in 1997, so about 20 years after this shift occurred. There is an immense difference between the climate now and the climate I remember growing up in, but the way I experienced the seasons in my childhood was already fundamentally different from what the seasons were supposed to be like! My parents were pretty much the last generation to experience a normal climate, and that’s just... incredibly sad
I am processing this information in a normal way devoid of rabid rage and bloodlust i am processing this information in a normal wa-
thanks to that dream im now awake. I no longer feel any lingering feelings towards you, you fucking asshole
one thing that people do not know about me, i’m knee-deep in love with classical and opera music
why are people soo afraid of seeming desperate. i love desperation and hate detachment. ache more idiot
Victoria Chang, from Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief; “Dear Teacher,”
[Text ID: “The language of poetry reminded me to stay alive. It reminded me that, when it felt like I had nothing, I was nothing, I still had words. I could ride language as if on a horseback, and it could take me anywhere, including deeply into myself.”]
Victoria Chang, from Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief; “Dear Teacher,”
[Text ID: “The language of poetry reminded me to stay alive. It reminded me that, when it felt like I had nothing, I was nothing, I still had words. I could ride language as if on a horseback, and it could take me anywhere, including deeply into myself.”]
