میخوام مستقل شم از لحاظ مالی، حتی راهم رو واسه اون هم میبندن

+ what's the most sentimental item iranian parents keep at their homes?

- their middle-aged children

هی فکر میکنم دیگه یاد گرفتیم دوتایی واقعا حرف بزنیم و منظور همدیگه رو بفهمیم، هی بهم ثابت میشه هیچ هم اینطور نیست و صرفا مدت زیادی درمورد هیچ چیز مهمی حرف نزدیم که پتانسیل بحث کردن داشته باشه.

عصبانیم میکنن بخدا

بهش میگم اگه این بار واقعا تونستم متفاوت عمل کنم و دوباره اشتباه قبلی رو نکردم چی؟ توی صورتم میخنده و میگه با کی شوخی میکنی، ۲۴ ساله که همین بودی. دستت درد نکنه واقعا بابت این همه ساپورتیو بودن.

گویا اون ها حق اشتباه دارن و ما نداریم. گویا با تحقیر و اذیت در رویکرد بچه شون تغییر مثبت ایجاد میشه. نمیدونن یا خودشون رو به اون راه زدن که کلمات تأثیر مخربی دارن

واقع‌گرایی با اینکه به یه نفر بگی قرار نیست بتونه عوض بشه دو تا موضوع کاملا متفاوتن

وای امروز یکی توی کلاس ارائه داشت. روی لپتاپش یه استیکر از هری پاتر چسبونده بود (اون صحنه‌ی bts که اسنیپ با کتاب میزنه پس کله‌ی هری و باهم می‌خندن)
بعد ما اینجوری بودیم که عه! پاترهدی؟🥹
و یارو اینجوری بود که ها؟ چی‌ام؟💀

چرا غمگین بودن یه بخش جدا نشدنی از من شده؟

امان از ژوئیسانس

In the dim glow of the solitary lamp that flickers on my desk, casting long shadows on the walls, I, Leia, find myself contemplating the vast expanse of my existence within the narrow confines of my circle of acquaintances. It is a cruel irony, this mockery of camaraderie, where the very essence of my being seems to be a mere whisper in the cacophony of others' voices. I am like a ghost wandering the edges of a revelry to which I am never truly invited, a pale figure whose presence is tolerated rather than cherished.
Among those whom I dare to call friends, I often feel as if I am but an expendable accessory, a mere afterthought in their grand tapestry of life. Their laughter, which echoes through the chambers of my mind long after the conversations have ended, rarely includes me. Their plans, vibrant and brimming with excitement, proceed without my involvement, leaving me to dwell in the cold shadows of exclusion. It is as if my voice, when raised, falls into a void, unheard and unheeded, a testament to my insignificance.
In moments of reflection, I see myself as unloved, a figure devoid of the warmth and affection that others seem to effortlessly attract. My attempts to forge meaningful connections often end in futility, as if some invisible barrier surrounds me, repelling those who might offer a semblance of companionship. I am a woman condemned to observe the world through a window smeared with the grime of disillusionment, unable to reach out and touch the vibrant life that dances just beyond my grasp.
Worthlessness, it seems, has become my constant companion, a silent specter that haunts my every waking moment. It whispers in my ear, reminding me of my failures, my inadequacies, the myriad ways in which I fall short. The world moves on, indifferent to my plight, while I remain rooted in this mire of self-doubt and despair. The pages I write, the stories I spin, feel like desperate attempts to carve out a space for myself in a world that has little room for my existence.

"For someone who was never meant for this world, I must confess I'm suddenly having a hard time leaving it. Of course, they say every atom in our bodies was once part of a star. Maybe I'm not leaving. Maybe I'm going home."

- Gattaca(1997)
@finchstuff

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تُشبهينَ الهويّة حينَ أكونُ غريباً.