∆

[∆ @anngmera]

Honesty… it’s a strange thing. It used to feel like you could recognize it right away. Now everything sounds honest, until you realize we’ve forgotten what pure honesty even feels like.

[∆ @anngmera]

It was understood, eventually, that this was not a reopening. What preceded that understanding was illusion, grown in isolation, fed by a love that somehow survived its own conclusion, drawn deliberately, by the one who drew it.

[∆ @anngmera]

Another day. Another small gathering around the well of validation.

[∆ @anngmera]

A wall never built cannot fall. And a door never opened — will never destroy whoever stands behind it.

[∆ @anngmera]

Does any of this line up with what's actually rattling around inside? That echo's been loose in there a while now. Long enough to start breaking things.

[∆ @anngmera]

Rotting out somewhere in the fog of your own dirty head.

[∆ @anngmera]

Goddamn irrelevant.

[∆ @anngmera]

Why?
How?

[∆ @anngmera]

Gimme anotha time pls.

[∆ @anngmera]

You keep circling the same drain like you've made peace with the water.

[∆ @anngmera]

Another door left open for no reason — and somewhere, in the quiet between rooms, something waits to close it.

[∆ @anngmera]

The puzzle has been solved. Case closed. F* off, and good luck.

[∆ @anngmera]

“I have not broken your heart, you have broken it. And in breaking it, you have broken mine.”
~ Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights (2026)

[∆ @anngmera]

I can laugh at it now. Act like it doesn’t matter. But don’t call it peace. Some things don’t fade, they just sit there, quiet, unresolved.

[∆ @anngmera]

Every table keeps a jar. Inside the jar, a small creature made of whispers.
Some jars are labeled saint, some monster. The creature never chooses the label; the room does.

[∆ @anngmera]

Good souls were bruised while silence kept the room warm. A voice arrived late, choosing whatever passed for right in the dark. Still the weight remained — a crime without a culprit, a verdict without a sin.

[∆ @anngmera]

Chase what burns bright, call on God like a desert payphone at dusk, and bury “if” before it slips in like smoke under the door.

[∆ @anngmera]

At what point does a destructive routine stop being encouraged and start being quietly euthanized—once the body learns to call damage normal?

[∆ @anngmera]

Is that necessary?!

[∆ @anngmera]

Scorched earth where a garden was promised. A dry well under a silent sky. The storm never arrived. Only the bitter smoke of a dead hope lingers.