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Just musings.

What’s the dream?




Oh, it’s catastrophically specific and absurdly unattainable. Picture this: someone who reads ancient poetry in candlelight but also curses like a sailor when they stub their toe. Someone who could win a swordfight at dawn and still look effortlessly disheveled by noon. The kind of person who drinks coffee like it’s a religious ritual but secretly loves cheap instant noodles at 3 a.m. A storm in their heart, an opera in their soul.

A nerd who loves his turtlenecks, someone who underlines their books with a fountain pen, who sighs dramatically in museums, and someone who owns a pocket watch and uses it unironically. Poets who look like they might vanish if you touch them, characters who live in storms, and the person in the corner of the library who smells like ancient paper and regret. Add to that someone who drinks coffee as if he needs it in his blood, someone who plays the violin like it’s a matter of life and death, and someone who stares at the stars like they’re bargaining with fate.



Oh, and let’s not forget the ones who collect old maps of places that don’t exist, the shadowy figure you pass on a rainy street who’s definitely keeping a secret, and the artist who only paints in candlelight. The dream? It’s anyone who looks like they were written into existence by a moody 19th-century author fueled by unrequited love and existential dread.


I like them a little unhinged, like they’ve seen the edges of the universe and came back to tell the tale—messy-haired, slightly haunted, but with a laugh that feels like a firelight on cold nights. Give me the ones who have heartbreak etched into their eyes but still find joy in chasing stray cats down cobblestone streets. The ones who look at the world like it’s both a battlefield and a blank canvas.





To find, and to keep. And to love, with all my might. 


That, my friend, is the dream. (:









love always,

S


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