Michie Drabbles - Tumblr Posts
The truth of the universe can never be known. Never unveiled to be held, married, trapped. It is a free bird rustling the leaves, never seen, only known in echoes and usherings of wind.
-penned by j. m. medna (2024)
I just want it to feel right, for it all to click, for life to make sense. But there's no single, all-encompassing answer to life, no apparent rhyme or reason. I'm just tired of it all feeling as though I'm on the margins, behind glass, looking in. As though I'm observing my existence, rather than experiencing it. I don't really know what I want from my life. I think I assimilate the common wants and desires of others; travel, luxuries, relationships, success because it seems like the common thing to want. If everyone wants it, it must be worth it, right? Perhaps I've convinced myself that if I were to obtain power and wealth, I'd grow desirable in such a way that I would not have to fake my identity or personality to get people to stay. Their want for my assets would keep them interested, whereas when it's just me, bared and stripped, it's so hard to predict the fickle interest of others. People use you and dispose of you if you're insignificant, invaluable.
I wonder what it's like to feel powerful; to be desired; to be wealthy beyond your years. Does it offer you freedom from trivial worries?
-penned by j. m. medna
An echo resounds through me as my fist collides with my chest. A forlorn reminder of the empty, hollow, nameless thing that I am. I don't even feel human most times.
Perhaps it all really is some simulation. No memory ever really ours; only some ploy meant for entertainment of the bored creator.
-penned by j. m. medna (2024)
I feel like I’m falling. Not in the occasional positional vertigo way. The room and everything around me is steady, save for me. It’s like a rug has been pulled from beneath my heart, and I can feel it descend into an abyss. Like the epicenter of gravity resides within my chest and pulls me down from within. the way land feels when it caves in. like i can’t breath because my lungs have collapsed under the gravitational pull of the pole of magnetism that impales me. like the butterflies meant to reside my belly have escaped and fluttered into my chest. it’s not dizzying. it’s not dizzy. it’s a feeling of caving in, imploding quietly while everything around me remains, and everyone watches unbeknownst. like i could shrivel and compress into a single dimensional plane, thin as a sheet of paper, and no one would grieve my disappearance.
-penned by j. m. medna (2024)
that character who is so diffusely plagued with dichotomous, perfectionistic thinking that they self-villainize at their slightest screw up. they spiral into cynical madness at the slightest reminder of their imperfections. if I can't be a Saint, I have no choice but to become a devil.
“I have fond memories of the rain,” she says, gazing out the window. Beads swell and fall on its glass pane. Stares at them forlornly, edges of her mouth deepening with an unnamed but compelling emotion. Her gaze trails the falling beads.
She looks at the grey day as if greeting an old friend.