It is disturbing how your art could mean anything in amateur eyes, how your poetry could evoke the wrong reactions and procure the wrong assumptions about you.
~Separate the art from the artist. The art remains forever yet the artist only knows of the finiteness of her time here.
~Separate the art from the artist. The art remains forever yet the artist only knows of the finiteness of her time here.
❤4
Let the Villain Die: An Eulogy for Our Addictions to the Dark and Damaged
In the grand theatre of the heart, each of us at least once becomes enamored with tragedy. We fall, not for gentleness, but for chaos dressed in leather and longing. I dare say, few among us ever truly recover from our Hardin, our spectral "Damon Salvatore', that beautiful calamity who tears through the soul like a storm pretending to be salvation. We name it passion, call it destiny, and kneel before it as though broken love were a god worth worshiping.
There is an old fever in us ancient and incurable that mistakes danger for depth. We are bewitched by mystery, seduced by the ones we cannot heal, and charmed by the ruin that promises to make us feel alive. We cling to them with trembling hope, whispering the delusion that if such a wounded creature could ever love us, then perhaps we too are worthy of gentle things. What grand irony, that we who crave peace so desperately insist on finding it in the arms of chaos.
But the truth, when it finally arrives, does not shout. It creeps in softly, like dawn through the curtains of a sleepless room. We begin to see that our love stories were not epics, but rehearsals of pain; not fated romances, but well-performed illusions. And in that cruel, necessary stillness; we face the hardest of reckonings: letting the villain die.
To do so feels like betrayal, yet it is an act of mercy to keep them alive in memory is to let their ghosts dine nightly on our peace. It is to doom ourselves to relive the theatre, curtain after curtain, long after the applause has died. We must unlearn this hunger for turmoil, this feverish need to translate suffering into meaning. Love should not wound to prove it exists.
Let us write their eulogy not in bitterness, but in understanding. Let the villains die, and with them, the belief that pain is proof of depth. Let the heart grow quiet, and the air clear. For there is a sovereign strength in softness, a revolution in stillness, and a kind of majesty in moving on.
So mourn them once more, if you must. Whisper your farewell to the chaos that once felt like home. Then step into your own light not as a savior, not as a survivor, but as something far greater: reborn, self-chosen, unashamedly calm.
For the story you now live needs no villain to be grand.
In the grand theatre of the heart, each of us at least once becomes enamored with tragedy. We fall, not for gentleness, but for chaos dressed in leather and longing. I dare say, few among us ever truly recover from our Hardin, our spectral "Damon Salvatore', that beautiful calamity who tears through the soul like a storm pretending to be salvation. We name it passion, call it destiny, and kneel before it as though broken love were a god worth worshiping.
There is an old fever in us ancient and incurable that mistakes danger for depth. We are bewitched by mystery, seduced by the ones we cannot heal, and charmed by the ruin that promises to make us feel alive. We cling to them with trembling hope, whispering the delusion that if such a wounded creature could ever love us, then perhaps we too are worthy of gentle things. What grand irony, that we who crave peace so desperately insist on finding it in the arms of chaos.
But the truth, when it finally arrives, does not shout. It creeps in softly, like dawn through the curtains of a sleepless room. We begin to see that our love stories were not epics, but rehearsals of pain; not fated romances, but well-performed illusions. And in that cruel, necessary stillness; we face the hardest of reckonings: letting the villain die.
To do so feels like betrayal, yet it is an act of mercy to keep them alive in memory is to let their ghosts dine nightly on our peace. It is to doom ourselves to relive the theatre, curtain after curtain, long after the applause has died. We must unlearn this hunger for turmoil, this feverish need to translate suffering into meaning. Love should not wound to prove it exists.
Let us write their eulogy not in bitterness, but in understanding. Let the villains die, and with them, the belief that pain is proof of depth. Let the heart grow quiet, and the air clear. For there is a sovereign strength in softness, a revolution in stillness, and a kind of majesty in moving on.
So mourn them once more, if you must. Whisper your farewell to the chaos that once felt like home. Then step into your own light not as a savior, not as a survivor, but as something far greater: reborn, self-chosen, unashamedly calm.
For the story you now live needs no villain to be grand.
Let us make something eternal,
something that outlives us, not to glorify our names, but to bind the pulse of humanity across time. Not legacy, but connection;not remembrance, but resonance.
Let it remind future hearts that we, too, once reached out through the quiet, hoping to be understood.
something that outlives us, not to glorify our names, but to bind the pulse of humanity across time. Not legacy, but connection;not remembrance, but resonance.
Let it remind future hearts that we, too, once reached out through the quiet, hoping to be understood.
❤3
Every time my quill connected to these rusty pages you imagined you were the muse, the center of the universe that burned those who dare come close, but I am the only thing reflected in the stories I sculpted from dust and ashes.
Every time I dreamt of the rain in the woods, you fantasized that I was looking for you into the outskirts of the forest, to catch you in a frenzy dance of the wild but I only know of the rain itself and how it made me feel as it caressed my cheeks and soaked through my dress, how it reminded me I was alive.
Every time I smiled at a stranger hoping they would feel the warmth I didn't know I had, you whispered that smile belonged to you, but I only know of my glowing existence that shines without your presence.
Every time I held on to a child's hand or looked into their eyes, you wanted the love there to be yours, but I only know of a gentle kind of love, an agape meant for anyone but you.
Every time I dreamt of the rain in the woods, you fantasized that I was looking for you into the outskirts of the forest, to catch you in a frenzy dance of the wild but I only know of the rain itself and how it made me feel as it caressed my cheeks and soaked through my dress, how it reminded me I was alive.
Every time I smiled at a stranger hoping they would feel the warmth I didn't know I had, you whispered that smile belonged to you, but I only know of my glowing existence that shines without your presence.
Every time I held on to a child's hand or looked into their eyes, you wanted the love there to be yours, but I only know of a gentle kind of love, an agape meant for anyone but you.
My honesty makes them suffer.
It bruises even the parts of them that once seemed invincible.
And so, I sit in the eerie silence,
watching the trembling air between truth and compassion,
making sure I don’t open the wounds I cannot close.
Is it mercy or defeat?
It bruises even the parts of them that once seemed invincible.
And so, I sit in the eerie silence,
watching the trembling air between truth and compassion,
making sure I don’t open the wounds I cannot close.
Is it mercy or defeat?
❤2💋2