little "blog" where i post pieces of writing and other whimsy creations!! ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
stayed tuned for one day i plan to make a homemade mini film
~ 07/10/25 dru was here
You ruined the moon for me. She is no longer beautiful -- yet still I hide beneath her dimming light.
When I see her, I can smell your shirt, the one I wore for days until it stank. They hid it from me, but the memory lingers, sweet until it turns to nausea.
I want to vomit you out. I want to be vacant again. But in silence I become a man who cries, no longer stone. Moon, wicked traitor -- does my longing amuse you?
Some nights I dream of selling my heart for fame, just so I won’t be forgotten the way you forgot me.
My body remembers: a slip, blood at the ankle, a fingernail ripped clean, paint burning the wound. My own nails carving my arms the night you pushed me away.
Still, I love the moon. She is the most beautiful thing this world has left.
Your name is a sin I whisper, soft and secret. I am a filthy dog, and you hold the leash -- tight, without knowing.
No one is enough for me, no one will be. Maybe you were the right amount of not enough.
I lost my glasses and I found it pretty strange. I didn’t have a tantrum or go into a rage. I accepted it — bad things tend to happen to me. Now I can’t see a thing. Not the roads nor people’s beady black eyes piercing into me like a cooly steely knife punishing me for not meeting their standards. Blue, brown, green, doesn’t matter — at all eyes are black. They gleam with secrets, darkness, and hidden desires only their eyes showcase so explicitly.
Blue wandering eyes reach for my face, I can feel it.
But I don’t have my glasses, I can’t see the way they stare at my incompetence and lack of refinement.
Everything is a blur, as if the whole world had a foggy screen plastered over it all. The only thing I can see are my hands.
Perfectly I see my callouses, my reddened, tired, aging hands.
I remember distinctly, though the memory is distant: how small and soft they once were.
I like it you know?
Being blind.
I see no one’s faces, no one’s anything, only downside is I could get hit by a car but I’m free from the binds of judgement, the prison that is comparison.
The fear that is birthed by other people's eyes.
Unable to see anymore, I live more free as if in my own little bubble, my comforting small happy land. So when I try to look at someone from afar I feel only a sense of relief when their face and body is so blotched and fuzzy I can’t make sense of any of the outlines, only colors.
The world is a colorful murky mess, unpronounceable splotches without definition. Pools of colors. Small buildings suddenly become churches, gardens take the form of lakes, my mind plays tricks on me.
It’s all so comforting, really.
Relieving.
Foolish, yes?
But.
These faceless figures walk past me and I no longer see them watch me with persecution.
Possessed by the spirit of indignant restlessness, I wander the night like a hollow ghastly man.
My worn attire sticks to my clothes, sinking into my skin.
Putrid smell — always mine — it dirties the air, a stench that clings to each room I enter, invading what was once pure and untainted.
The king, how he loves to leave an impression.
The mind curates the psyche with larvae, growing, drilling into your thoughts, innocently gnawing away at your autonomy.
The king demands to sleep.
He pounds his palms against his thick head, racking it again and again.
The stinging sensation meant something must be working.
Perhaps… perhaps…
Stupefied, he thrashed around in his bed chambers, he wound up staring at the roof.
For hours.
Who knew such a bleak dark space could have such interesting curves?
Subtle, Strange, Beautiful.
The longer you stare into nothingness, the more there is.
His legs, plump meaty tree stumps, scurried over to the kitchen, carrying his mindless vessel to the kitchen, he hadn’t a single thought in his eaten away brain.
Oh to fill this round carcass up, what a marvelous fantasy.
Plunder the kitchen of goods.
Feast!
A greedy gluttonous pig standing … wobbling on two sausage-like legs, taking more and more, there was no limit, there was only more and more to fill.
No such thing as enough.
His fingers writhed like thick maggots, fleshy little things wriggling with desire and scrutiny. He seized the nearest flesh he found.
Crunch…
Crunch…
Slippery. Slimy. His mind felt it wasn’t right but his body yearned for more.
Unaware of it being raw.
Blood flooded the King’s mouth, soaking his tongue, quenching his thirst for vitality.
His teeth snapped the bones, grinding them up like a war machine. Mechanical routine.
"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes..."
⋘ ─── ∗ ⋅☽ ✧ ☾⋅ ∗ ─── ⋙
A Tip: Listen to while reading.
Inner World. i-vii.
i. Everyone has one.
ii. Chasing Joy: Tag You're It.
iii. Childhood and Self
iv. Aging Backwards
v. Diagnosis
vi. And I?
vii. We Are Our Own Key.
Thoughts Brought To Life By: Drusilla U.
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An Inner World...
i. Everyone Has One
No matter what a person looks like, how they act, or how distant they seem -- they have one too.
The person you argue with? They might be replaying a childhood hurt.
The person you admire? They may secretly doubt themselves every day.
Everyone has a story playing silently behind their eyes.
When we remember this, we soften.
We become more curious, less judgmental, and more human.
It’s the beginning of empathy -- seeing others not just for what they do, but for what they carry.
✦☾ ✩ ☽✦
ii. Chasing Joy: Tag You’re It
Think of your inner world as a playground. Joy isn’t something we wait for -- it’s something we can create.
The way we interpret events, speak to ourselves, and imagine the future... it’s all from inside. And it shapes whether we feel joy or not.
That phrase “tag, you’re it," reminds us that joy can be contagious, something we can pass on. But it’s also a challenge:
If joy is missing, maybe it’s our turn to chase it, to create it, to choose it -- even in small ways.
iii. Childhood & Self
TOCKA: "a profound emotional state—a mix of melancholy, spiritual anguish, longing, and existential sadness."
a. The Roots of Joy
Our childhood forms the foundation of our inner world. In those early years, we naturally gravitate toward what brings us joy -- drawing, storytelling, exploring, building.
These aren’t just hobbies; they’re pure expressions of self before the world told us who to be.
b. Growing Up
As we age, responsibilities, fear of judgment, and the pressure to “grow up” can pull us away from those joys. But the inner world never forgets. Joy waits quietly, ready to be rediscovered.
c. Time Travel
Someone who loved drawing might stop for years. But when they pick up a pencil again, joy returns -- not just nostalgia, but a reunion with their core self. The joy we seek as adults often has roots in the forgotten joys of childhood. Reconnecting with them brings purpose, healing, and authenticity.
iv. Growing Backwards
Always get back up.
"Sometimes, healing doesn’t look like getting older -- it looks like going back and picking up the pieces."
Not everyone grows in a straight line. Trauma can freeze you. Grief can set you back. Some people are thirty and feel thirteen inside.
“Aging backwards” doesn’t mean immaturity -- it means emotional time travel. You can be smart, capable, and successful… and still carry an inner child who never healed.
When you notice those younger parts -- still afraid, still hoping -- you can begin to parent them. You can give yourself what you didn’t get. That, too, is growing up.
v. Diagnosis
In trying to “fix” ourselves, we often forget to understand ourselves.
Many live life as a series of symptoms -- burnout, sadness, numbness -- searching for answers in diagnoses, labels, or routines. But sometimes, that search drifts us further from the root: the child within, the part that once knew joy and truth.
What made me happy before the world told me who to be?
True healing isn’t about locking away the past or silencing that inner voice. It’s about turning toward it -- exploring childhood, heart, and self. The answers aren’t in the label, but in the buried parts we once needed to survive.
vi. And I?
I walk through adult life doing what’s expected -- working, surviving, enduring -- but deep inside lives that little girl: wide-eyed, scared, longing to be seen.
I used to think something was wrong with me -- that I was stuck, immature, broken.
Now, I see her as my compass.
When I started my blog, I wasn’t just writing -- I was remembering. Reconnecting with the younger me who loved words. Choosing to write meant choosing her.
vii. We Are Our Own Key
No one else can unlock the door to who we are.
Not a therapist not a diagnosis, not even love from others. They can guide us, certainly -- but only we can open the door.
For years, I waited for someone to see me deeply enough to save me. But healing began when I stopped waiting.
I realized I’ve always had the key -- in the things I love, in the way I write, in the joy I feel when I choose myself.
The door was never locked to punish me -- it was waiting for me to come home.
We are not broken. We are layered. Beneath fear, silence, and survival lives the child, the artist, the soul.
We are our own key.
We always were.
“And you?” Perhaps the reader might wonder.
I’m no longer lost. I’m finding myself again -- one word, one joy, one act of love at a time.
Each day I accomplish one act that makes me proud.
