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Natasha Poly by Patrick Demarchelier
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ashley’s lullaby. august twenty-ninth.

i feel myself stretching in every way possible. my elasticity is wearing just a little thin, in ways that I have no choice to but to stretch and deal with.

it’s stripping me of my cool talents and fun stuff that I use to be able to handle, and has replaced it with stress levels and lack of creativity. I can’t even write a piece of narrative anymore without getting stressed and angry, but that’s not even close to being it.

and i’m dead. I’m overall way too tired to even question it or change it. because what I think my endgame will be and the actual reality of it could be two different things.

fortitude. A while ago, I defined that word and really wanted that trait to myself. And I spoke a little too soon. Cause at first, defining that word was something in itself, but actually living it out in a way where I’m literally breaking my limits, hurts.

and I’m not sure how long I can actually endure with it. cause right now, things are looking a little bleak. And I feel like a need rest from a situation that’s completely over my head in a way that I have no control of and that causes too many tears for my taste.

So rockabye, baby, come and rest.

With love.

"I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy
because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless
and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.
"
Robin Williams (via sadis-gate)
faeirytale:

a narrative. sunday the twenty fourth.

I can’t even write a fucking narrative properly anymore. Fucking damnit.

I’m not even angry. 

with love.  


Ivory hilted dagger and sheath.
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