#New start

[socialbutterfly19]

I’m not a size 0 but I’m proud of where I’m at and will continue to work toward my goals

[positiveupwardspiral]

[zarabellasdreams]

[lamigliorepartedime]

ⁱˡ ᶜᵒⁿᵗʳᵃʳⁱᵒ ᵈⁱ "ᵖᵃˢˢᵃᵗᵒ" , ᵖᵉʳ ᵐᵉ ᵒᵍᵍⁱ ,

ⁿᵒⁿ ᵉ' "ᶠᵘᵗᵘʳᵒ", ᵐᵃ "ⁿᵘᵒᵛᵒ" ,

ᵖᵉʳᶜʰᵉ' ˢᵉᵐᵇʳᵃ ᵐᵒˡᵗᵒ ᵖⁱᵘ' ᵛⁱᶜⁱⁿᵒ

ᵈᶠ

𝔹𝕦𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕟𝕟𝕠 𝕒 𝕥𝕦𝕥𝕥𝕚

[mrs-snape5984]

“I was held in chains but now I’m free…”

“Hey, little train! Wait for me! I once was blind but now I see. Have you left a seat for me? Is that such a stretch of the imagination?” (“O Children” by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds)

I feel obligated to set up a trigger warning on this post, since I’m mentioning thoughts of suicidal ideation in my text. If you’re feeling uncomfortable with this topic, please feel free to ignore the following four paragraphs and skip right to my praise for the incredibly talented artist of this comic strip.

As already mentioned in some of my latest posts, I’ve commissioned some of my favourite artists here on tumblr for a special project of mine: My afterlife project.

I’m suffering from multiple autoimmune disorders, which probably have paved the way for this bitch of a disease, ME/CFS (myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome), two years ago. Sure, my life already wasn’t the easiest before, but since then, it came to a standstill. More and more, I lost my abilities, my social life, my place in the society…and surely even my participation in my own family. My days are mostly spent in bed all day and night, surrounded only by darkness and solitude.

Patients with severe ME/CFS might die earlier than expected, due to multiple organ failure and - yes, I have to admit, that this reason is, indeed, undeniably relatable (and alluring) to me - suicide. With each passing day, that I’m doomed to “live” with these confines of my personal hell… imprisoned within myself without any chance to escape… death appears to be a welcoming friend, who’s only awaiting to pull me into a tight embrace. For me, it’s like it’s written in the following poem (“Joy in Death”) of Emily Dickinson…it will be good news and maybe even a relief…not just for me.

I know, I can’t leave, yet… and that I have to stay as long as endurable - at least for my children’s sake - but… yeah, BUT… but, damn, I’m tired. My personal limits are set… my lines are drawn… my responsibilities are cleared and both of my closest friends are informed about my pathetic little wishes (please, play that goddamn song for me!). I’m prepared. But for now, I have to stay…. to fight a little longer… to be a mom, even though my kids only see me for a few minutes each day… a mere shadow of the mother, they used to know. It’s a fucking shame!

For this particular part of my afterlife project, I’ve commissioned my sweet friend @sleepybradipo, who will always be my first choice to draw my vision of the young Severus in his own uniquely tender art style, which I’m so weak for.

In my imagination, I will be able to choose, how my eternal life will look like. Finally, I’ll be with Severus! We’ll meet at the age of 11 years and eventually spend the rest of our lives side by side...growing old together. Severus and Jukes will finally get the life, they’ve always deserved to have. I’ve started to show sections of this existence by Severus’ side in some of my other posts, which belong to this project. It may sound strange and pathetic (obviously), but this is all, that I'm wishing for. I want to come home to him.

For this artwork, I asked @sleepybradipo to make the process of “renewing” visible…almost like some kind of resurrection! Jules is stripping off her old, exhausted self, only to be 11 years old again…happily running towards the 11 years old Severus, who’s waiting for her.

Ivano, at first, I felt guilty for my request for this commission. I’m constantly afraid of becoming a burden to others with my ridiculously morbid thoughts and ideas. But you, my dear friend, made me feel seen with your kindness and compassion. Your understanding of my fantasy and the way, you’ve realised it in this mesmerising piece of art, are absolutely breathtaking! I don’t know, how I could possibly show enough gratitude to express, what your art is doing to my black little heart. It’s like a bandage…a soothing balm… a comforting embrace. Thank you for everything, Ivano.

🖤Severus & Julia🖤

🖤Sevy & Jules🖤

PS: I have to apologise for my repetive use of terms in my writing this time. The lack of coherence might be caused by my current “crashing” condition and a weird cocktail of different medications. I’ll try better next time, but it was important for me, to show this heart-wrenching composition of art as soon as possible. Your work needs to be seen, Ivano!

[running-with-cj]

[serenityquest]

[conjcosby]

Stardate: 2024.9.23 ▫ A new week, a new start, a new way to remember. 😊🙏 #Growth #Tree #Sky #Sunset #Autumn #Flower #Outdoors #Nature #Photography #NaturePhotography #PicOfTheDay #POTD #NewWeek #NewStart #NewWay

[fallencalliope]

Thinking that I would live my life on my own,

Spending so many nights talking to the moon,

In hopes that somewhere out there,

A soul such as my own would hear my words,

But there were so many times I thought I was going mad,

Until you came to keep me company,

Our touch colliding as we understood each other,

I could see it in your eyes,

The same look that carried a heavy sense of emptiness,

Now, so full of love,

Filling me with the hope of a better tomorrow...

©️fallencalliope

[timecapsulethoughts]

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Applicants crowd around a stage in a Bowery theater in hopes of being chosen by the Bowery Comeback Association for a chance to start life anew, January 26, 1948. The association announced a plan whereby it would give one man each month a chance to climb back to respectability by providing new clothing, a shave, a haircut, a decent hotel room, and spending money to help him find work.

Photo: Joe Caneva for the AP

[socialbutterfly19]

Every day you start with a blank page… make your story the best and make your journey the best!! You only get one shot at life..live it to the fullest!!!

[legionofshaza]

Vanserra Couture

A Lucien x OC(Elara Talveran) fanfic

For Lucien week AU @lucienweekofficial

🔱⚜️🔱⚜️🔱⚜️🔅⚜️🔱🔅⚜️🔱🔅🔱⚜️🔅🔱⚜️🔅

The dazzling lights of Vanserra Couture were a stark contrast to Elara's world. Born into a life of struggle, she had spent her days mending clothes in a cramped workshop, her  fingers weaving patches onto old, worn-out garments. But today, she stood in the heart of wealth and luxury, a place where beauty and fashion reigned supreme: Lucien Vanserra’s empire.

Vanserra Couture wasn’t just a fashion show—it was the show, the epitome of luxury and prestige in the fashion world. Models, designers, and elite fashionistas from across the realms gathered here to compete, not just for the grand prize of 500,000 gold marks, but for Lucien’s favor and a future in glamour. Rumor had it that Lucien, the enigmatic, copper-haired designer who built the empire, had a penchant for perfection, and his sharp, golden eye missed nothing.

Elara had never intended to enter this world. She wasn’t one of the tall, sleek beauties who naturally drifted to the front lines of fashion. But when her sister fell ill, the hospital bills mounted, and desperation clawed at her like never before. The prize money from Vanserra Couture could change everything. It could save her sister.

With her simple background, entering the competition had felt like a fantasy. She had nothing but raw talent and a drive to survive. Elara's hands, skilled in patching and mending, now had to transform fabric into something spectacular. But this was her one shot.

—----------_—-------_—----------_—-----_—------

Lucien stood at the balcony above the runway, his intense gaze surveying the models below. He had built Vanserra Couture from the ground up, pouring his soul into the empire. The models parading through his halls were mere instruments to craft his vision. And yet, as his eyes drifted over the latest group of competitors, one in particular caught his attention: Elara.

She was different, and Lucien could always sense when someone didn’t belong. With her unassuming brown hair pinned into a neat bun and wearing a dress that looked homemade, she didn’t fit the image of the polished models who glided through his doors. Yet there was something in her eyes—a fire, an unyielding determination—that made him pause.

Lucien gestured to his assistant, a tall woman in dark glasses who stood by his side. “Who is she?”

The assistant skimmed through her tablet. “Elara Talveran. No formal training. Self-taught. Comes from the lower districts.”

“Interesting,” Lucien mused. “We’ll see how long she lasts.”

Backstage, Elara’s heart pounded. She had made it through the first round by sheer luck, or so it seemed. Now, she had to face Lucien’s infamous Designers' Challenge. Each model was given a random set of materials—some beautiful, some absurd—and tasked with crafting an outfit to showcase on the runway. The catch? They had only twenty-four hours.

When the fabric was handed to her, Elara felt the weight of her task. Frayed linen, bits of old velvet, and scraps of lace—hardly the glamorous silk or satin the other models were working with. They want me to fail, she thought bitterly, but failure wasn’t an option. Not with her sister’s life hanging in the balance.

The hours blurred as she worked feverishly, her hands moving faster than her mind. With every stitch, she channeled her love for her sister. Every patch of fabric represented another hospital bill, another chance at freedom. By the time she finished, the sun had begun to rise, casting pale light across her creation. It wasn’t elegant, but it was hers—a patchwork gown that felt like a story stitched together from broken pieces.

The show began later that evening, and Lucien watched from the shadows as each model took the runway. As Elara stepped out, the audience murmured. Her dress was unlike anything they’d seen—a bold mix of textures, old lace intertwined with faded velvet. What should have been a disaster became a striking visual. Elara’s expression held no fear, only a fierce defiance.

As the models lined up, awaiting Lucien's judgment, he descended the staircase, the echo of his footsteps silencing the crowd. He stopped in front of Elara, his golden eye scanning her creation. The tension in the room thickened. Lucien’s approval could make or break her.

“And what do we have here?” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it. “A patchwork dress. Brave.”

Elara’s throat was dry, but she met his gaze. “I work with what I have.”

“And what you have,” Lucien drawled, inspecting the seams, “is almost nothing.” A long pause followed. “Yet you’ve made it into something. Impressive.”

She blinked, unsure if she had heard him right. Lucien Vanserra didn’t give out compliments easily.

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost into a smile. “There’s raw talent here. Unrefined, yes, but undeniable.” He stepped back, glancing at the other models. “Elara will move to the next round.”

Relief washed over her, but it was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of responsibility. She had to win. Not just for herself, but for her sister.

The competition became fiercer with each passing day. Lucien, always watching from his secluded balcony, tested their limits. Elara faced everything from fabric shortages to design sabotage from the more seasoned competitors. Yet each challenge pushed her further, sharpening her skills and steeling her resolve.

She found herself in the final round, standing alongside three other contestants, all glamorous, all polished. The grand prize loomed closer than ever. But there was something more at stake now. Lucien had taken a personal interest in her journey, offering advice only in cryptic remarks. His attention was both a blessing and a curse. It made her the target of jealous eyes, but it also forced her to rise to levels she never thought possible.

In the final showcase, the models were asked to create their ultimate vision of beauty, using whatever fabrics and materials they wished. Elara, however, returned to her roots. She worked with the simplest of fabrics—wool, cotton, and linen—transforming them into a gown that was a tribute to her past, her family, and her sister’s struggle.

The day of the final runway came, and the tension in the air was palpable. As Elara walked, she carried with her every ounce of love she had for her sister, every moment of hardship she had faced. Her gown told a story, not of wealth or grandeur, but of survival, of hope stitched together from broken pieces.

When Lucien stepped onto the stage to announce the winner, the crowd held their breath. His gaze swept over the contestants, but when his eyes landed on Elara, they softened, just for a moment.

“Elara Talveran,” Lucien said, his voice echoing through the grand hall, “you have proven that beauty does not need luxury. It can rise from the ashes of hardship, from humble beginnings. You are the winner of Vanserra Couture.”

Tears filled her eyes as the weight of his words sank in. She had done it. She had won. Not just the competition, but the chance to save her sister, to change their lives forever.

As the crowd erupted into applause, Lucien met her gaze once more, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You remind me of someone I once knew—someone who turned nothing into something extraordinary.”

And with that, Lucien Vanserra turned away, his empire at his back, while Elara stood victorious at the pinnacle of a new beginning.

★ End ★

[zarabellasdreams]

[timetravelsong]

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦?

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡?

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭?

excerpts from a book I’ll never write