#Thursday thoughts

[beccawise7]

Thursday Thoughts. 💜🖤💜🖤

[erissubmits]

[scarletmika]

I love when random inspo strikes MAN this one is gonna be good 😍

Best friend Jake playing matchmaker, one of my finer ideas

[sophieakatz]

Thursday Thoughts: Microlabels

Almost ten years ago, when I first told someone who loved me that I was demisexual, he replied, “Do we really need all these labels?”

I don’t remember what I said back then, but my answer now is, “Well, I don’t know about we, but I need this one.”

Labels are the words we use to describe the world around us and our experience within it. Language is full of labels. Our earliest language-learning activities include sorting things into categories. This is the red block; this is the yellow block. Elephants and giraffes are zoo animals; horses and cows are farm animals; cats and dogs are pets. Toothbrushes and toothpaste are bathroom objects; forks and knives are kitchen objects.

Some of these distinctions are more important than others. It doesn’t really matter if you build a tower of red blocks or yellow blocks. However, leaving a knife in the bathroom is a bad idea, and so is attempting to keep an elephant in your house (not that I haven’t been tempted to try). You’ll also find that not all categories are universal. Is octopus an edible animal? Depends where you go in the world and who you ask!

The point is, it’s natural to use labels to define our place in the world and how we interact with it. I call myself a writer because I am someone who writes; this is important to me. Calling myself a writer explains something about who I am. It makes it easier for me to apply for writing jobs. When I hear other people call themselves writers, I know that we have something in common that we can connect over. I know that these are people I might be able to talk with or who might be interested in having write-ins or book clubs with me. In this way, labels help us find and create community.

Now, “writer” is a pretty broad category, so our experiences won’t be exactly the same. However, I can use a more specific label. I can call myself a fantasy fiction writer, a poetry writer, or a themed entertainment show writer, which helps me find people who identify with those more specific labels and have even more in common with me.

People who are not writers and are not interested in finding other writers don’t need the word “writer.” It doesn’t help them as much as it helps me. It’s not their label.

Demisexual is an asexual spectrum microlabel. Asexual describes someone who experiences little to no sexual attraction. It’s a broad label that covers a variety of experiences. Demisexual describes someone who only experiences sexual attraction towards someone after forming an emotional bond with them.

Before I read the word “demisexual” about ten years ago, I didn’t know that there were other people like me. I thought that there was something wrong with how I experienced attraction towards others. Knowing that there was a label not only made it possible for me to understand that there were other people like me, but also made it possible for me to find them and find community with them. Having words like ace and demi in my vocabulary make it easier for me to explain my experience to other people. People who aren’t demisexual don’t necessarily need this word. But I do.

When you hear a microlabel for the first time, especially if it’s one you do not identify with, it’s easy to dismiss it. It’s easy to think, “That’s not really a thing,” or, “Do we really need a word for that?”

The answer is, “Maybe you don’t need that word, since it doesn’t describe your experience, and that’s okay. But clearly someone needs it. We all have the right to put our experiences into words. We all deserve the chance to know that we are not broken and to find other people who are like us.”

[thoughtartistry]

Nature has the power to heal because it is where we are from. It is where we belong, and it belongs to us as an essential part of our health and our survival. ✒️

[preet-01]

I tend to just ramble or write random lines in my drafts/notes app. So here are some of my favorites from the past month that were never posted or made into complete thoughts:

I had many qualms with F1 journalists during the first half of April:

Sometime around mid-April, I wrote this and I think it was a potential brocedes fic idea, but I honestly cannot remember what it was now:

Some random brocedes thoughts:

Potential maxiel angst fic idea:

Tbh going through the drafts and notes app was so fun. Like there were some great lines in there but I could not remember the thought process behind them at all

[eclec-tech]

To all my sweet moots who make art:

Thank you for letting us see the beautiful things in your heads. The expressions, anatomy, and scenery you are able to create with a simple flick of your wrists is nothing short of magic to me. If I were able to, I would commission every single one of you at least once and make my own little art gallery. 🧡

[insidemymind025]

Your heart knows the way—trust it.

[donmegabc]

[galaxy-fucked]

So when do you think Korvo and Terry became a couple? Season 1, 2, 3, 4, before they arrived on earth?

Would love to hear fan thoughts!

[beccawise7]

Mmm... Bookstores & Libraries. My idea of heaven.

~beccawise7💜🖤

[actuallyadhd]

Today I'm thinking about the good and the bad about ADHD.

-J

[jasonstiff]

Thursday Thoughts from The Daily Stoic

#ThursdayThoughts #Thursday #thoughts #selfimprovement #inspiration #TheDailyStoic #stoic #stoicism

[ignorantyouth]

Keeping Your Ignorant Youth Alive Through Creative Expression

Adulthood hits like a slap in the face—suddenly, that carefree, imaginative kid you once were feels like a distant memory. The spark you had for creation gets buried under bills, responsibilities, and a lifetime of “adult shit” that’s meant to make you “grow up.” The sadness comes from the realization that you used to look at the world with wide eyes, unafraid, dreaming big, and doing whatever the hell you wanted. Now? You’re just trying to make it through the day without losing your mind.

As a kid, the world was yours for the taking. You didn’t care about what was practical or realistic—if it existed in your mind, it could exist in real life. You’d stack up Legos like you were building empires, you’d draw worlds that nobody else could see, and your imagination ran wild like there were no rules. Then adulthood came, slapping you in the face with deadlines, expectations, and a whole lot of "this is how the world works." Suddenly, the only place to create was in the quiet of the night, when everything else had calmed down and the world you once lived in felt like a distant dream.

The problem with getting older is that life’s heavy bullshit weighs you down, and you lose touch with that raw, creative energy. The grind, the hustle, the bullshit responsibilities—you’re constantly playing catch-up, just trying to keep your head above water. And somewhere along the way, you forget what it was like to feel alive through creation. The awe, the wonder, the childlike belief that you could do anything—those things fade out as you get older, and that’s the hard truth.

But here’s the dirty little secret: you can still keep your ignorant youth alive. You don’t need to throw your responsibilities out the window or pretend you don’t have adult shit to do. You just need to reconnect with the parts of you that still thrive on creation—the part of you that loved to build, write, paint, and let your imagination run wild without boundaries. That kid never truly left you. You just need to remember they’re still there.

For many of us, life tests our creative spirit in a different way. You grow up, and the world forces you into a box—the box where your dreams aren’t worth shit, and all that matters is survival. The rules change: focus on the grind, fit in with the crowd, get your shit together. Anything that doesn’t fit neatly into that box feels like a waste of time. But here’s the kicker: the very struggle of survival is what feeds your creativity. That’s where the real stories are. The hustle, the grind, the raw energy of fighting for what you want—those things shape the art that the world eventually wants to see. The key isn’t abandoning them. It’s learning how to use them.

Maybe you pick up a camera and start capturing the truth of the world around you, showing it for what it really is. Maybe you pick up a pen again and start writing, telling the stories that people are too scared to hear. Creativity doesn’t have to be an escape from reality—it can be the way you process, the way you make sense of all the shit life throws at you, and the way you transform the world into something meaningful.

The more you let that inner kid run free, the more you’ll realize that creativity is the lifeline that pulls you through adulthood. It’s the thing that keeps you grounded, even when everything else is falling apart. It reminds you who you really are when the world tries to put you in a box. Because deep down, that creative fire you had as a kid never really went away—it just got buried under all the shit you were told you “should” be doing.

Adulthood is a dirty, frustrating game. But your creative soul doesn’t have to play by the rules. Keep it messy, keep it raw, keep it rebellious. Hold onto that ignorant youth—the world may try to shut it down, but it’s the thing that will keep your fire burning when the rest of the world tries to snuff it out. Creativity doesn’t give a damn about rules. It’s messy, it’s real, and it’s the only thing that can truly set you free.

[sophieakatz]

Thursday Thoughts: The Star Wars Hotel

I listened to an episode of the podcast Into A Larger World this morning. The guest, Nick, discussed how much of the public response to Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser was based on misconceptions about what the Starcruiser actually was.

"Calling the Galactic Starcruiser a hotel would be like calling a car a chair," he said. "You sit in it, sure. But that's not why you buy a car."

I've made a few TikToks of clips from my voyage on the Starcruiser, and every once in a while, someone leaves a comment on TikTok or on the reel version of it on Instagram, saying something along the lines of, "$6000 for this?"

I delete these comments. I don't feel like engaging with them. But there's a part of me that wants to say, "Of course not. This is a sixty-second video. Nobody paid that much for merely sixty seconds of just watching. What's the point of saying something like that? What do you get out of believing that you know everything you need to know about a two-day immersive experience from this silly little video I threw together in a futile yet necessary attempt to convey - to celebrate - even a fraction of what this experience meant to me and to everyone else who was a part of it?"

I don't have much footage of my time on the Halcyon. For the first six months of my Starcruiser journey, I was a show writer on the project. Playtests had only just begun, and photos and videos were forbidden. I couldn't tell anyone about this thing we were building together, how much love we were pouring into it, how much hope we had that the world would love it, too.

I then spent a year watching from afar while guests discovered the Halcyon. While they built relationships with the characters. While they realized just how much was always going on, just out of sight. While they ate the food and dressed to fit the world and came up with their own backstories. While they became the heroes of their own Star Wars story. And they loved it. They loved it. I marveled at the knowledge that there was fanfiction, there was fanart, there were return visitors making the journey again and again, the journey I truly never thought I would make once - especially not once it was announced that the ship would close.

My friend Shelby reached out to me, with literally two weeks warning, that they'd found a room. I dipped into my savings account. And, no, I didn't spend $6000. There were five people in our cabin; I spent less than $1300, even with the merchandise I couldn't help but grab. $1300 for a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience this show as a guest, to truly see what had come of it.

I was determined not to metagame. I would not ask the performers for anything, even though I knew most of them. I would not use my pre-knowledge to seek out fun moments - though of course I made sure that my party was looking in the right direction to see Chewbacca enter the dining room, 'cause that's just me being a good friend. I was ready to have fun. I expected to have fun.

I did not expect to be completely blown away.

I've said this before, and I'm sure I'll say it again. One of the most important things to me as a writer is that I create shows that not only are loved by the audience but also by the people involved in bringing the show to life. When I hear an actor laugh while reading a script I wrote, that fills me with joy. When a stage manager thanks me for making sure they have all the information they need on time, I feel like I've done something right. Back in 2018, when I got to bring my parents to see some of the work I'd done for the Incredible Tomorrowland Expo, one of the improv performers ran up to my dad, grabbed him by the arm, and said, "Did you know she's a writer?? You should be so proud!" - and I almost cried.

When I set foot on the Halcyon as a guest, I did not know that I was actually about to experience two days straight of love. Throughout that two day show, every very little thing that every operations crewmember and performer did screamed, "I love this! I love this! I'm giving it my all!" After a year and a half of nigh-on constant performances, through the exhaustion and the stress and the internet hate and the uncertainty about the future, they were still pouring everything they had, every ounce of love, into that show. And I felt that love washing over me in every moment.

It meant the most coming from the performers. Again, I didn't ask them for anything. I told them I would be there and that my crew and I were ready to play. I went in-character, as Shira the mechanic, prepared to pretend I didn't know them.

But they kept dropping hints that they knew me.

The first time I saw Lenka, my crew was already talking to her. My friend Andrew pointed me out, and said, "She's a mechanic." Without missing a beat, Lenka replied, "Yes, I remember, she helped fix the ship after the pirate attack a few months back. It's wonderful to see you again."

Good fortune put us in the right place and the right time to greet Gaya as she came onboard the ship (yay bridge training!). She smiled at me and my friend Shelby and said, "These two look familiar. Now what are you calling yourself these days?"

On the second day, when it came time for the heist, Raithe gave me a job I would have begged for (and, again, I didn't! I wouldn't!). He put his hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "I know I can trust you. I know you understand what's going on here, possibly better than anyone."

And afterwards, when the heist was a success, when I'd handed the gem to Gaya, Raithe looked at me with actual tears in his eyes and thanked me.

And I said, my voice shaking, "I am so honored to have been a part of making this story."

That's a clip I do have. I'm so grateful to Justin, the man who filmed it and shared his footage with me afterwards (and to Shelby, Shannon, Lauren, Sean, Andrew, and Wendy for the photos and videos they took throughout the trip, too). As soon as the moment had passed, I'd already forgotten what any of us had said. It was truly that emotional. The performers understood why, and so did my crew. But the most incredible thing is that that moment meant something even to the people in the room who didn't understand the full meaning of my words. Three different strangers came up to me later that evening, separately, to tell me so - to thank me, even. One of them asked me if this was my first voyage.

"First as a guest," I replied.

This was the middle of August. I'm still riding the high of that show. I am normally a very anxious artist, full of so-called "imposter syndrome." But two days straight of love and validation and pure play will do something to your brain.

$6000 for this? What wouldn't I pay for this?

Even now - even today, September 28th, 2023 - as I type this blog post, the passengers on the final voyage of the Galactic Starcruiser have already boarded, and in less than half an hour, the performers will join them. Less than two days from now, this journey will be over. But I can't believe that this is the end. The end of this show, yes - all shows end, and many before their time. But not the end of the emotion, not the end of the love, not the end of the storytelling and the joy and the play and the together-as-one. I can't believe that. Because this was something that you can't put a price tag on, something that you can't sum up in as simple and easily-mocked as the phrase "the Star Wars hotel," and, frankly, it's silly to try.

We journeyed boldly. We cherished the moment. We made something worth celebrating and remembering. And we will do it again.

To the Halcyon, and to all who made her fly - Ta'bu e tay!

[twofoldgodofmondays]

Maybe today.