my perfect evenings

⋆ ₘₐᵣ𝒸ₕ ₆ ₂₀₂₅

I'm trading purpose for sensations. Writing love letters to Lucifer Cuthulu is on the radio playing Scarling and yeule. I find beauty in the paint cracks on the wall, as if roses sprouted from them. What matters? What matters. I stopped dubbing myself psychic because I wanted to free myself from the future.

I'm feeling better. I've been eating a lot of grapes, making my first oil painting. Something happened recently, it wasn't a singular event. It was a convergence of different mental spheres. It's bloated, it's overwhelming, and I've never felt a love like this before. I've been having dreams about being consumed by the sun. When the ace converges the spiral, all there is left is love.

I realized I want to use this as a diary and as a diary alone. I don't want to think of the "value" of what I'm doing. This is a world with many visitors, but one resident. I think not pursuing productivity is demonized, and I take that personally. I think if anything, I've been taking life too seriously. It comes in waves and then I forget about it all over again.