You Live in My Thoughts, No Matter How Busy Life Gets

Some people don’t fade from your thoughts — no matter how busy life becomes 🤍You can be drowning in responsibilities, running through deadlines, chasing dreams, juggling stress, and still… there they are. In the background of every moment. In the silence between tasks. In the pauses between breaths.They become part of your mental landscape.Not as a distraction — but as a presence.Not as noise — but as comfort.It’s strange how one person can take up space in your thoughts so effortlessly. How they can exist in both chaos and calm. How they can feel as natural as breathing, as steady as a heartbeat.This kind of connection isn’t about obsession.It’s about emotional imprint.It’s what happens when someone leaves a mark on your soul. When they change how you see, feel, and experience the world. When their presence becomes woven into your everyday thinking.If this resonates, it means you’ve experienced emotional depth. It means you’ve formed a bond that didn’t fade with time or distance. And that is something rare.Some connections don’t disappear.They evolve.They settle quietly into your heart.And they stay.If someone lives in your thoughts, let this be your reminder:What you felt was real. And it mattered.

ACTING MY AGE

28 feels old enough to stop second-guessing every decision I make

to rest when I’m tired instead of pushing until I break

to sit with my thoughts instead of running from them

to speak up — even if my voice shakes — in front of people and elders

to stand up for myself without guilt

to take charge when I know I can make things better

old enough to face the hard things

for me and for the people I love

old enough to stop doing things that slowly kill me

and start doing the ones that keep me alive longer

to build a body that won’t betray me when I’m older

to stop acting like a lost child

to stop searching for someone to guide me

I think I’m old enough now

to raise myself

listen to the words

at the base of your brain

the ones that demand

to be let out on the page

It may look like I’m doing nothing, but I’m actually very busy in my head.

Featuring Cafe Paris Amazon Kindle Series Skin

I’m exhausted—and heartbroken. By what we’ve been through as a country. I find myself questioning everything. Every single thing.

First, I’ve finally admitted to myself—truly admitted—that I despise white-collar life. Not just in words. I mean it in my bones. The kind of truth that doesn’t just pass through your lips, but seeps into your body. I feel the absurdity of it all, deeply. My heart can’t carry it anymore.

And yet, there’s also a growing sense of hope within me. Because I’m getting closer to being me. The inner and outer games I play to shield myself from the tragedies and horrors no longer suffice. The tiredness and grief won’t go away. And honestly, they shouldn’t. That is the normal response.

I still go through the motions—but this time, I don’t feel like I’m pretending. Something inside me feels real. Raw.

And even with all of this… I carry on without falling apart. That, I’m proud of.

There were things that had to be done—and still are. And I’m ashamed of what I left undone. But that’s okay. Contradictions will remain.

Great suffering forces you to see what truly matters.

The people I once saw as giants now seem so small.

And the events… they feel manageable now.

We’ll get to it.

Once we’re back on our feet.

PSA: Eddie secretly adores this song.

Secret: Eddie presents an exterior of being a music snob who has a sweet spot he doesn’t tread from.

While true, he is an entire music snob, when he’s in his feels, things get extra cheesy. He just keeps those tapes/records separate from his main ones in a box.

He calls it his heart-shaped box.

Hello again, Tumblr.

It’s been years since high school, and somehow, you’ve always been here. Even in my silence—days, weeks, months, even years—you waited. And maybe that’s why I keep coming back. You’ve held pieces of me I’ve forgotten, fragments I didn’t know I was preserving. Memories tucked between pixelated pages, even when the words weren’t always fully me.

I don’t regret sharing my thoughts here—my journals, my little nothings. They mattered. They still do.

So today, I return. Maybe slowly, maybe not every day, but I’ll try to keep this space alive. Like a digital diary. A quiet room where I can speak freely. Threads may be the new thing now (and I’ve wandered there, I admit), but nothing feels quite like home the way this place does.

No one really knows me here. And I like that.

It’s like writing letters to the universe and knowing it listens—softly, without interruption.

I’m back.

Let’s begin again. 🩷

Letter #1

March 19, 2025

1:08 am

A huge part of why it’s taken me so long to write the letters I so desperately need written out, is the pressure of significance.

#1. Number One. A huge step. The first step.

But what if the first doesn’t matter? Or rather, the first does not compare to the hundreds that come after. I think it’s more about the courage and will to write whenever the need to arises.

That being said, here goes.

To Luanne.

You’ve always been, and I fear always will be, selfish. You asked us once, if we could describe you in one word what word would it be. A strange crowd to begin with. A best friend who was at her wit’s end with you. Her childhood friend who later turns out to be not who you think he was. A best friend who later, as most male-female friendships do, ends up just another drop in the bucket in the life that is a girl. I don’t remember if there was more people.

My initial thought: SELFISH. Selfish in big, bold, fluorescent-lighted letters that dance and flicker to draw even more attention.

I felt bad. I didn’t even say anything at first. I waited as the table chuckled lightly before starting to share thoughts on your character. Someone said “Main-Character Syndrome”, a term you took and RAN with later. Everyone seemed to agree, even me, though I knew you didn’t take that for what it is (selfish) but rather for what you thought it aught to mean with yourself in context (important).

Then someone else said “selfish.” And I JUMPED. I remember laughing and saying “Oh my god, yes! But I didn’t want it to come out mean.” The truth is, it would have (and did) come out mean because selfish is mean and selfish is bad and it is what you are and I had no means to sugarcoat it as everyone so often does for you.

You put on the facade of pretending to be mature enough to not explode at everyone and demand to know why we would dare to think that of you. Instead, you sat with your hands in your lap, nodding and blinking deeply to show that you were listening, understanding, and processing as any adult would. But I know you. Oh, I knew you all too well. You were fuming. How dare we say that and how DARE we all agree??

I know. I know how it sounds. Damn Ze, it’s sounds like you might be projecting a bit. Maybe jealous? Resentful? That’s a big insight you’ve came up with over one questions and light-hearted responses from a safe group of friends.

The thing is, for me, it wasn’t a safe group of friends. It was me forced to put on a show for the sake of KEEPING THE PEACE. I was so tired of constantly faking our friendship. But, it was definitely better than if I blew up our lives. I mean, can you imagine? I tell you i’m done, that I don’t want to be your friend anymore because frankly, it’s EXHAUSTING being your friend, specifically your friend. Imagine me basically rubbing it in your face that your ex was right, you are far too much for any one person to handle. Imagine me dropping you like nothing and then what, expecting you to be cordial? to play nice? In front of our scores of mutual friends? And then what do you tell them? Oh yeah, Ze and I aren’t friends anymore because she said she ‘just can’t do it anymore’ and I don’t know what that means because i’ve been her loyal friend for such a long time. She just dropped me out of nowhere for no reason, i think it’s actually more personal. Maybe she’s going through it, you know she’s always in these moods and it’s hard to keep up with and I think she dabbles in some darker habits too so i bet it actually has nothing to do with me and all to do with her. And what do I tell them? Oh yeah, Luanne and I aren’t friends anymore because I decided to be a raging bitch who drops her long-time friends over no particular reason besides I just don’t want to. What about our closer friends? Do we share custody? Do we force them to chose a “side”? Do we put our differences aside and continue to hang out all together and be nice and try our best? What’s the difference between that and now? Besides that now, I alone bear that weight. What else is new.

In the end, we told you that sometimes, you don’t really listen to those around you and end up choosing whatever benefits you the most, regardless of everyone else’s thoughts and feelings. We were nice, I didn’t make any jabs, I didn’t prolong any one comment or anything. You took what we said, heard us out, and then we moved on.

raising a daughter

She is three, barefoot in the grass, spinning like the world cannot catch her.

She is all wild hair and dimpled hands, her voice loud with certainty. She does not ask for permission to exist. She does not yet know that society expects that of her.

She climbs too high, runs too fast, sings too loudly. She throws her head back when she laughs, unashamed of the space she takes up. She believes she is the moon, dragging the world in line with her gravitational pull.

And yet.

At bedtime, she holds her doll close and whispers, “She’s sad.” When her mother asks why, she shrugs. “She wants to be small.”

At the store, an old woman chuckles, “She is so beautiful!” The words mean nothing to her, but her mother’s stomach clenches. She wonders how many more times her daughter will be told that beauty is the most interesting thing about her.

At the park, she watches the boys play a game. She stands at the edge, bouncing on her toes, waiting for an invitation that never comes.

That night, she asks, “Am I pretty?” Her mother forces a smile. “You are smart, and kind, and strong.” But the question lingers between them, heavy with the weight of every woman who has ever asked it.

She is three, but she is already learning.

She is learning that when she says “No,” grown-ups sometimes laugh.

She is learning that people are softer when she smiles.

She is learning that she must say “Sorry” even when she does not know what for.

Her mother watches, afraid.

Afraid of how the world will shape her, how it will file down her edges, turn her wild laughter into polite smiles, make her believe her worth is something fragile, something given by others.

So she tells her daughter stories of brave girls and fearless women. She teaches her to climb higher, run faster, sing louder. She lets her say No and means it when she listens.

But she knows the world is waiting.

And some nights, after her daughter is asleep, she stares at the ceiling and wonders if she is strong enough to hold it back.

-rage in reverie

i see her.

i see the way she grips the edges of herself,

trying not to slip away.

i tell her,

she is not small,

not crazy,

not his to destroy.

she is a storm waiting to break.

-rage in reverie

before the wedding, they give advice

talk about everything

never go to bed angry

marriage is hard work

like folded notes pressed into your palm,

whispered warnings wrapped in bows.

you nod, you smile,

you think you understand.

but understanding comes later.

in the quiet hum of morning breath,

in the way their fingers trace the edge of your worry

without needing to ask.

it comes in the nights when marriage feels like work,

when the weight of the world

settles heavy on the bed between you.

when silence feels safer than speaking.

they don’t tell you that intimacy

isn’t just bodies tangled in sheets,

it’s the unlocked door of your mind,

the secret thoughts you never meant to say aloud,

laid bare in the dim glow of trust.

they don’t tell you that some days,

love is muscle memory,

a thing you do because you promised to,

because even in the dark,

you reach for them,

and they reach back.

and in that reaching,

you remember,

this is what lucky feels like

-rage in reverie

I’m an old soul at heart.

Technology, even though I love it, is not really my thing.

Heres all the clone art i’ve done as of recent.

“The inner thought coming from the heart represents the real motives and desires. These are the cause of action”

- Raymond Holliwell