⋆༺tripp༻⋆

General

collecting jars i’ll never fill. replaying conversations in my head like they’re side quests. daydreaming entire storylines i’ll never write down.

i was raised on porchlight ghosts and kudzu secrets. i drink sweet tea with my grief. the woods know my name.

Music

if it sounds like a war cry, a love letter, a nightmare, or a funeral—i’m listening.

movements • ghost • pearl jam • deftones • morsel • the gloom in the corner • florence + the machine • colter wall • the wonder years • citizen • my chemical romance • trophy eyes • real friends • the hotelier • modern baseball • johnny cash • billy strings • oliver anthony • molly tuttle • sturgill simpson

playlists labeled like spells. songs that feel like crying in a church, screaming in a forest, or slow dancing with a ghost.

Movies

haunted houses, grainy film reels, and the kind of horror that lingers after the credits.

vintage midnight movies, arthouse tragedies, and tearjerkers that hit too close to home.

movies that make you cry and then scream, or scream and then cry.

old VHS tapes warped by summer heat. drive-in screens lit by lightning bugs. ghosts on grainy 16mm.

practical magic • pan’s labyrinth • the craft • coraline • scream • donnie darko • dracula

Television

Books

spellbound pages, haunted tales, and love stories dipped in shadows.

dark romance that burns slow and fantasy that feels like stepping into a dream.

books that feel like moonlight and magic and the bittersweet ache of longing.

dog-eared paperbacks left on porches, stories whispered like spells through mountain fog, ink that smells like old wood and wildflowers.

current read: the night circus by erin morgenstern

Heroes

not capes and crowns—just the ones who survive. the ones who hold their own heart with shaking hands and still offer it anyway.

people who turn their pain into poetry. women who whisper to ghosts. anyone who plants flowers in cursed soil and sings to the dark to keep it company.

heroes that feel like old folk songs, bruised knuckles, and lanterns left lit for someone who might never come home. saints of sorrow. prophets of feeling too much.

you won’t find them in parades—you’ll find them in the quiet places, mending what can’t be fixed and loving what can’t be saved.

Tumblr

tumblr.com/overrtripp?source=share

Bluesky

@overrtripp.bsky.social