prodigalwriter

[prodigalwriter]

Astigmatism

Interestingly, just as I decided to leave the pool after contemplating an evening dip, it began to rain. Now, I’m sitting calmly in my room, listening to the sputtering on the roof as the rain steadily increases. It’s odd—there was no forecast of cloudy weather, and the sun was bright for most of the day, even into the afternoon. But I guess weather, like life, can change out of the blue, inescapable and unpredictable.

While I was in the pool, lazily doing a few strokes here and there as the darkness crept in and the pool lights flickered to life, I found myself in awe—and a bit dismayed—at just how bad my astigmatism has become. For those who don’t know what it’s like, having astigmatism means that every light, especially at night, transforms into something surreal. Lights glare, their rays spilling out from the center in exaggerated bursts, like a child’s drawing of the sun.

In my case, it’s even worse now. I see lights forming perfect, sharp rays radiating outward, surrounded by two distinct halos, each with its own waves of beams. It’s mesmerizing in its way, but also a stark reminder that my eyesight has grown worse with time.

Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wonder: what if I woke up one day unable to see? How would I cope with the totality of darkness, having known light for so long? It’s a terrifying thought, one that grips me with a paranoia so intense it feels like a delusion. And the strange part? I’m not even drunk.

[prodigalwriter]

The Holiday

While I had tea:

As I sit here on the balcony of my room, nestled somewhere in the south of Thailand, I can feel the end of this uneventful holiday creeping closer. I've been reflecting on what has passed, wondering what the actions of these days have brought me, aside from my usual paranoia that, despite everything, things will turn out fine in the end.

My laundry has yet to arrive. I sent it off early this morning, but I was informed—unfortunately—that it wouldn’t be ready until the evening. So now, I wait. A drone zipped by a moment ago, catching my attention. I paused to stare at it, wondering if its owner was nearby. And just as quickly, it was gone again.

I'm writing this simply to pass the time. Here I am, alone on the third floor, with the accommodations kindly fulfilling my request for a quiet room. Let me make some tea—oh, I just did. I suppose I’m not entirely alone, though; I think I still have neighbors.

It’s Christmas Day, by the way. The pool downstairs looks inviting—I might take a dip later tonight. My tea bag slipped into my cup just now, but it doesn’t matter much. Another time, I’d like to stay here longer, rent a motorbike, and properly explore the area. I didn’t even bother to book an island-hopping trip, as most tourists do.

This afternoon's sunset might outshine the one I saw when I first arrived. But to care about which is better seems pointless—all sunsets are beautiful in their own way. It’s just a matter of the clouds that frame them and the stillness of the sea reflecting their glow.

Half of the cup:

To add to my yapping, I realized I had been left with nothing but my boxers and a hobo shirt to wear, an amusing predicament as I searched for a late lunch. I shrugged it off—after all, I’m a tourist here. Nobody would give it a second thought. The real challenge, however, was finding food.

Interestingly, everything around here is halal, and seafood is surprisingly inexpensive. It makes sense, given how close we are to the sea, with seaports and fishing docks likely scattered nearby. Most other things are priced at what feels like half their usual cost—except for the items clearly tailored for Western tourists.

I eventually dined at a modest Indian-Eastern restaurant just a short walk from my accommodations. The food was good, and the price fair. As I savored the meal, I realized that, despite everything, I was in a position of comfort—a feeling I couldn’t always claim in the past.

Sure, my lingering encumbrances and unresolved issues still hover like ghosts in the background, but here I am. Somehow, I’ve managed to put them aside long enough to irresponsibly book a holiday trip, fly halfway across the world, and spend money on something purely indulgent. For now, that’s enough.

Last sip:

The prices, I realized, were a tad more expensive than they should be—perhaps a small tourist tax on everything. But that thought, like so many others, wandered off in the maze of my muddled mind, as miserable as its author. Even words seem to betray me these days.

As I sat there, another thought struck me: maybe this is the time to follow through on something I’ve been mulling over for a while. Perhaps I’ll finish this trip, return, and file my resignation. It’s been a year now with the company—a year filled with memories, friendships, and a genuine sense of belonging. I’ve truly loved being part of it. Yet, the idea of walking away and finally pursuing my initial plans of self-supporting feels more and more like the right choice.

2024 has been a year to remember. It came with an abundance of struggles and challenges—far outweighing the fleeting moments of joy. Still, for all its trials, it has also been generous in its lessons. For that, I can’t help but feel thankful, even if it’s a gratitude laced with weariness.

My neighbors seem to have returned from their day’s tour; the faint murmur of voices confirms I’m not entirely alone. As I take another sip from my cup and nibble on the leftover falafel from lunch, my thoughts return to the wait for my laundry. It can’t arrive soon enough—I just want to shower and feel clean again.

And then there’s Bangkok, where I’ll head next. I can only hope the weather there stays below 20 degrees—a wish as improbable as it is wistful. With the New Year drawing near, so too looms the end of December, this trip, and perhaps, a chapter of my life.

What a bummer, though, that my flight tomorrow is so late in the evening. I can already foresee the exhaustion waiting for me when I arrive.

...

When it turns a bit darker, I’ll head to the pool. Or perhaps I’ll wait for my bloody laundry to arrive first. It’s already 6 p.m., and they did say it should be ready by now. Maybe I should give the front desk a call—let me get a hold of that.

...

Guess what? My laundry won’t arrive until 8 p.m. Lovely. I complain, but it’s not worth making a fuss over. Still, it’s another reminder of how plans often drift away from the schedules we’re promised.

Something I’ve noticed about myself lately: I’ve slowly grown detached and quiet—not just over the past few weeks, but ever since I moved abroad. Maybe this was inevitable. Back then, I was always too available, making everyone else’s life and schedules my priority, constantly compromising my own. Now, it feels like I’ve swung to the other extreme.

You see how I jump from one topic to another? That’s how scattered my thoughts are, like a mad tangle of strings pulling in every direction.

My accommodations sit across from another building of the same purpose, but their balconies face west, catching the sunsets, while mine looks toward the limestone wall that lines the town’s border. It’s probably there to shield the area from gusts and storms when they come—a natural fortification.

Back to me. I think this solitude suits me—or perhaps I’ve convinced myself it does. In truth, I’ve orchestrated this self-exile, a form of isolation that feels almost deliberate. I’ve become a functionally depressive recluse, overly independent yet vulnerable, a sheep trying to wear the guise of a wolf. That famous phrase about a wolf in sheep’s clothing comes to mind, except here, the dynamic feels inverted.

Maybe there’s a reason for this—or some purpose this self-exile will serve in the grander scheme of my growth. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve almost entirely withdrawn from communication, limiting myself to those I deem reachable. Even then, I often find myself feeling alone, surrounded by what now feels like a carefully crafted façade I call relationships.

[prodigalwriter]

hold on tight

[prodigalwriter]

fanart of the fic ‘redux’ by @valleydean

[prodigalwriter]

Can we get more trans dean drawings? I’d love to see him in the bunker with cas (obviously)

omg it would be my joy and privilege

[prodigalwriter]

Don’t go.

[prodigalwriter]

T-1 day for the Our Skyy 2 Bad Buddy Preview and T-6 days till PatPran come home!

(Crack version)

[prodigalwriter]

4PM

I was all over him, my hands mapping every inch of his body like they had a mind of their own. He let out a low moan as my lips wandered, tracing invisible paths over his skin. I took my time, savoring every second, and I felt him relax beneath me. Too relaxed, too trusting, like he was giving me silent permission to explore every part of him.

I kissed. Pecked. Licked. Every movement deliberate, every touch designed to coax him deeper into this moment with me. My whispers brushed against his skin, and when I bit down lightly, he shuddered, his response sending a thrill through me.

His hands moved slightly, a gesture I couldn't fully interpret but felt the intent of. I stopped, perched above him, my eyes locking onto his. His gaze held me there, the intensity of it rooting me to the spot. I reached for the back of his neck, my fingers slipping into his hair as I held him steady.

"Can I kiss you?" I asked, my voice soft but insistent, the words lingering in the air between us.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yes," he murmured, his voice like silk, his answer carrying both trust and surrender.

I leaned in, our lips finally meeting. They were warm, supple, and impossibly sweet, the taste of him flooding my senses. It moved me in ways I wasn’t prepared for, a surge of heat and something deeper. It was too much, too good, and before I knew it, I bit down, not hard but enough to make him gasp.

The sound escaped him, low and guttural, and I felt it ripple through my chest. I eased back, my lips leaving his as I let my teeth graze his jawline, gently gnawing there, letting the moment settle between us.

[prodigalwriter]

I Did, Once...

I’ve always yearned for that feeling—to be wanted as much as I wanted someone. To see their eyes light up the moment they saw me, as if I were their entire world. That glow, that unspoken connection, the way everything else seemed to fade, leaving just the two of us in a universe we created together. I thought I had it once. Maybe even more than once. But there was one time—one moment—that felt eternal, even though it passed as quickly as the seconds ticked by.

I remember what it was like to feel him close. Skin to skin, breath mingling with breath, a warmth that wrapped around us like an impenetrable cocoon. It felt like the world outside ceased to exist, as if we had been swallowed by the vastness of a universe that only we could touch. It was all-consuming, undeniable. Have you ever felt that? I did. Once.

The way he hugged me, kissed me, craved me—it was everything. That tight embrace, that indescribable feeling of being held as though he never wanted to let go. The weight of longing, the release of it, all in the span of a single touch. It’s the kind of closeness you can’t describe but feel deep within your soul. I remember the last time it happened, though it feels like a lifetime ago. That moment when we reunited after what felt like an eternity apart, and in his arms, I felt whole.

And then there was the night. One night of unrestrained passion, a merging of bodies and hearts. Kisses so deep they left me breathless, moans that echoed in the silence of the room, mingled with the sounds of our racing hearts. The heat of our bodies, the sweat that told stories of longing fulfilled—it was more than just love-making. It was an unspoken declaration, a language only we understood. Have you ever felt that? I did. Once.

It was with him. Only him. He was my everything. We had it, once. That connection, that passion, that mutual yearning. But it’s gone now. All of it. And here I sit, looking at pictures, holding onto memories that linger like ghosts in the corners of my mind. The emotions once so vivid have dimmed to quiet sighs, echoes of what was and what will never be again.

I had it, once. That kind of love. And though it’s gone, it’s a part of me still, a chapter etched into the story of who I am.

[prodigalwriter]

Once

I’ve yearned for the glow in their eyes, A spark that ignites as I draw near, A world where only we exist, Two souls entwined, nothing else to fear.

I had it, once, a fleeting touch, A warmth that wrapped and wouldn’t let go, Breath to breath, skin to skin, A love the universe seemed to know.

The way he held me, so tight, so near, As if the world would crumble away, His arms a fortress, his kiss a vow, A bond I thought was meant to stay.

One night we burned, a fiery haze, Passion rising with every beat, Moans like whispers, sweat like rain, Two hearts colliding in perfect heat.

We had it, once, a perfect flame, An endless moment that felt divine, But time, the thief, took it away, Left me with shadows and fading lines.

Now I sit with pictures in hand, Fragments of what we used to be, The sighs of love, a distant echo, Of a once that lingers inside of me.

[prodigalwriter]

[prodigalwriter]

Finding Solace in the Scent of Change: A Journey with Cannabis

When I first encountered the scent of cannabis, it was anything but pleasant. Sharp, earthy, and unmistakable, it left an impression I couldn’t ignore, though not one I cared for. Back then, it felt intrusive—a pungent signature that followed certain crowds and settings I often avoided. I didn’t see myself embracing it in any capacity. But life, as I’ve learned, has a way of reshaping our perspectives when we least expect it.

Now, over a year into my stay in this country, where the aroma of cannabis wafts through the night air like a whispered promise of calm, I find myself oddly comforted by it. It’s almost as if the scent has become a companion, a grounding presence as I unwind from the demands of the day. I never thought I’d say this, but that once-unwelcome smell has become part of my routine—a subtle marker of my evenings.

Sitting by my window, the familiar notes of cannabis drift in, blending with the ambient sounds of the city. It’s not just the aroma that’s grown on me but the quiet realization of how deeply tied it is to the culture here. What was once foreign and a little unsettling has become normal—a soothing backdrop to the rhythm of my nights.

As someone with a medical understanding of cannabis, I’ve always respected its potential. Its effects on the human psyche and physiology are as fascinating as they are complex. Psychologically, it has a unique way of opening doors to creativity and introspection. Physically, it’s a marvel—easing pain, soothing stress, and offering a reprieve from the wear and tear of the day.

Yet, my newfound appreciation isn’t entirely scientific. It’s personal. I haven’t indulged in its use recreationally here, yet its mere presence, floating through the air, feels like an invitation to relax. It’s strange how simply being around it can evoke a sense of peace—a phenomenon I wouldn’t have believed had I not experienced it myself.

This shift has taught me something profound about adaptation. We often resist what we don’t understand, building walls to keep unfamiliar things out. But exposure has a way of chipping away at those walls, revealing the beauty—or at least the normalcy—on the other side.

Cannabis, for me, has become more than a plant or a concept. It’s a reminder of how environments shape us, how our senses can learn to associate new feelings with old experiences. And perhaps, more importantly, it’s a testament to how much we can grow when we allow ourselves to.

As I sit here now, the scent swirling around me, I feel grateful. Grateful for the way it nudges me to slow down, to breathe, to be. Life is often hectic and demanding, but in moments like these, I’m reminded that even the things we once rejected can become sources of comfort if we let them.

Who would have thought that a year ago, I’d be writing this? Certainly not me. But that’s the beauty of change—it surprises you when you least expect it, one breath at a time.

[prodigalwriter]

Overheard one of my coworkers (a rather Manly Man as these things go) say passionately into his phone "nah man, if they wanna wear a dress or a skirt or something that's just them expressing how they feel on the inside, you know? That's just who they are bro. If [traditionally masculine name] tells you they wanna wear a dress, that's them TRUSTING you, man"

So that was good to hear

[prodigalwriter]

TAY TAWAN & NEW THITIPOOM A Dog and A Plane

[prodigalwriter]

The Canvas of Pain: How Art and Ink Become a Refuge

Pain is a peculiar thing. For some, it is a force to be avoided; for others, it becomes a companion—familiar, even comforting. The world is relentless in its demands, often leaving us searching for ways to process emotions too complex to articulate. For some, that outlet becomes self-expression through ink, where art is etched into skin, not just as decoration but as a means of channeling despair, redirecting pain into something tangible, and ultimately reclaiming control over the chaos within.

The allure of tattoos, with their blend of beauty and pain, is undeniable. For those grappling with internal turmoil, the ritual of tattooing offers more than just body art; it becomes a form of self-harm reimagined—a controlled, intentional, and almost meditative experience. The sharp sting of the needle punctures not just the skin but the fog of despair, creating a visceral distraction from the more abstract but no less cutting emotional wounds.

Pain, in this context, transforms into a paradoxical comfort. It is finite, localized, and strangely predictable compared to the sprawling uncertainty of everyday suffering. Each session is a dance between enduring and embracing, with the physical sensation grounding you in a way emotions cannot.

The Art of Bearing Marks

The arm becomes a canvas for this journey, a visible testament to invisible struggles. With each design, the pain you carry inside finds a new home, translated into patterns and symbols that hold personal meaning. The fascination with inking becomes a cycle: the pain bites, then fades, leaving behind art that feels like armor. Yet, there’s also a question of limits—how much more space can you fill? How far can this ritual go before the body becomes saturated, before the ink no longer distracts from the weight of the world?

The idea of filling your arm entirely with darkened artwork is striking, both in its aesthetic and its metaphor. To see a part of yourself transformed in this way is to create permanence out of fleeting emotions, as though saying to the world, Look, this is my story, written in lines and shadows. But it also speaks to the tension between escape and expression—how much pain can be buried beneath beauty before it spills over again?

The Balance Between Art and Healing

What makes this process so complicated is that it doesn’t eliminate the pain; it merely redirects it. Tattoos can be a powerful coping mechanism, but they’re not a solution. The ink serves as a temporary salve, a way to make sense of what feels overwhelming. Yet, it’s important to reflect on what lies beneath the surface: the emotions that brought you to the chair in the first place.

Art can be a bridge to healing if paired with self-awareness and support. While the needle distracts, it doesn’t replace the need for deeper introspection and, perhaps, connection with others who can help lighten the load. Filling your arm with ink can be a beautiful form of self-expression, but it’s worth asking: What do I want this art to say about me? Am I creating it as a declaration of strength or as a shield against my struggles?

The Journey Ahead

There’s no denying the allure of the process or the comfort it brings. But perhaps the greatest art you can create is not just on your skin but within yourself—finding ways to channel your creativity and pain into growth, understanding, and peace. The ink on your arm will always tell a story; make sure it’s one that honors not just the pain but the resilience and beauty you carry within.

[prodigalwriter]

🔥🧖🏻🌭

[prodigalwriter]

Gemini Norawit & Fourth Nattawat in Ticket to Heaven (2025)