Tumgik
#dark diary
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Tumblr - Once upon a time..
That intangible sad moment when you have to realize that Tumblr is not what it used to be....
It used to be a place full of life apart from, or despite, all the horror that life has to offer that circulates here. It was painful but it was also warm with all the bitterness and cold... It was a huge family, you felt understood and accepted. It was safe to talk openly without fear of being banned or, as in the various forums, of being publicly disgraced by journalists with one's story in the end... It was home, a place you went to when the night was deepest and where you found the sun again....
Today you are not even happy to open the notifications anymore... all full of spamming porn bots.... Posts are only allowed if they are "family friendly" and in accordance with the rules... An open talk about the daily problems as a person who is not up to this merciless system with its requirements, is no longer possible...
Tumblr has lost its soul... betrayed and sold the community and the spirit It is so incredibly sad to see this and to know that there will never be a way back... and yet you just can't leave, you are attached to this place, to what it was and will never be again... and I think that hurts much more than anything else...
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bebx · 8 months
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shisasan · 1 year
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𝙵𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟸 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
[ID: February 1. Nothing, merely tired. END ID]
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strokeofserenity · 6 days
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F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
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overwhelmingly-toxic · 7 months
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I'm a problem solver. A do-er. A fixer. Goal oriented.
When the worst happens, you can rely on me to take care of everything. I need to take care of everything. Everything else is on pause until I fix the problem.
Now that I have a second alone to breathe, the stress is making me shake. But I can't stop yet. Problem is not fixed. This is just a short breath before we dive back into it.
Enough time to try to eat. Try to drink. Just try. Your problems will be fixed before mine. I can wait. I can always wait. I can fix myself later.
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moondenss · 7 months
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soracities · 4 months
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Dunya Mikhail, from Diary of a wave outside the sea (trans. Elizabeth Winslow and Dunya Mikhail) [ID'd]
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die-rosastrasse · 9 months
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Montmartre Cemetery 🕊️
Paris, France, 24 VIII 2023
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soulweaverspirit · 1 year
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I'm laying in bed with the window cracked open beside me. It's stuffy in my room and the only relief is the night air slipping in. I'm half asleep already, in the intertidal zone between wake and rest.
I hear you before your headlights appear. Loud as a freight train with the brightest white-blue lights money can buy. Your truck is so lifted I doubt you would be able to see a child standing at the grill.
Loud like thunder, like hell's fury, like something worse than a scream. I've heard gunshots and they were more bearable than the constant low drum of your suped up motor that's tuned to have more air intake than it should and backfires constantly as a result. Its the cocksure grin and lazy arm you keep out of the window as you drive as if you are holding that piece of shit together with your grip and confidence alone.
I load the gun, aim, and fire a shot right through your side window. It hits your arm, shattering your chances of playing football at the family cookout, passing through the metal side and puncturing your leg with shrapnel as it does so. Your lap is bleeding from so many wounds it'll take weeks to heal from and doctors will never be able to take out the piece of plastic lodged in your inner thigh. Your only saving grace is that your dick was sliced evenly in half, so you could avoid a lifelong catheter but never have pleasurable sex again.
Your truck swerves off the road and into a street lamp while you scream. I take out a small notebook and make another tally. One day I'll be able to sleep in peace.
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flowerytale · 9 months
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The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923
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sadinjuly · 6 months
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metamorphesque · 1 year
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I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.
Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947
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bebx · 8 months
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something about loving someone is giving them the power to break your heart and hoping they will not use it
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shisasan · 11 months
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𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
[ID: July 1. Too tired. END ID]
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strokeofserenity · 6 months
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Slyvia Plath
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juusbox · 8 months
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first impressions
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