The-whimsical-wizard - Anika

It is simply not fulfilling to enjoy media in the height of its popularity. You need to show up so late to the party that everybody else is gone and the hosts are asleep so you can rummage through their trash for chip dip and stale hors d’oeurves to eat alone in the dark like a dirty little raccoon secret

Those who live in glass houses something something

once my brothers friend walked into his room and just started sniffing the air and went “oh i smell a quarter” and then walked over to a pile of clothes and moved it and picked up a quarter and i literally can’t stop thinking about it it’s been like a year and it haunts me to this day

The painting process of Jayviks, Silco and commission ~

in another life, i would’ve really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you

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i haven't been very active here, so i'm gonna try to upload all my recent works to fix that! i'm currently in my jayvik era so i have a lot of them to share

How long does someone have to be dead before it’s considered archeology instead of grave robbing?

Thirty love letters? That’s...wow. Whoever they’re for must’ve lit up something rare in you. Kinda makes me wonder what it’d be like to be written about like that

I didn’t write them because I was full of love. I wrote them because I was starving for it. Because I kept trying to turn pain into poetry and it still tasted like blood in the end.

Each letter is a small funeral, a small place to bury a dream that never got to live. I wrote to hands that never reached back. To eyes that never looked at me like I mattered, to ghosts that haunt the shape of love but never stay long enough to be real.

I wrote them because no one told me how quiet heartbreak could be, how it doesn’t always scream, how sometimes it just sits next to you like a tired friend and watches you rot from the inside out. They were just things I needed to say before they drowned me.

Things like:

I miss you even though there was never a you.

I love you even though no one ever stayed long enough to be loved.

Don’t go even though they already did.

I wrote thirty love letters and someday, someone will find them and pretend they were about them but I’ll know the truth.

They were for the hollowness, for the version of me that begged for someone to stay and learned that no one does.

My friend works two jobs and doesn’t tend to specify which one he’s talking about, so he’ll say stuff like “a lady died at work today” and the rest of us have to play a fun little game called Nursing Home Or Yankee Candle.

i realised there was no gender neutral for “my sister from another mister” or “brother from another mother” and so I present to you all “my sib from another crib”