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C2023 A3 (Tsuchinshan–ATLAS)

Credit: Alex Jung

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I would like to wish everyone an uneventful new year

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year 5 of capri drawings for my bestie @carryonmylovelies ' bday!! <3 <3

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2025

BE A STUDENT OF WHAT YOU ADMIRE

DO IT BADLY RATHER THAN NOT AT ALL

TO DESPAIR IS TO CEDE VICTORY TO THOSE WHO DO NOT DESERVE IT

BROADEN YOUR CULTURAL HORIZONS

REVEL IN THE ANALOGUE

ACTION ABSORBS ANXIETY

GRIEF IS PRODUCTIVE; GUILT IS NOT

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for reasons i shall not discuss, a tweet

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hate when people are like "trust your gut! listen to your intuition!" like okay well my gut is telling me every person i lay eyes on is hunting me for sport and my intuition is saying i should find a secluded cave and live there forever so what do you suggest i do with that information

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The Empress.

Part III of my Good Omens inspired Tarot deck.

Nanny Ashtoreth

wow i’m on my knees i’ll do anything she says 🙏🙏

as always, love you all, dream of whatever you like best

@goodomensafterdark

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There was a TikTok post about an advertisement for “blood-making pills for weak women” someone found in a newspaper from the 1890s and everybody seemed to think it was just an example of the weird misogyny of the day and age but no. Anemia was a massive public health concern. It always has been through history but part of the reason we have this idea of old timey women thought history being physical weak, chronically cold and pale and fainting is because they often they were. Anemia was also a massive problem for men in that day but even now it disproportionally affects people who menstruate. So tonics full of stimulants and “healthful vitamins” were marketed at young women in pages upon pages of advertisements in every newspaper. People generally felt like shit all the time back then.

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J. R. R. Tolkien: no, my books aren't about the war I experienced. It's just a story

J. R. R. Tolkien's works: you cannot go home, war ends entire bloodlines, you are mourning the death of your brother alone, you dug into the earth and permanently scored the land, you cannot explain what you have been through, you cannot go home, "that wound will never fully heal. He will carry it the rest of his life", leaving the women behind does not save them, the young die first, you cannot go home, the parent will bury their child, you have lost the wives and you will never connect with them again, "how shall any tower withstand such numbers and such reckless hate?", you are not the same, you cannot go home, you can never go home, your father will only side with those he sees as worthy bloodlines and you cannot change his mind, it is more meaningful Not to kill, sometimes your sacrifice accomplishes nothing, you cannot go home

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the issue with writing for yourself is that you will get sucked into rereading your own fic over and over and pretend it’s “editing,” but really you’re just reading because it’s exactly what you want to read. because you wrote it. for you.

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Don’t make me put your ass in the sealbarrow

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And no I don’t think love ever leaves because it’s been eight years since my dad died and he is in every thought and hope and dream. and when I think I can’t fix the computer he is here. and when I eat chocolate cake he is here. and when the sun glows at 3pm he is here. and he will always be here because his life made mine, and my life will be his epilogue

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For the I wish you would write a fic game, I wish you write the Faramir and Elrond burning convo you teased……. 😩

LMAOOO YOU’RE ALL USING THIS ASK MEME TO SEND ME THE WORLD’S MOST SOUL DESTROYING PROMPTS AREN’T YOU 😭😭😭 I assume you mean the funeral pyre is not death one, if so, here you go

tw: immolation

“When Elessar told you of my father’s demise you nodded like the rest,” says Faramir, quietly. “But there was no horror in your eyes, Lord Elrond. You pronounced no diagnosis of his madness. You did not call him a fool, did not cast your judgement upon him.”

“No, I did not,” the lord’s tone is cool, nearly apathetic. Faramir closes his eyes and pictures it again. What open, terrible, twisted grief must have opened itself up on Denethor’s face?

A funeral pyre is not death in itself, any more than a wedding ceremony is love or an infant’s naming ceremony a birth. All three are rituals, rigid and final and prescribed, by which the living seek to tether themselves to invisible things: to death, to love, to life. A funeral pyre is not death, it is unbearable grief pressed into a tight, dark shape in hopes that it will detonate and dissipate. Simply an attempt to capture, for a moment, something — or someone — that can no longer be held. In that way, if in no other, Elrond had understood Denethor.

“There are many things I blame your father for,” says Elrond quietly. “And the list includes his treatment of his second son. But his choice to step into the flame I cannot judge.”

“But why, my lord? You, who have chosen immortality, who —“

Elrond shrugs, gives him a half-smile. He holds out his hands to Faramir, palms upward. From a distance, the skin is smooth, flawless.

Faramir grasps the offered hands and runs his own fingers across the ridges in the palm, the heavy cut of his nails, the peeling skin of the cuticles, a thumb-tip bitten to the quick — man hands, he thinks. No true elf has hands like these. Perfect from a distance, weary and ragged at the edges, like the lord himself. And then he looks even closer, and sees the shine on uneven patches of skin, invisible to the naked eye unless held so close as to be uncomfortably intimate, like they stand now. At the edges of the shining patches, the skin bunched slightly, gathered its skirts and pulled away, as if to escape from the old wound.

“These hands,” says Faramir quietly. “These hands have burned to the bone once, have they not?"

"Tell me what you know of Ereinion Gil-Galad,” Elrond asks calmly, though his expression is anything but. What open, terrible, twisted grief must have opened itself up on Denethor’s face? Faramir thinks he knows.

“The last high king of the Noldor,” he whispers reverently, reciting an old lesson. “He who first struck down Sauron, he who lanced his armour. He, who upon an ungloved touch from the sorcerer, burst into flame upon the slopes of Orodruin. He, who from light came, he, whom to light returned.”

“He, who was my greatest friend in the world,” Elrond’s voice is hoarse beneath his pleasant smile. "And had Círdan not dragged me away from him and shoved me towards Isildur — he, whom I would have burned to dust beside.”

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Merry christmas lovelies 🤍🎄