iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

may sarton, journal of a solitude.

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“a great sorrow, and one that i am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. we can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. we don’t get to choose the people we are.” ― donna tartt, the goldfinch

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hi, i'm back and with the old username <3

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things i romanticize: rainy bus rides, unread books, being mysterious for no reason.

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“i dwell in possibility” - emily dickinson

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͏ ͏͏ ͏ @euolivias.bsky.social · 02/04/2025

i hate having an internal monologue. girl shut the fuck up.

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from time to time, i show up here as if i had never left. it's kind of difficult for me, but i really need to vent, and i can't think of a better place than here. because i feel safe to expose all my feelings. so the next posts might be personal and completely poetic—or not.

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“i'm not homeless–i have a house, yet somehow, it never feels like home.”

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tombs of the blind dead (1972)

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if you don't have the intention to stay forever, then don't come at all.

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nude with flowering branch (detail, 1863) gustave courbet

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from "the unabridged journals of sylvia plath", 1950-1962

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i long for a refuge where i can rest my head, a place where the weight of torment does not cling to me like a second skin. all i desire is to feel the breeze touch my face—but even that seems to slip away, as if the air itself hesitates to be caught.

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what do you mean I can't control everything, why not.

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some wounds never vanish. yet little by little i learned to love my life. (mary oliver)

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"i don’t write because i think i have something to say. i write because if i don’t, everything feels even worse." —lily king, writers & lovers

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͏ ͏͏ ͏ @euolivias.bsky.social · 22/02/2025

sylvia plath, from a letter featured in the letters of sylvia plath vol. 1: 1940-1956

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clarice lispector, from a story titled "the way of the cross," featured in soulstorm: stories

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͏ ͏͏ ͏ @euolivias.bsky.social · 22/02/2025

i only ask to be free. the butterflies are free. charles dickens, the old curiosity shop

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i've been absent from this page, and i apologize to those who enjoy being here. i decided to change the page's name and icon precisely to see if it helps me feel a bit more motivated to update it, so you can have more comforting content. i hope you understand.

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there are worse things than being alone but it often takes decades to realize this. and most often when you do, it's too late. and there's nothing worse than too late. charles bukowski, from "oh yes"

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sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion.

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