#I am but a fallible human myself

[iamnotlookingidonotseeit]

I'm trying to be more honest with myself about my own opinions these days but that means I have to consider that sometimes i get angry

[devilsskettle]

earlier this week being like hmm i am perhaps manic which is a concern i have every month or so but even suggesting that i may be feeling some approximation of something similar to mania feels like egotistical self dx that other people would immediately explain away but today i mentioned to my therapist how i feel like i need to keep moving and stay busy like how a shark needs to keep swimming etc and she asked me a couple questions that seemed like she was screening for manic symptoms so now i’m like hmm. i wish i hadn’t sidestepped those suspicions because i don’t feel like opening that can of worms with my therapist yet but my own suspicions feel a lot more warranted

[threepandas]

Bad End, Chosen: Part 5

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The first time around, I gave EVERYTHING. I drove myself into the ground, to be my Master's perfect Learner. To prove it had all been WORTH taking me on as a student. So that he would be proud. So he would love me. So that, like a father, he could look upon the child he raised and think "I did a good job, didn't I?"

Even then, I felt his uncertainty.

His fickle heart.

He was a weak man. One that let a mere child bully him into glorified fatherhood and then could not even commit to the choice he had made. As substantive as a cloud, drifting aimlessly across the endless sky. He abandoned me then. He'll abandon me again. I am, at best, something he feels he is "supposed" to do.

He does not love me. He never loved me.

But I love him.

And some days... I hate that I do.

I hate that I spent night after night, pouring over excruciating texts in tiny font. Ancient, dusty, tomes that talked endlessly in circles. I hate that I practiced and practiced, until I could appear effortless before him. The star pupil. The gem of the tower. Dispised and envied by my peers. And... and so utterly, utterly ALONE.

I died.

I died, desperately holding up the tower itself. The only one even vaguely prepared. When The Dark came. I saw tears and terror on the faces of children. Saw the ceiling crashing towards us. And chose to protect THEM instead of myself. It was, perhaps, the first and last time they ever saw me as something human. Fallible.

I was afraid.

But I did not let that terror hold me back.

They tried. Gods, they tried so, so hard to save me. Wept and screamed as the world seemed to END around us. As day turned to night and monster straight from the worst nightmares of man, crawled from the screaming vents, the WOUNDS upon reality itself. The last thing I saw? Was not my Master's face. But the tear stained faces of children pouring everything they could, into taking the impossible burden that even in those moments? Was killing me.

I cracked apart. Overloaded by the core of the Tower, which I had been desperately channeling. It... it was like becoming light.

And then the world rewound.

I did not learn my lesson. I was still young. Did not yet fully understand. Like all Reincarnators I thought I was here for a REASON. It took time to fully grasp how things worked. But that second life? Even now... even now I miss it.

Because back then...

I made friends.

I was so GRATEFUL. Could not unsee, that when the horrors came? They did not abandon me. They didn't even LIKE me. But... but I wanted them to. So I tried. I talked with them. Ate with them. Told jokes and went on trips. Was young. I grew to care so, so much about them. My dear and beloved friends.

Then?

I got to watch them DIE.

Gruesomely. Slowly. And without hope.

Perhaps that was when my love and compassion for the Protagonist died. When my struggle with hatred began. Because while those I loved suffered in mud stained hells, trenches and bile stenched infirmary, she frolicked in rose gardens. Dreaming of girlish love.

What of Duty? Of the death and suffering she IGNORED? How DARE she selfishly concern herself only with her OWN feelings and desires, as the world that NEEDS her dies in fear and agony! What SAINT is she? What GODS allow this?!

Thus was born my Rage.

And so, I refuse my Fate.

But I've made a mistake. A... a terrible mistake. And even now, he circles me like a bird of prey, correcting my stance with hands that linger. A man that looms. Standing too close. Forever patting my head, fingers carding possessively through my hair. Gripping the strands to make me look at him. Always gentle... but with just enough strength to hint that he could NOT be, if he chose.

He manhandles me like a doll. Physically. With magic. It is all the same. Looking forever delighted at the ease at which he can simply drag me into the air with a hover spell. Like a child sized balloon. To be carted around at his mercy.

I barely SEE my actual Master.

Alaric enables it. I... I refuse to call him Grandmaster in my head. He's already gotten to me once. I can endure. I survived once. I can do it again.

"Is my lesson so boring? That you must retreat into your head, child?" More like horrifying. The scent of blood is overwhelming. I keep my eyes locked on the far wall. "Ignoring my lectures will not let you escape them. You are merely force yourself to repeat them, you know. I am perfectly willing to repeat your lessons as many times as it takes."

"Academically" studying The Dark my ASS. Alaric Blight had, HAS, a fucking torture chamber. These are the worst sort of magics. I REFUSE to learn them. Will NOT use them. FUCK YOU.

I give the poor corpse before me what little dignity I can. By not seeing what they have been reduced too. They deserved better then this.

Alaric huffs a laugh. Gently putting down his ceremonial knife on a nearby table. He wipes the viscera from his hands with a rag as he strolls, calm as you please, over to my helplessly floating form.

"Ah~ that stubborn little glare. So FUSSY, Grandlearner." He laughs, the picture of indulgence. "I suppose I HAVE kept you here a touch too long, haven't I? We've missed several meals AND your nap. You are a growing child. No matter how fascinating the material, I can hardly expect you to concentrate under these conditions, now can I?"

He reaks of copper and a rich cologne I have grown to HATE. If only because it is his favorite. I am gathered from the air and pressed against his front, held like a child. I... I still can not move my limbs. He is no fool. For all I am pressed, lovingly almost, against him? I would tear his throat out with my TEETH.

He will not be giving me that chance.

I dispise him.

I DISPISE "naps".

Bad enough to be dragged around in his company for lessons. At least then, I can remember his evil. The cruelty and crimes. But NAPS? Insidious. We're it not for the immobility, they would have done terrible things to my head, long LONG ago.

They are exactly what they sound like. I am dragged off, to be cuddled like some stuffed animal, in some beautiful and soothing environment. For a nap. Bonding. Just me, him, and my head pressed against his chest. Against the hypnotic sound of his beating heart. Fighting the exhaustion in my bones. The desire to just... just let GO and know a moment's peace.

We never make it to the garden.

An explosion ROCKS the Magic Tower. Over a decade too soon to be The Dark. Alaric stops misstep, his personal barriers keeping even dust from touching us, as in the distance, Mage's scream. The Tower's barrier...goes up.

It...it NEVER goes up.

That is the seige barrier. For... for ATTACKS. Who would!?

"Ah. I knew I was forgetting something." Alaric says, as calmly as though musing on the weather outside instead of an attack upon an ancient, foundational institution. "It seems the temple dogs have finally decided to act upon all their barking. I imagine their little whore will make a wonderful figurehead. They always WERE on the look out for more puppets."

I stare up in confusion as he looks out as the barrier. His gaze flat, empty, and cold. Voice is distant as his muses, as though he long ago stopped caring. He catches my gaze upon him and the warmth floods back in.

"You see, little one. I normally kill them. They tend to make a pest of themselves. I have a list of things I must get done each cycle." He smiles fondly, utterly ignoring the alarms that have begun to sound. The calls for all Master's to defensive positions. "It is something you will learn, with time. A lesson I, of course, will be teaching you~"

"Now, since THIS building will likely become useless to us shortly. Let us go pack, hmm? The story progress. It's time to go home." He turns, and we begin to walk away.

"W-Wait!" I manage to choke out.

He pauses, looks down at me, patient even as people die. What, after all, does HE care, if they do? I try desperately to gather my thought. It is like scrambling after dropped beads across a smooth floor. I think, I HOPE, I get enough...

"I... G-Grandmaster I li..LIKE learning here. With you. It feels more familiar and has better places to... to nap. Could you... WOULD you, PLEASE, go save everyone?" I manage to rip from my throat, each word like pulling a tooth. I hate it. I HATE IT! But for them? Anything.

"Oh? Grandlearner~! Was that a REQUEST?" Croons the madman who holds me, his grip getting tighter for just a moment before relaxing back into it's gentle hold. Lips, almost burning with power, brush softly against my temple in a kiss. He makes a horrifyingly satisfied noise. "Of course MY child. Anything for MY Grandlearner, after all. You are my world, little light."

The world twists.

And suddenly? I am floating safely in the shade of a tree, far across the valley from the Tower. I can... I can feel the struggling Master's. Fighting to hold off the Temple's holy warriors. It is a blood soaked standstill. Until Alaric Blight steps up to the field.

Then?

EVERYTHING IS FIRE.

He is The Arch-Mage of Red. Not just for his hair, but for his terrifying master of fire and battle magics. What once, moments before, was a sea of green? Becomes ash and flame in an instant. So hot the fire burns the very air itself. Bordering on plasma. The ground itself molten in his wake.

None survive. How could any even dream?

It is like a nuke made man.

I shake. Tears slipping down my cheeks as I watch old growth vanish in the distance. Centuries of life. Gone in a moment of ugly destruction. They will praise him for this. Call him a hero. But I know what he is. What hides beneath that ugly, shining, mask of a charm and civility. And... and I am scared.

A chirp of starlight and tinkling glass, high and questioning, hovers just to my right.

Fairy-dragons. A full swarm. Creatures the size of a cat with the power of a god. All but one, staring furiously down at the destruction in the valley below. They radiates furious grief at the loss of so much life and forest. But the one looking at me... feels? Questioning? Somehow?

Can they project?

I can only assume. I KNOW they can understand spoken languages. All dragons can. And as powerful as dragons ARE...

"Please... please! Help me!" I choke out, finally letting my tears spill. Because if I can not cry in front of dragons, then where? "I'm not strong enough. He's a MONSTER. I know you can feel it! Please! Just until I recover. Until I can fight. PLEASE!"

More of the tiny creatures look at me. Glance at each other. Then back towards where Alaric continues his destruction. Their destain for him is obvious. Their eyes as they look upon me, hold no special love. Just ambivalence. But... they are what they are. And they DO hate the sort of creature Alaric Blight has become.

With a tearing WRENCH the spell holding me is SHREDDED.

Painfully, in dragon claws.

In the distance, Alaric stops. No doubt feeling that. Knowing someone not only freed me, but ATTACKED HIM. The dragon that was worried for me touches my shoulder. And before my Grandmaster can ever discover WHO stole me away?

I am Gone.

I do not see the city of Towervalley, the magic tower itself, BURN.

[smallgodseries]

Hey.  Hey, our historian isn’t at her desk today—we’re not sure why.  Humans are so soft and fallible.

But not YOU.  No, out of all the humans we’ve ever known, YOU are by far the most [competent|proficient|dependable].  Why, we can’t IMAGINE trying to do this without you!

Now we want you to look in the nearest reflective surface—a mirror if you’ve got one, a shiny pot or the back of a spoon if you don’t—and repeat after us:

I am amazing.

I am clever.

I am strong enough, I am good enough, and even if I weren’t either of those things, I would still be ENOUGH, because there has never been anything else like me in all creation, and there will never be anything else like me, ever.  I am a universe unto myself, filled with tiny gods no one else will ever worship or know, and I deserve to feel happiness.

Do you feel better?  Even if you thought that was silly, we have found that humans talk down to themselves far too [often|regularly|reliably].  Speaking words of happiness and love toward the self will make you feel more as if the self if something worth celebrating.

Whatever you want to achieve in this world, we have absolute faith that you can do it.  We only need you to have the faith in yourself that we already have in you.  Together, we can move mountains.  Together, we can accomplish anything.  And we will be with you every step along the way, small friend, because we believe in you.

Now, if you could find our historian, we would really appreciate it.

[drunkwhenimadethis]

I find myself wishing that I had the omnipotent spiritual capacity and perspective to forgive people immediately for their betrayals and wrongs against me but the human side of me is very much like, no. You went too far. I feel guilty when I see someone's pain and can't let them use it as an excuse to hurt me. It's bizarre. I feel very mortal, fallible. But the innate purity that I am aware of within others, the part of them that my subconscious dreams about at night, happy fairy tales, elucidating conversations: this is not always the place where people are interacting with me from. And I really have to remember that we are not all built the same. We do different things with our heavenly machinery.

[cosmerelists]

Hey Radiants, if you had to join a new order, which one would you choose & why?

1. Kaladin: Skybreaker

Kaladin: I mean...I can't give up the sky, so I suppose I would have to become a Skybreaker. Kaladin: Even though I feel like I spent so long unlearning their ideas about justice, that it feels kind of...wrong. Syl: That's because it IS wrong! Kaladin: But Syl...the sky...

2. Sigzil: Skybreaker

Sigzil: Seems obvious. I'm sure no one is curious as to what my reasons might be. Sigzil: Hey, do you think my name could be cooler?

3. Eshonai: Bondsmith

Eshonai: An instant way to learn new languages and connect with people? Hell yeah. Eshonai: If able to choose, I would bond the Stormfather. Eshonai: He and I had a moment, once.

4. Shallan: Willshaper

Shallan: I've never been much of a sculptor, but at least there is SOME artistic aspect to this one.

5. Szeth: Edgedancer

Szeth: I am a graceful man. Szeth: But I could be more graceful, if I could ice skate around.

6. Dalinar: Stoneward

Dalinar: I have taken great satisfaction from those moments when I have had the chance to work with my hands, to help people by building or rebuilding. Dalinar: I think I would make an excellent Stoneward.

7. Lift: Bondsmith

Lift: I betcha the Nightwatcher is feelin' left out of the whole Bondsmith business. Lift: I think she and I would make quite the pair!

8. Renarin: Windrunner

Renarin: It is honestly a bit hard to imagine myself not with Glys, but... Renarin: ... Renarin: Could be fun to be a Windrunner, like a lot of my friends. Renarin: Just, like, charging into battle from the sky. Renarin: It would be like the time Zahel kept making me jump off the wall, only I wouldn't fall directly into the ground!

9. Jasnah: Lightweaver

Jasnah: To be honest, I would be loath to give up my soulcasting abilities. Jasnah: And I can certainly understand the utility of being able to mask or change one's appearance to suit new conditions. Jasnah: ...Even if every lightweaver I know is just a tad...irritating sometimes.

10. Navani: Dustbringer

Navani: I can definitely understand the desire to take things apart to see how they work. Navani: That's just basic science.

11. Rlain: Elsecaller

Rlain: I understand that had things played out differently, I might have bonded the Sibling as a Bondsmith. Rlain: But I do like the notion of an order that cares chiefly about self-improvement, about finding your true potential no matter where you started.

12. Hoid: Truthwatcher

Hoid: Speaking truth to power? Hoid: I do that already! And with style.

13. Venli: Bondsmith

Venli: The humans should not have EVERY Bondsmith. Venli: I'll take the Sibling. Venli: They understand that humans suck.

14. Lopen: Edgedancer

Lopen: Healing would be great 'n' all! Lopen: But mostly I think I'm great at remembering the forgotten. Lopen: Nobody remembers us Herdazians, you know!

15. Nale: Stoneward

Nale: I know that humans are fallible. That is why I follow the Law. Nale: But of all of us...Talenel was the one who didn't break. Nale: He was the one who kept the oath. Nale: Maybe he was simply better than any us. Nale: So if I had to change...maybe I should, for once, try to be more like him.

[genderqueerdykes]

im otherkin, and i would still call myself human. but also would call myself nonhuman. for a while i did think that my otherkin-ness was a reincarnated-past-life thing, but i dont really agree with that framework for myself anymore. im definitely more of a psychological type: i look at the creatures that im "kin" with and think "you are like me and i am like you, we are the same." and i honestly have thought that far far before i ever heard of the word. but as for human/nonhuman, to me it is far more contextual. i am human physically, i have human rights, i am fallible as all humans are. but i am...hm, actually, yknow what. i dont think i like the term "nonhuman" for myself. i think i prefer "inhuman." i have a very inhuman mentality, and a lot of times behave accordingly. not outwardly obviously (i just seem nd, which that is also correct) but internally it aligns.

i appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts!

i find that everyone prefers different labels to describe their relationship with humanity or lack thereof, and that's great! i love how diverse otherkin spaces are- have you ever encountered the term alterhuman before? that might suit you as well! either way, i'm glad you have figured out how to word your exact experience. my otherkin identity is psychological as well. i do believe in reincarnation, but it's difficult for me to say with confidence that i know what happened in my other lives

plus, there are lots of people who identify as nonhuman and human at the same time, so that makes sense to me! there are always fictionkin and other folks that do identify as human, and it's an otherkin/alterhuman/etc. experience just like any other!

i also acknowledge that i'm human in this life. there's no denying it, but it doesn't mean my otherkin identities aren't legitimate just because i recognize i'm in a human body. i think you're awesome, thanks for stopping by to let us know! take care, i hope it helps you feel even more like yourself to realize this!

[iwriteasfotini]

Everyone Has a Story

This has been my tagline from the beginning and FINALLY I understand why!

*In this post I talk about my HC (aka my story) in an authoritative way. I am well aware this is not how everyone characterizes or reads these characters, nor should it be. Just FYI.

*There are also minor spoilers as I divulge certain things about each character’s journey through the fic.

Yesterday I had the honor of someone other than my partner (who really doesn’t know what he’s talking about but can spot typos occasionally) beta reading a few of the chapters of my story and the experience was both eye-opening and inspirational. What was pivotal was that the person isn’t part of the Marauders fandom, but my story most definitely is. The chapters they looked at are my Voldemort centric chapters. Apart from getting some welcome and much needed advice about dry writing things like capitalizations within dialogue, a few grammar rules, sentence flow, etc, they forced me to reflect on defining the purpose of my story. 

Because I was trying to explain (both to them and to myself) what the point of my million plus word series is to someone who isn’t invested in my ships (likewise I’m not invested in theirs). And I don’t think I did a very good job. This has been a struggle for me since I started writing. What is the point of this story? I know the story, I have over half of it written, and the other half is waiting in my head. But I have dabbled in trying to define it here and there in literal ways and artistic ways, and yet I’ve never been able to look at someone and say at its core this story is about… I’ve already had a handful of people tell me my story is starting off different from any Marauders era story they have read. Of course we are talking about five(ish) people and there are literally thousands of Marauders centric fanfics out there, maybe hundreds of thousands. So there likely is something similar to my story out there already, but it is interesting to me how many people have conveyed this message relative to the small number of people who have read it so far. 

And I can tell you it is because while it’s a Marauders era story, it is different. At least in my opinion. It’s the story I want to read about these characters (and I’m not eighteen years old). It’s also still teenage drama and relationship heavy. I like the coming of age aspect. Teenagers are interesting people. They are both more fallible and at times more capable than adults. I also have a particular passion for healthy human sexuality which I believe begins as early as toddlerhood but DEFINITELY arises in the tween/teen years. There is a bit of internal healing for myself going on in this aspect of the story. And I really did try to write it without this component but it felt so flat to me. Plus this is fanfiction and it’s easier to get away with things I couldn’t in a professionally published work.  

Then, last night, my toddler woke me up at 3 am (sore throat). I eventually went back to bed, and of course my brain went into full on processing mode. So I’m taking another stab at defining my story. 

At its heart, the story is a Lily Evans versus Tom Riddle arc.

But in a different way than canon. Both of them shared the canon ability to control magic prior to receiving their wands. Both of them were removed from the magical world until they turned eleven. And the way their magic manifests into adulthood is very different. Within this arc specifically, I play with examining the danger of prophecies within the magical world. The way a person’s personality can influence their access to magic, and either limit or widen their perspective. And the juxtaposition of a narcissist versus an altruistic. Both of them have flaws. And both of them have power beyond the typical magical person. 

Lily ultimately dies. But so in a way does Tom. And then their rivalry continues into Harry’s era through Harry himself being pitted against Tom Riddle/Voldemort even though Harry doesn’t choose this path the way his mother did. I have a canon divergent story in mind for these years which sits better with me than canon in specific correlation to MY story.

Why must this story be told through the characters I chose? Because I love these ships. Haha! Only partially kidding. There are many other arcs woven into the story through the various characters. Again, the fact they are all experiencing their coming of age years plays a huge role in why they work for me. Let’s look at them individually. There are seven main POV characters. 

Lily: Covered her already for the most part. But Lily’s story is also about loving yourself, making mistakes and growing from them, taking chances, trusting your intuition, and other teenage/coming of age themes. Lily is just a person with a full capacity to love, a badass, and someone who likes to take action. She is the main character pitted against the main villain.

Severus: The arc of language as power and as a social bond between humans. In my story Severus is a Spaniard, and Spanish is his first language. He grew up in Spain. When he moves to Cokeworth, language is a huge barrier for him in integrating with his peers in primary. He knows English, but he obviously has an accent and sticks out in the town’s demographic. But he connects with Lily, first over magic, then over language as he teaches her Spanish. This bond (which ultimately is the real life mirror of their soul bond) endures forever. Language united them as people from two different backgrounds. Magic united them as well, but the language aspect is more unique once they enter the magical world together. Losing Lily is devastating, and it does affect Severus for the rest of his life, hence some of his less than appealing adult characteristics. Severus is one of the characters I plan to canon diverge on in Harry’s era. 

Remus: The arc of a limited world view being harmful both mentally and physically (in Remus’ case). Remus is the werewolf. To explore his arc, he gets to learn about and even experience what life is like for werewolves who do not reside in the UK. It is only one other culture, certainly not comprehensive to the world. But life as a werewolf is VERY different. There is not only one way to manage a problem. And when we disregard the wisdom of cultures which look different from our own, we lose so much potential as humans. Remus is one of the characters I plan to canon diverge on in Harry’s era. 

Sirius: The arc of privilege doesn’t always equate to happiness. Also (because he lives long enough to move beyond the young adult years) the impact of trauma and how it affects a person over the course of many years. As in, can Sirius overcome his trauma to live a happy life as a functional adult? Sirius is the black sheep of his family. He also cares deeply about his little brother Regulus. He has very low self-worth and it causes all sorts of problems for him (including landing him in Azkaban for 12 years). Sirius is one of the characters I plan to canon diverge on in Harry’s era. 

Regulus: The arc of consequences of playing the game. I think about Voldemort and Dumbledore as game masters in this real world (fictional) game of war. Regulus (like Lily) is super powerful but because he had a different upbringing, his attitude about his power manifests in a slightly different way. Regulus and Lily end up with the same magical mentors and are good friends, but between their House characteristics and their personal histories, they approach the war in two different ways. Regulus is also arrogant, he’s a Black after all (which I think is why he pairs well with James, also arrogant). And this arrogance, which I feel is particularly well suited for the age of his character, comes back to bite him majorly. I mean he dies. 

James: I wrote a whole post about James’ character development (or potential lack thereof). His arc isn’t as clear to me. I think his arc might be the arc of loving too hard. James dies. So we don’t see him mature into a true adult. And while Voldemort kills him, I see James having died long before that. He’s what happens when we center our life around something tangible. Something which can be taken away, in his case a person. James becomes so integrated with Regulus he ceases to be able to function when he loses him. Losing a loved one is ALWAYS hard, but it is also survivable. In my life experience, no matter what your “eggs” are, if you put them all in one basket it’s a dangerous game to play. A person needs to define themselves through a wide array of likes, loves, interests, investments, etc. When we become narrowly focused, then LOSE the capability to pursue that focus, if we don’t have other things in life to fall back on, we can end up in a very dark place indeed. My tangible real life example of this is being a high performing athlete. If, due to injury whether temporary or enduring, an athlete loses the physical capacity to perform their sport, and they don’t have other things they are passionate about, it feels very much like the entire world is collapsing. Their whole sense of identity is gone, it is like a death in many ways. Some people push through. Some people fall into major life altering/life ending depression.

Barty: The arc of how a villain is made. Pretty straight forward. EVERYONE close to Barty peerwise fights for him to NOT join Voldemort. And in the end, due to many tragic circumstances, he does anyway. Not only does he but he becomes one of his most loyal servants. Yup, that story line is happening people. I’m not canon diverging on Barty’s role in Harry’s era. 

Beyond each character’s story arc, my story likes to take every event in canon and flip it on its head. As in, you think you know how or why these events transpired, but actually there is far more going on behind the scenes. I also stretch my creative liberties to the fullest extent where magic is concerned. From wandless magical practices from around the world, to the six types of magic, how they manifest and relate to each other, to why some magical people are more powerful than others (aka the individual magical well). It is only canon in the sense that the characters discover all this magic from individuals with niche interests (like Xenophilius Lovegood) or from mentors who are from or have studied magic in other cultures. It isn’t traditionally taught at Hogwarts. It is not well known in the UK. Thus it fits, if you figure Dumbledore was just exceptionally negligent with Harry’s magical education. Which I actually think he was, but I also think there is a reason he chose to withhold so much from Harry. You know who wasn't negligent about Harry's magical education, Severus. Though in the framework of what he knows and is capable of in my story the case could be well argued he too was negligent. This is one reason why I'm canon diverging eventually. 

This story is not canon compliant. It follows the canon timeline of events through Chamber of Secrets. That being said, as the story I want to tell myself about these characters, it works in tandem with canon FOR ME. I like the ethnic diversity of the cast. I like exploring queer romantic relationships, especially trying to be authentic and not shove them into hetero gender roles/norms (I have no idea if I’m succeeding, but I am trying). I also like exploring the various types of platonic relationships and the deep connections people forge with one another, particularly in times of hardship. Sibling/family love, friendship love, and romantic love all have a place in the human experience. 

So, after this VERY long essay, I hope you can see why, if you choose to read my story, it might feel a little different than other Marauders fics. That is not to say other authors are not exploring these themes. And it is certainly not to say what I claim to be doing, I am doing well. I am a very new fiction writer and this work is as much about my own exploration and skill honing as the characters experience. But I think the combination of the real world arcs, the intensely emotional ships and platonic relationships, AND the world building shape the story into something memorable. It’s also why I have laid out the story the way I have. Each POV character has their own work, their arc takes front and center focus for the duration of that installment, while through their POV we maintain a connection with the arcs of various other characters. 

I’d like to again thank my beta reader for reading my Voldemort chapters, asking awesome questions, giving fabulous suggestions, and being so encouraging about writing how I want to write. Almost every choice I make in the story is intentional. Sometimes the intention has deep meaning, other times it is merely because I find certain characterizations and events to be entertaining or to progress the character development I’m aiming for in the main seven. Either way, I encourage questions about why things are the way they are. This is fun! It makes me think critically about my choices and see things from a different person’s POV (something I absolutely love to do).

Please excuse any typos in this, it is very long and I wrote it before the sun rose.

[y-rhywbeth2]

"Shar's besetting weakness is her overconfidence, which blinds her to the faults in her plans, or leads her always to the conclusion (often justified) that failures in those plans are due to the fallibility of her human followers. Selûne starts [her plans] from the assumption that mortals are fallible, and have their own rights (they are not, and should never be, mere tools)."

I do like Selûne. She's not perfect, as none of the pantheon are, but still. "I tore part of my own soul out and injured myself irreparably to ensure that this world and the beings that live on it could exist, and I want you to live lives that make you happy and fulfilled, and love and respect each other's infinite variety and look out for those who are lost and unloved. Yes, that includes the monsters. I am your mother, also if you're one of my priests then make sure you call me at least once a month. I worry."

Meanwhile: "Loss and destruction and chaos and mortal despair are all "wins" to Shar."

[thatboreddrake]

Do you guys ever think about the line that separates a hero from a villain? About when “I will do whatever I can to protect the ones I love” turns into “the greatest end justifies any means?”

It’s a dangerous line to walk. How easy it might be for one person to ignore, or shut down, the part of themselves that empathizes with others, that recognizes that their enemies, the ones who seek to harm them, are human nonetheless. Or, if they should find their stomach not equal to the task, they may completely rule out the possibility of killing to protect others. This would seem the noble choice, but what can they do when faced with the reality that sparing the life of an enemy may mean the loss of countless others?

At what point would it be more heroic for Batman to simply kill the Joker, knowing that many would sleep more soundly at night? Of course, the push back is that this one choice would push him over the line into becoming the Punisher, a man who kills without mercy, saying that he protects the innocent in doing so.

How is one, then, to balance the desire to protect the ones they love from harm with the desire to show mercy to the ones who oppose them? What if a second chance would make them change? What if a kind word would eliminate a foe as surely as blade or bullet?

And if that choice must be made, who am I to make it? I am but a man, mortal and fallible as any other. How am I, in my infinitely limited wisdom, to make the calculation that one life is worth more than another, or that taking one life would save many others? Even if I could make that choice, how could I life with myself, haunted by the idea that I got it wrong?

How is one to know when mercy is the noble option, or when it is more merciful to show ruthlessness to one who threatens others?

It seems to me that the easiest choice would be to not make the choice at all. Rather than judge the worthiness of another’s life, why not judge the worth of my own? Could I not simply put myself between others and danger, knowing that if I fail, I have only my own life to lose? And yet I know this to be the most cowardly of the options available, to run from the choice rather than face it head on. For just as you cannot make the choice simpler by dehumanizing your enemy, neither can you dehumanize yourself. Your life is not worth less simply for being your own.

One must make the choice, such that they can, and pray to God that they never find themselves on the other side of the equation.

In the end, I cannot give an answer. I fear I will never find it on this side of Heaven. Prayerfully, I never find myself in the place of decision. After all, I’m just a simple man, living far from danger and conflict. And yet my heart hurts for those who do face this choice on a daily basis.

What right have I to sit and cast judgment on those who have faced more pain than I could ever imagine?

[tanadrin]

"fairly suicidal" anon again. This kind of got away from me and ended up significantly longer than intended. Apologies for that, and if it's too long/involved/whatever to read that's genuinely totally fine. (Which is to say: please do not think you have some kind of obligation or I will be Extra Suicidal if you don't respond or whatever. I've got at least a couple more years or one more massive life-wrecking trauma left in me.)

I think your response is pretty typical of people who are, at baseline, pretty happy and optimistic, and I'm sure there are people who haven't heard its like before and would benefit from it, but.... let's be honest that's kind of a generic autocomplete response, and in my experience it tends to come from people who can't or don't really model serious depression well. My model of the perspective you are coming from is something like: It would be terrible for the things I'm saying to be true, and they don't feel true to you, so surely they must not be true for anyone-- you don't want the world to be one where those things are true, and sometimes they are untrue, so, therefore, they're probably untrue basically all the time forever. Unfortunately. I'm aware that 40 years is a decent length of time. I'm aware that my perspective is fallible and limited-- this is the primary reason why I haven't seriously tried to kill myself!. However, looking at how the past 30+ years have gone does not fill me with optimism. In particular the past 15 or so years, where I've technically had the most autonomy, I just kind of... barely existed. I am still trying things to get out of the hole but this really could easily just continue until I die. It is an extremely possible outcome that I spend my entire life wishing it was either worth living or over already, and eventually it reaches "over already." I kept expecting that I'd surely snap out of it eventually, year after year, no one can spend that long in this kind of state, right? And then 15 years passed and I simply did not. It is not unrealistic to believe that that could happen 3 more times.

"Every day you are alive in the world, you have the opportunity to find pleasure" rings really hollow when my physiological capacity to experience pleasure and happiness is extremely minimal and has been tangibly shrinking for as long as I've been a conscious human being. It feels tone-deaf. I know what my baseline looks like. It is not good. If I was guaranteed to die tomorrow, then having lived my life will have unequivocally been worse for me than not having lived it at all, and it will have been objectively a mistake that I didn't pull the plug when I was 12 and first having suicidal thoughts.

If, upon turning 80, I figured out how to have a life that was just barely worth living, and then died a year later, that does not actually undo the years of unhappiness before that, and that is still a life that was, on net, not worth living.

My impression is that people coming from your perspective have brains that just fully shut down when considering this prospect-- that you fall into the trap where you believe that even one second of a-life-worth-living is worth any amount of suffering endured to get to that point. It might help to imagine a person who experiences one single year of a life worth living, followed by 80 years of a life full of incredible misery, and then dies.

The me who exists now matters; the hypothetical-unlikely-certainly-not-guaranteed future version of myself who is marginally glad they exist doesn't just automatically get to trump all of that just because that's sad to think about.

Yes, there is no one life "track" but there certainly are circumstances more or less prone to granting happiness-predicting things like enough money to live on, autonomy, fulfillment, etc. Again, there is no rule saying this current status of being perpetually unable to get my feet under me has to end. I have spent the actual majority of my life like this.

Being unable to get a job that pays enough to live on without also making me want to die (more) does in fact hinge pretty strongly on being able to get that special insanely expensive little piece of paper. It is the cost of entry for the vast majority of non-horrible jobs, that is just what the system looks like in the US. (please do not tell me "oh just learn to code!" If I was capable of doing that I would have done it). The material conditions of my life obviously aren't that bad in objective terms given that I'm capable of using my time to send messages on the internet (if they were much worse I would have pulled the plug years ago) so it feels meaningful that I still manage to be so miserable despite that, and plausible that improving them would not help even if it were possible.

There just... there is actually such a thing as a downward spiral where the baseline becomes worse and incremental improvements become progressively harder and more fleeting, as much as it is sad to think about. Sometimes you accumulate damage and get both farther from your goal and worse at making progress towards it, and it just keeps happening. The brain is a physical object that can, sometimes, Just Get Worse. One instance of trauma can make it harder to recover from the next instance of trauma that comes along, and so on. I am still trying, clearly, and I'm clinging to the idea that lots of weird unexpected stuff can happen, but "just hope for a miracle to happen such that these patterns completely reverse against all odds" is... at minimum that's a huge ask. Please recognize it for what it is.

I'm not really looking for answers or anything here (I wasn't before either tbc, I just thought it was interesting how different my opinion apparently was compared with other extremely depressed people), but I tend to really chafe at what feels like clueless forced positivity from people who Really Don't Seem To Get It, and I hope this information will, idk, provide a potentially novel perspective. Or maybe it won't! Sorry again that it was so long.

i've spent a big chunk of my life dealing with depression. i know it pretty well actually. and if i've won any insight from that, it's that in depression we very often exactly misconstrue the causal axis of our thoughts. we think things like, "i am worthless -> therefore i am depressed." but our feelings shape how we think about ourselves and the world; even things which seem like incontrovertible and inarguably facts turn out to be a product of our rumination: "i was depressed -> therefore i felt worthless."

i know this feels like a platitude. i know when you are depressed saying something like "nobody is worthless" or "it's never too late" feels like somebody blowing rainbows up your ass, some hippy dippy shit that doesn't mean anything. but as someone who has frequently felt worthless, and has frequently felt that they have fucked up their life beyond repair, who has seen other people going through it and come out the other side, i'm telling you: as a matter of both personal experience and accumulated knowledge about the world, "nobody is worthless" and "it is never too late" is not a platitude. it is a rational, reasoned judgement i have been won over to, and which i am totally convinced of. i offer it, not as a panacaea (we cannot reason ourselves or be cajoled out of depression; the thoughts are subsequent to the feelings!), but as (hopefully) the very mildest of analgesics.

i'm not a negative utilitarian. i don't think you can take all the bad and good things that happen to a person, assign them a numerical score, and subtract one from the other to determine whether their life was worth it after all. reading about rare medical abnormalities on wikipedia is itself sufficient to convince one there are certainly short lives full of nothing but pain. and observing people dying of degenerative diseases is enough to why there are points at which people make the rational decision not to continue living. but i also know that there are people who have convinced themselves their life is not worth living, because the pain of allowing themselves to be hopeful again, only to have to deal with crushing disappointment, makes it more reassuring to abandon hope altogether. and i have known people so trapped in the teeth of their suffering, they are unable even to do the one thing that may bring them some relief, until they make the conscious choice to believe that that feeling of despair is not in fact a reliable guide to truth.

we prefer certainty to hope; the sure knowledge we are doomed is often cognitively a lighter load than the uncertain possibility of future happiness. but i think it's worth it to keep hope alive. not because i am a sunny optimist who has never felt miserable, but because i have lost days, weeks, months, years to the blackest despair. i have spent many an hour carefully ruminating on the very clear and inarguably true things that made me feel that way, carefully laying out why life was not worth living and maybe never would be, specifically debunking all the bullshit people told me to try to counsel me out of my depression. and that feeling that was ironclad certainty in my mind at the time is, looking back, like a fading mirage. one should always at least consider the possibility that what feels to us like an immutable truth of our life is less substantial than it seems.

[the-real-rain-world-confessions]

I would really like to see more interpretations of Moon that highlight her weakness (or perceived weakness) rather than making her an assertive girlboss who stands up for herself or is righteously angry

I understand why that sort of content is made obviously it is cathartic and comforting for many, of course

though as someone who has difficulty asserting themself, who has trouble taking up space, who is often passive, and can be too self-sacrificing it is nice to feel seen and accepted and like idk

I think it speaks to a different kind of strength to remain as kind and positive and helpful as she does, even if she is not perfect and can also be snippy or passive aggressive or irritable at points

and there are points she will refuse to speak to you, of course

no one is perfect, obviously

but she really does try her best to be kind helpful despite everything she's been through, and I think sometimes people can overlook how meaningful that is because it's easy to think "oh she's just nice" rather than "she is deliberately choosing to be kind to others in spite of her circumstances"

(which is understandable since it is quieter and more understated than something more obvious or dramatic or immediately gripping like FP's guilt and self-loathing)

idk it's just nice to know that maybe it is ok to not be a girlboss who puts people in their place

maybe it is ok to still be kind and gentle and hopeful even when you've been terribly hurt and beaten and betrayed by others

and maybe it is ok to have flaws like that and that not everyone will be good at that kinda stuff, and some people will just make the best of what they can in a terrible situation rather than always having the strength or means to solve/overcome it

again I do not wish to dismiss or invalidate or demean more assertive confident or empowering interpretations of moon of course, I understand they hold a lot of value to people for their own reasons

So please do not feel like your interpretation is "wrong" or "bad" if it does not align with my own

I just would like to see a bit more of the alternative because it brings me catharsis and comfort I guess

Which, the obvious answer is to make it myself, and, fair enough, I really should work harder on that

but I am also a fallible little human being so I will go and make long posts spilling out my feelings to random strangers in hope it might connect with someone somehow

.

[dk-thrive]

I get a base, primal satisfaction from actually just doing something, no matter how insignificant.

From spring until late fall, when winter weather drives me indoors to the treadmill, I spend 20 minutes each morning after my run around the Back Cove in Portland, Maine, walking the shoreline, picking up garbage. Every day is Groundhog Day — I gather plastic cups, syringes, food containers and cigarette butts the same as the morning before, and the same as the morning before that.I should almost certainly feel despair battling the daily fallout as late capitalism enters hospice care. But instead I get a base, primal satisfaction from actually just doing something, no matter how insignificant. We’ve forgotten, maybe, as the virtual world has slowly co-opted our lives, that we are meant by nature to move through and manipulate, to lift and carry and sort and transfer. Simple acts, I’ve found, have an outsized effect on the worrying over abstractions that otherwise takes up so much of my time. [...]

The satisfaction I get from this habit is not uncomplicated. Sometimes I take paradoxical pleasure in getting dirty with other people’s trash, and other times the surprise dollop of last night’s honey mustard sauce on my shoe is enough to send me directly over the edge.

But the daily practice has taught me to be on guard against my own vanity — to notice and discard the smug feeling that sometimes arises when I see others enjoying the cove but doing nothing about how blighted it is. Instead I am confronted each day with my own fallibility, tininess and hypocrisy (as just one more trash ape among billions, I contribute to the problem simply by existing). And instead of puffing myself up, I check myself and reach for more garbage. [...]

I go and gather garbage by myself most days. And occasionally something will occur that happily disproves my dim view of humanity. People will notice me, and wonder what I’m doing all sweaty and breathless down there among the marsh grass and the rocks. I present an intriguing enough figure for them to stop, in the midst of their preoccupations with the day, and take the time to discern what I’m up to. And when they figure out that I am, in fact, picking up garbage, sometimes — not often, but occasionally — they’ll come and join me. We’ll chat or, more likely, we won’t do much other than exchange hellos, or simply nod. Just a couple of strangers doing something small and futile together, for no other reason than that it’s right. The kind of modest, workaday miracle that feels like it could, with any luck, lead to something bigger.It seems near all but certain that we are, as a species, too shortsighted and distractible, too enamored of dividend checks and retail therapy, to really turn this ship around. But, then, despair and idealism are two sides of the same cop-out, and I’ve indulged in both more than enough in my time. So I’ll keep splitting the difference, keep picking up trash — and keep hoping that simply setting an example can be meaningful.

— Ron Currie, Jr., excerpts from "This is What Keep My Eco-Anxiety in Check" (NY Times, October 23, 2023). Ron Currie Jr. is the author of the novel “The One-Eyed Man” and a writer for film and television, most recently for the series “Extrapolations.

[rayssyscourse]

I sent this ask to someone else but I'd like to ask more systems - may I ask what your opinion is on subjective reality within systems? Systems that don't have consistency in the headspace, or a consistent timeline, consistent memories...that sort of thing. I'm struggling a bit with that now and it's really freaking me out :( so I'd love to hear your take, if you'd be willing!

i love this topic!! before I start yapping I'll add the disclaimer that I'm gonna try not to get all science-y on you, but I am That Guy who reads about quantum physics for fun (dear god I need hobbies) so somebody feel free to poke me if this gets rambley, lol.

so, the first things I want to make clear are as follows: a) subjective reality is not necessarily less real than objective reality, and b) it's not specific to systems/plurals, although it can be more influential to us than to singlets.

subjective reality is super important to everyone, plural or not. without it, we would have no opinions, we wouldn't be able to observe the world as a narrative, and we would basically just be vessels for regurgitating information about what we see. since our subjective perceptions and assumptions about reality are what make up the way we see the world and interact with it, they are as real to us as objective reality is, the only difference being that they are specific/unique to us.

with systems, for the most part each headmate is capable of observing their own subjective reality. in the same way you and I might see the same flower and form different opinions about it, it's basically the same thing within systems, with the exception of the fact that systems are sharing a brain. I think what you might be talking about is the cognitive dissonance that can happen when your brain is perceiving multiple different versions of subjective reality at once. if you and another headmate are perceiving two conflicting things simultaneously, it can create a cognitive dissonance thing where your brain doesn't know how to handle two conflicting perceptions, and can make stuff like brain fog, derealization, and just general confusion way worse.

it's not the exact same thing, but I think it's similar to people who suffer from delusions or hallucinations, where their brain is perceiving/trying to perceive something new or different that does not line up with the person's non-delusional interpretation of reality. again, not the exact same thing, but my amateur theory is that it might be a similar conflict.

also, since things like memories and headspace are primarily mental constructs, they're more susceptible to cognitive errors. it's possible for our brains to actually alter our memories unconsciously if the altered version makes more sense for our narrative of reality, so it only makes sense for that to potentially be especially prominent within systems, where there is more opportunities for conflicting perceptions to come up.

if we want to get technical, it's entirely possible (and common) for things to exist in multiple conflicting states simultaneously, but our brains REALLY don't like that and that's where we enter the field of quantum physics, so I'm gonna cut myself off here, lol. (if you're interested I can point you to some fascinating articles, but that's physics not psychology lmao).

aaaanyways, hope this helps or was at least interesting to read!! the most important thing to remember is that just because you and a headmate have conflicting perceptions doesn't necessarily mean one is right and one is wrong; also remember that the brain can be wrong about things and it's okay to be confused and need some time/space to work things out. even singlets can get confused about this stuff too, it's just part of being fallible sentient humans in a very strange world!

thanks for the ask, and have a lovely day!!! <3

[1141520851813892291920]

ENT0013

RE:

Memory is such a fragile, immaterial thing. It cannot be documented, cannot be captured and cataloged in the way of its manifestations - books, journals, scribbles from dying hands in a last attempt to achieve permanence. No, memories, like the people that hold them, are ephemeral in nature. Fleeting and fallible, fluid and unreliable. Yet, our memories are so much of who we are, what humans are, at least. It is memory that is at the core of personhood, what makes you definably you and not someone else, a copy or imposter, a stranger that wears your face...

So what, then, are we when our memories no longer belong to us? Or if we have stolen them from another? Does that change the material of our own imitation of existence? Is the fabric of our being so easily torn and replaced, mended with mismatched thread by a needle that pierces our soul clumsily and ill aligned?

Can we repair broken memories so easily? Do we have the right to? Or is it better to let our minds flow and fill and empty as they are wont to do, sighing in relief as the painful recollections of past mistakes are soothed and overcome by the pleasantries of the present?

I do not Know the answers, but I know the pain. I am acutely aware of the misery of those lost memories, and can feel it, viscerally, when they are awaked forcibly by my meddling and prying. It hurts. Every moment of holding the memories of Before hurts them - all of them - including myself.

The difference, of course, is that I deserve it. I have earned many times over the pain of remembrance, and it is a burden I will bare willingly and without complaint, should it relief the suffering of those who have been given, by my hand or another's, their second chance. It is only fitting. Is that not the true role of an Archivist? To Know, to hold onto that heavy burden of Knowledge so that others may be free of it? I consume their fear, their strife, their suffering and digest it until it becomes part of Me.

I was a fool to allow myself the illusion of my humanity - something long since lost and never retrievable. I let myself become comfortable with the idea of redemption, of all things, of second chances...at...something that looks like happiness.

And I have suffered duly for my complacence. Though, even that is not correct, for it is not truly I who am suffering. It is them. All of them. Infected by the spreading cancer that is my place in this World Where I Do Not Belong.

So, then, I will do what I must to cure that ill. To relieve the symptoms of my imposition. It is simply the only option for me.

And it will hurt. And I will deserve it.

...

I do not, myself, possess the hunter's instinct. However, there is a...similar drive that I am able to give in to - an instinctual Knowing of where to look, where to investigate, where to feed prey on which I can feed. While I am reticent to fully and completely trust this instinct, there are many times where it takes me whether I allow it to or not. Today, I welcomed it, embraced it, and trusted it to take me to what I needed. After having made my decision of separation and restoration of this world and the people in it, I found myself wondering the stacks in the archives, my fingers brushing along the spines of books which crumble at my touch as I consume them, Know them, hear them as they cry out to me in the voices of the long dead.

That was how I found, doubtfully by coincidence, a tattered and unremarkable binding of "Ideology and Insanity: Essays on the Psychiatric Dehumanization of Man". It was misshelved, as I found it amongst the section on book binding (an association I will explore later). While the copyright information indicates the book was published first in 1970, the pages were...much, much older. Many had scribbled, hand written notes in the margins, in an increasingly frantic hand as the book documented the spiral of the author's own deepening psychosis.

Interesting, certainly, but not immediately relevant. Yet, I could not help myself but to consume this as well, reveling in the...taste...of this madness. What truly gave me pause, however, was found near the end of the book. The patient, who himself had once been the researcher it seems, began to focus less on the internal struggles of his own mind and more on the external setting of his devolution - a house. A simple house, or so he described, wherein he had taken residence during what he had hoped to be his recovery from the acute stress of his research. He shared the home with several others, all men, all well educated, and all victims of their own relentless work ethic; pushed as they were to the brink of their sanity after countless sleepless nights spent pouring over their notes and research.

The home was meant to be a respite, a sanctuary of fresh air and open skies, far away from the demanding mistress of academic expectation. It worked, in a way, the simple, rural farm house nestled amongst serene fields far away from any untoward pressures of urban living. The doctor found it simple, quaint, and pleasant at first before he started seeing all of the Wrongness. Or, perhaps, he had brought the madness with him. Perhaps they all had, and their presence within the home was twisting it, warping it around their fracturing psyches. The possibility was an exciting theory, one that the doctor was powerless to resist in pursuing further.

He recruited the other men in his experiments, each as eager as he was to test the theory of their influence on the physical space they occupied on a psychological level. They took exacting measurements of the interiors, the exteriors, made maps and charts to mark irregularities. They counted windows, doors, and thresholds; from the inside and the outside - a necessity as they would soon find that the numbers did not match up. There were more windows from the outside as there were inside. There were more doors inside than rooms to lead to. The floors vacillated between disorientating flatness and violent warps. Each time they counted the stairs to the second floor, the number was different than the last. The discoveries were as maddening as they were exhilarating, and each day it got worse. Or, not worse, but...more.

It was only when one of the others, an engineer referred to only by his surname Czerny, fell from an impossible 3rd story window that the doctor's intrigue turned to concern. In a brief moment of lucidity, he observed that the home had become as much of a prison as a sanctuary. When was the last time any of them had left? How long since anyone else had entered? When had they last eaten? Ever? Was there food in the kitchen? Where was the kitchen? Surely there must be a kitchen, had no one bothered to look?

It was then that the doctor's primary concern changed from investigation to escape, and oh, did the House answer in kind. Each attempt to leave came through a new door, that had not previously been there and would not appear again after. He would walk in circles, opening and closing doors that led to nowhere, that had him tripping over the back of his own heels. The other men didn't notice. Czerny looked at him like he was mad for screaming when he saw him, apparently returned from the dead. He'd never fallen out any windows, there wasn't a third floor to fall from. Even still, the doctor looked out the window and saw the shadow of the falling corpse.

This is when the notes begin to become...undiscernible, even for me. Not that I cannot read them, and understand, it is just that...they do not make sense. They do not fit correctly in my head. That, I fear, is the entire purpose of this statement. The doctor's attempts at escaping grow every more frantic, the House every more twisted, and his housemates transition from collaborators to specters, ghosts caught in cycles of life and death as they each meet their end through an impossible exit just to come back and do it again. He puts more and more of himself into his book, writing reminders to himself of who he is and what he's looking for - the exit. He thinks at one point he has found it, but cannot get out. He needs, he writes, a key. A key that Does Not Exist for a Door That Cannot Be Real. But nothing works.

Except for one thing.

This page. The picture of the door. It's the last entry, the last page of sketches.

Further investigation was difficult as I could not, with an assurity, confirm the true identity of the doctor, but if it was the author of the book, as I suspect, then there is...what I would consider somewhat conclusive evidence.

The doctor was found dead, in what was his former office, seemingly 30 odd years younger than he should have been, and holding nothing...but his book.

I believe the doctor succeeded in making his key.

...

I think I know how to save Michael.

[breakingbutch]

what does it mean to break butch?

there are ways of living that cut off aspects of the self, overemphasize certain elements of what makes a person up, shame and hide fundamental pieces of human existence. final definitions, clean cut categories that define me versus you, make us distinct. these are constructed and unhelpful at large. you and i are not different beyond how you believe we are different and your beliefs are fallible.

i have been male, i have been female, i fear neither as aspects of myself, i regard them both in awe. a life lived in fear of aspects present in every self is a life lived hating half of who you are. of course, i can only truly speak for myself but i have a feeling you have seen hints of the masculine in your feminine self or hints of the feminine in your masculine self. they are deeply intertwined, and you may be deeply ashamed of them, but they exist no matter what judgement you place on them. if you believe you are more one than the other, you are wrong. a tree is not separate from the kudzu it bears, no matter how much it may despise it.

now, joy found in seeking and presenting the masculine and feminine? that is absolutely real and an earthly delight placed in front of us to be reveled in, made more delicious by its forbidden nature. chase that rabbit as long as you'd like and enjoy the wonderful stew you make after you dissect it

as someone very wise once said, theology is, once you understand enough frameworks, a bunch of stories, tools in a tool box, that you can make fun shapes with. what is gender if not a cultural theology? a set of beliefs about physical traits and characteristics that indicate some strange "divine" nature of a thing? dig through the toolbox and find what is useful to you, what helps you, do not think that you have to stay within one compartment for the sake of some weird esoteric set of rules.

i am, in my very bones, a utilitarian and i cannot leave behind anything that can be of any use.

may my tshirts become muscle tees so you can see my bra underneath, may my dress's frills be stained with dirt and the carabiner on my belt jingle musically, and may i bark and meow in the same breath.

in butches name, amen