angel’s delights

Exit.

Of one thing you can be sure: everyone else is winging it just as much as you are 💋

Thank you Ella 💋

Reading other people’s thoughts and imaginings helped me to realise that we are all (mostly) very similar underneath our skins.

Tomorrow, I’ll try again.

I stand, slowly, and open the window. The air is sharp, carrying the scent of rain and street.

Let it fill my lungs, let it remind me that I am still tethered to this spinning world, even if my place in it feels uncertain. For now, I will listen to the hum, let it be a lullaby instead of a demand.

I am not whole, but I am here, and that is a kind of victory.

Yet, there is a stubborn spark in me, faint but unyielding. I feel it when I laugh at a stray thought, a fleeting rebellion against the gray. Maybe that’s enough for now - to exist, to breathe, to let the world’s clamor pass over me like a storm.

She doesn’t understand that it’s not the job, not the town, not the lack of meat in my diet. It’s the weight of a world that demands I be everything at once - successful, connected, resilient, happy. Happiness feels like a language I’ve forgotten, its grammar slipping through my fingers.

“Likes” hum softly, but it’s the act of creation that saves me, stitching order into chaos.

I think of calling my mother, but the conversation would unravel into her well-meaning questions: Are you eating enough? Have you tried yoga? Why don’t you just quit that job?

I craft women who seize their desires, lovers who bend to their will, scenes where every touch is deliberate, every outcome mine to shape. I linger over each sentence, sculpting heat and power, my fingers trembling with audacity. These stories are my escape, providing a power the world denies me.

I weave these erotic stories - the tangled limbs, the whispered desires, the forbidden fetishes, the worlds at my command. Each tale is a brief moment of control in a life where little yields.

Five things. Worn sweater. Chipped mug. Flickering lightbulb. Unfinished story. Unmastered life.

What use is it when every choice feels like compromise, every step shadowed by the slow creep of obsolescence?

I’m insignificant, yet expected to be extraordinary. I count breaths: one, two, three. Inhale. Exhale. A therapist I don’t have would tell me to ground myself.

Mornings once felt light, possibility flickering in my thoughts. Now, dawn demands productivity, certainty, something, anything. Algorithms know me better than I know myself - ads for serums, apps, courses to “reinvent” myself. Reinvention tastes like dust.

The world hums outside my window, a relentless churn of ambition and noise, and I am here, folded into my couch, a fragile weave of flesh and doubt. I am old, and the modern world presses against my ribs, a quiet suffocation.

And if you carpe me a fucking coffee while you’re at it I’ll make it worth your while🖤

😹💋

Hi Mrs Tales 💋

Nice to see you too!

Thanks Ella 💋

Hi you 💋

😹💋

Hello world 💋