#I don't know you but I love you

[never-ending-fanfic]

Someone asked me about my disability pride flag pin and what it meant 🥹♥️

Thank you, the nicest bakery lady I ever met

[schuylerpeck]

Hey, the half-frozen rain kisses my cheeks and I love you.

Pushed out of the darkness by a street~lamp, the vermilion flame of a maple tree mimics the soul of a dancer I fell in love with, both flame and fae, dangerously mesmerising and seemingly perfectly unaware of their power. On the countertop, a crate overfilled with persimmons mimics the forgotten treasure of a retired pirate. On my messy desk, the half-used square of red watercolour mimics something too, I'm sure, but its dreams are just out of my reach.

Winter comes back and some days feel like I'm spinning, endlessly circling back to the same movements, the same words, the same ideas. More and more, I'm okay with that. I love in circles, doesn't it make sense that I tell it in circles as well ?

I go back to familiar songs, thinking about voices lost and found again. Back to feeling gentle, thinking about the numerous times unknown children came fearlessly to greet me. Back to the water, thinking about a dreamed creek gifted to a stranger I've grown fond of. And going round and round doesn't feel so bad when it brings back the words, the kindness and the beloved places. The leaves keep falling, uncaging the sky, and my heart turns fire red, dedicated to keeping me warm but willing also to help me try and keep others warm.

And my gifts for you today, for no other reason than we're here in this world at the same time, are a bright red flame, a universe full of circles and the promise that circling back isn't necessarily a bad thing.

I hope you sleep tight, when night reaches you. I don't know you but I love you.

Hey, there’s a mug of coffee for you on the table and I love you.

are you staying warm? do you have plans to go home? are you there already, laughing at the end of a dining room table or helping family in the kitchen? the wind picked up last night and covered the west coast in a blanket of frost. I wandered out in it this morning, not wanting to break the hushed air, not wanting to touch the spotless snowbanks, but just to sit and exist beside it for a while. across the country, my dad calls, frustrated in a congested vein of traffic. under his annoyance, I can hear the car radio play the same holiday station, hosted by the same sweet voice my siblings and I fondly remember. “may this season bring you so much happiness, from Delilah.”

when I talk about what I want for my life, I know my dreams seem much smaller. the room we’ve been given to dream, the futures that might lie ahead don’t seem to hold the sparkle we were promised, but I will still make something beautiful of this, if only to my eyes. my dad wonders why I would ever leave the city. my friends wait to hear what else might follow, what big vision might match my excitement. a small corner of somewhere, I hammer away an afternoon fixing up the stairs. a summer the room smells like fresh paint, a shade of blush. a neighborhood fox I wave to, glowing red in the snow. the wood-paneled pub a few friends and I will meet in for birthday parties or trivia some Tuesday nights. a favorite window I’ll write from. listening to the radio, watching the world again, happy to exist beside it.

yes, I’m sad there might be things I never see. no, this doesn’t mean I’m giving up yet. but I’m finding contentment is not far from where I rest my shoes. and maybe that feels like the biggest thing I can give me. more than all the futures that had been decided for me, this finally feels like mine. a wish I’m sending for you too, though I’m sorry if it looks silly, I wasn’t quite sure how to wrap it. a sense, maybe when winter comes back around, and hopefully sooner of course, that you might untie your boots, look up for a moment, and feel a warm rush of love for where you are — that we both might unfurl our scarves, wherever we might be, and feel at home. it’s my gift to you (though the mail may take a while to reach you) if for no other reason than we are here in this world at the same time.

goodnight, you, I hope you sleep tight when night reaches you. I don’t know you, but I love you.

[reinamycloud]

I just needed to tell you I’ve been binging all of your HA! Fics and by GOD my childhood ship is real and you dear author have made it so. God it’s all soooo so so good. The way you write Helga as soft but so strong and Arnold as so whipped but still honest about how to two of them clash it’s everything. They’re both so down bad for each other and it’s such a fuckinf pleasure to read. More then just characterization the pure SKILL of the writing is everything. It’s so captivating. Your way with words is something to be not only admired and held to high acclaim but something to study— I wanna pick it apart and just eat it. It’s so good. God. Everything is so so good. From one writer to another I just had to let u know. Love the work, keep writing ❤️❤️❤️

First of all, let me apologize for responding to this so late. 🙏

I don't even have words right now, seriously. Your message made my freaking year, okay. I'm not even joking. I want to bury it inside me and let it live there forever like a benevolent tapeworm. I seriously needed this and I can't thank you enough for it.

You're a beautiful person and I wish only the best things for you in life. May your creative juices flow eternally, and your pillow always be cool, and a mosquito never bite you again.

Thank you so much.

[aphroditelovesu]

I love you.

I love you too ❤️❤️

~ Lady L

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The math just adds up!

[0sbrain]

alternatives for ai to design ocs

hero forge

picrew

the fucking sims 4

your local furry artist

bitmoji

shitty photoshoped collage

DeviantArt bases

zepeto

making edits of your favorite character

searching "dress up game" on the app store

learning how to draw

[mroddmod]

they are like puppies. 2 me

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[marxstradamus]

Kirk was a real one for this

[demaparbat-hp]

He truly did.

[schuylerpeck]

Hey, my little trip feels like a pilgrimage and I love you.

Getting off the train, my feet brought me on a familiar path before I even realised. The sundial that marked the "almost~there" threw me out of my reverie and I tried to go further, regretting it with every step forward. It felt like these dreams you try to force back after the alarm was snoozed, five more minutes of fighting to keep the story on track. It never works well enough and I stopped when I saw the apartment block at the end of the street, not knowing what I was looking for anyway: the flat, the old piano and the furniture had been sold years ago.

Don't you wish you could knock at a stranger's door and say "Someone I lost but still love lived there, and there's a ghost of the child I was in this place. I'd like to offer them to leave with me, can I enter"? I wish, but in this world we can't, and this echo of little me will stay there, running in the corridor laughing, haunting someone else instead of me. Still, I hope their joy will be heard.

I never liked nor hated this city before, but now it holds hostage both an unfinished story and many memories. It's not a healing, more a bandaid, to roam in the museum, forgetting to eat or drink, finding peace for a few hours hidden at the heart of a place that smells of grief and grime, a place on which I can't extend any forgiveness yet.

But I come back again and again, despite, in hope the laughter of a friend can lift this fog, in hope eight thousand voices can mend my heart for a little while. And they do live up to my hopes: softened by their light, my heart gets torn open by a line in unison —A moment for the poet's play, until there's nothing left to say— and appeased by another —Come on in, the fire's warm, dull the blade and dance some more.

There's something about crowds singing together, isn't there? So along with the safe harbour of slightly cracked paintings, this something I can't seem to pinpoint will be my gift for you today, for no other reason than we're here in this world at the same time. I hope you sleep tight, when night reaches you. I don't know you but I love you.

Hey, the heater kicks on and I love you.

the sky yawns blue after 3PM and I race to get all my best living in before the sun sets. in the last few weeks, I’ve grabbed coffee with a writer I admire, watched the snow fall in bright flakes from a warm bookstore with a friend, and woken up in the middle of the night to feel the dog sneak closer into my arms. this bliss — this joy in feeling at the steering wheel of my life. saying I've decided to take the scenic route, but finding eighteen wrong ways of getting there. taking a hill too quickly and bracing when the earth beneath me groans and gives; realizing the driver’s seat can be terrifying.

sadness feels too sticky to write about, though with every letter, I love to watch the picture of you grow clearer and want to honor your honesty with my own. there’s a book of poems I’m writing. I’m proud of it. when I flip through the pages, even as pencil- and tear-stained as they are now that I’m elbow-deep in editing, I think it may be the most important thing I’ve ever done, but it also feels like tracing the outline of a gash the skin hasn’t stitched over fully yet. I don’t know if I can stand raw to the world, let alone in the solitude of my room.

have you ever felt too stained by the world, by your past, you don’t know where to begin in washing it away? I know we were here before everything could touch us. I know we are still here, still ourselves, resting just beneath this feeling. there’s a mineral spring not far from this road. let me patch up the tires and we can wade there for a while. this spot in the hot bath of the earth, to sit in the quiet and let the weight of what we carry lift a little, is my gift to you, if for no other reason than we’re here, experiencing the happiness and pain life has to offer in this world at the same time. we can breathe in the steam and watch the canopy move above us, held in the forest’s palm. we can talk about it all or we don't have to say a thing. the trees will keep watch for us. let’s close our eyes.

I hope you sleep tight, when night reaches you. I don’t know you, but I love you.

[secondbeatsongs]

source

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Yeah, I don't know about you, Fidds, but I'd fold at this 🙏

Previous!!

Next!!

First!!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Hey now, Let her cook!

[brainrotcharacters]

the easy grip on the knife. the leg over the seat. the hand over the other seat. the sassy "come get it" move. you know the bitch is smiling behind that mask even as he said the line.

[bean-spring]

Hot take and not to be a killjoy or the shipping police but people treating Viktor or Jinx's aroace headcanons as if they were canon is not the revolutionary take people think it is.

Headcanons are always all right but we have to acknowledge that they are somehow damaging when they apply to stereotypes. It might not be the case for everyone but most of the time people unconsciously assume that disability/mental illness=asexuality. These headcanons erase the freedom of attraction from people who are already seen as unable to have sexual/romantic experiences/desires, when it's completely untrue and harmful.

You can headcanon Viktor and Jinx as aroace, but I have seen people changing their minds once Viktor is no longer disabled (s2 with all of his other forms) and Jinx is no longer as mentally ill (alternate universe Powder). And it speaks wonders of how people see these characters.

"I never thought about Jinx being able to feel romantic/sexual attraction until s2!" To believe she's actually only capable of that when she's not "damaged" is incredibly disturbing. Especially since Jinx has always had a bit of a flirty personality too.

"I've always seen Viktor as asexual, I don't know why!" That's fine. You can headcanon him as ace. But I believe there is a reason behind it, most of the time, if for some inexplicable reason the "vibes" of the disabled character are making you think he's ace.

I say all of this being aroaspec myself, by the way. Headcanon all you want but going to people's posts commenting how "it's weird for you that they have romantic/sexual plots when they're clearly aroace" is not a win at all. It's a headcanon, after all, and it should be treated as such, and that's fine. But it also is damaging to spread stereotypes like these.

Of course the disabled character is asexual. Of course the mentally ill character is aromantic. It's not as revolutionary as you might think, tbh.

Fandom is not activism and it's all right to have any headcanons you want BUT some of them are filled with damaging stuff and perhaps we should look into ourselves more before treating these assumptions as something canon.