I'm Ivy, and I like to write. I reside inside the murky depths of my unbreakable imagination. I am bittersweet fragments sewn together with good intentions. I have my head in the clouds and my feet on the ground.
My existence on here is merely one of teal pixels expressing the chaos of my mind, spit forth and pieced together the best way my shaky hands have been able to. Take from it what you will.
writing // vanity // "one day" project
tweet tweet // instagram
advice blog // my paper hearts
"Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."
I’m unhappy because I’ve been holding onto such a pessimistic point of view lately. I’m insecure because I keep comparing myself to beautiful girls, intelligent girls, flawless girls—but luckily, this does not translate into bitterness or hatred for others. I’m stupid because I procrastinate and I have no faith that I can do well, and when I do try, I seem to fall flat on my face half the time. I’m a failure because I took little rejections here and there to heart too much. I’m angry because I absolutely detest myself and every single fucking aspect that composes who I am and what I have done. I’m regretful because I can’t forgive myself for my past and let go of my mistakes. I’m sad because I rely on other people far too much, and I cannot find happiness without them. I’m lonely because I miss people who I shouldn’t give a shit for, because they’ve simply never given a shit about me. I’m reminiscent because I’m in love with the past and I cannot see the future. I’m materialistic because I put too much importance into numbers and facts and figures, and I’m just so.. jealous. I’m insane and a little crazy because I overanalyze every detail about this world and each word that escapes others’ lips, and I cannot stop dissecting every inch of myself and counting my flaws. I’m imperfect. I’m a little broken. I’m fixing myself, but it doesn’t seem to be working.