#Unthinking

[unthinking-angel]

curtain

the room fades to black as the world starts to swim

why can’t i write quite as well as him

the words seem to flow so effortlessly

his poems convey what he wants you to see

and they write these lyrics that flow as a song

they write and they write and they write for so long

they’re a songwriter. he’s a poet. they’re a perfect pair

i’m a writer. why hasn’t that got me somewhere.

i read both their work and my vision vignettes

when will that butterfly land in my net

i’m jealous i’m angry i’m all too upset

and i haven’t even written yet

i can’t let them see this

i can’t let them know

it’s time to call curtain

and put on a show

i’m happy i’m smiling i’m rooting them on

hell i’m helping them write their damn song

“you’re a genius, i love you” i hear them but still

if i can’t believe them…

who will?

i’m splitting. i’m jealous. i don’t mean a word. i love them both dearly. i’m a double edged sword. i love so strong i hate so deep

how do they all handle me

i’m too damn much

but still so weak

but for some damn reason they still love me?

honestly.”

it’s not like they can see past your visage”

i hear from that voice- no, more a mirage

and now i’m stuck behind a curtain

putting on a show

to all of these people

who definitely know

they know that i’m fucked up

they know how i care

they know that my brain’s fucking everywhere

and i called this one curtain to speak of my show

the house lights dim

the stage lights glow

i put on a smile

i try on a laugh

i’m the actor and the viewer

the fisherman and his prized catch

do i want them to see what lies behind

that velvet curtain, these dark brown eyes

do i want them to see what’s behind my show

what the fuck do i want them to know

i want them to see me

meet where i am

i want them to lend me a kind helping hand

but i don’t need help

and i don’t need hands

i need someone to understand

but i don’t care this much.

i don’t believe a word i’ve said

they want it? i want it.

well. here it is.

the performance of

a lifetime

but gods what i’d give to cure my damn head

i’m sick of performing

but the show must go on

i’m acting here like i cry until dawn

but i’m fine, really

i only cry till ten

and even then

it’s only when

i just can’t put the words to pen

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"Orthodoxy means not thinking -- not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness."

George Orwell, "Nineteen Eighty-Four"

[howifeltabouthim]

Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so.

Anthony Trollope, from Can You Forgive Her?

[themkultra]

ok sometimes in my head i listen to music that already exists but occasionally it does its own thing and then when that happens i like to watch adventure time muted so the music becomes the score. the voices being muted are not an issue bc i just recreate it in my head over the music.   

[songs2aiart]

Serj Tankian - The Unthinking Majority

“Take them by their filthy nostrils Put them up in doggy hostels.”

“Insinuating they hold the bomb Clearing the way for the oil brigade” https://youtu.be/fgzYbHvqAng

[justwannabecat]

“Yeah, see, the Anti-Ecto Acts are even more troubling than ‘inciting war with the Realm of the Dead and all its gods’ level.” Phantom began. “It affects the living, even outside of that.”

Constantine huffed, but didn’t disagree. Bruce could only guess what he was thinking.

“At least, from what Clockwork taught me,” Phantom continued, and that made Constantine snap to attention, “ectoplasm is just kind of… There. Floating around in the background, but at such a low level that it doesn’t usually manifest. But it’s still there, and it functions kind of like radiation: just being around it might cause you to develop liminality.”

“Liminality?” Bruce asked. Phantom shrugged.

“Any side effects you would notice are only caused by high levels of exposure, nothing like this low-level radiation. But, well… Ectoplasm is both attracted to emotions and attracted by emotions. And ectoplasm heightens emotions, too. The fact that the human race has been alive so long, evolved to feel more complex emotions, it’s because the ectoplasm bonded enough with humanity to allow that. Humans achieved sentience because they could feel enough to determine they existed. Without ectoplasm, slowly those emotions will fade. And…” Phantom hesitated.

“…I can’t say that humanity will become nonsentient once again, not for sure. But I can say that you will slowly, generation by generation, lose the feelings you have now.”

[idealog]

Your joy front is falsity & mimicry, false peace where there is no justice - cowardice, not Godly Strength.

Quit pretending to give a shit about others.

Evil turds.

You're selfish and you're getting a Timeout.

Dhdi

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

At your side [End of Season 2]

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[hereissomething]

Bill's fine!

[medblackcoffee]

The sk8 brainworms got me

[approximateknowledge]

once you learn enough about evolutionary biology you start seeing ghosts everywhere

[unthinking-angel]

thirty five

i used to like that number

seven by five, the adult age

but now i see it in a different light

thirty five is a badge of my failure

i wish i could find peace with it

but thirty five is making my world crash around me

thirty five makes me want to cry

i’m 30, 1990?

it’s 35 but why

and i never wanted to do this

i knew i was going to fail

but i tried my fucking hardest

i didn’t even bail

and the prize, yet again, is my bitter defeat

why try when i know

ill never quite meet

that score i need

that grade i crave

hell, to these numbers i’m naught but a slave

the fool marks the start of a journey.

the fool marks the end of my time

the fool should be hopeful and happy

the fool sadly so, is i

a zero, he is, that beautiful card

a zero is now how i feel

a zero is not my definer

a zero was not the deal

a zero is not my definer.

but it isn’t even that.

it’s a thirty fucking five.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase-'complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism'- jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front-it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck.

Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table quacked rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din.

'There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know whether you know it: duckspeak, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words that have two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to someone you agree with, it is praise.'

-- George Orwell, “Nineteen Eighty-Four”

[howifeltabouthim]

Give herself even a second to think, and she'd panic. So she ran instead.

Katherine Arden, from Empty Smiles

[themkultra]

like i read american psycho after the memes started abt the movie bc if a book gets adapted into a movie i always read the book first and then watch the film and i think the writers and directors did a very good job on translating him onto the screen it was so sick. and also i like his character archetype. he is so me... *the sniper on the roof hired to watch me at all times in case i say the code words “he is so me irl” to confirm my execution sweats as his finger brushes over the trigger*

[xunyicaos]

take my breath away 

lads sylus x afab!reader (18+)

word count: ~ 1.6k

content: pre-established relationship (admittedly obsessed with husband!sylus), not proofread, corn without plot, breathplay, pet names (kitten, sweetie, cutie), needy!reader, overstimulation, unprotected sex, p in v, reposted my old work from diff fandom

when you gasp it's like something snaps. 

your whole body quakes as euphoria floods through you, high-pitched cries tumbling from your lips and your nails leaving pretty red patterns all over your husband’s back. sylus is a pro at many things, but he's especially talented at hitting that delicate spot inside you for the third time tonight, flipping the switch in your brain that turns off all the thoughts focused on anything but him. 

you don’t remember how this started, whether you had a bad day or he did, or what precisely it was that has you a fucked out doll at his disposal. shit, you’re not even sure how your day went at all right now, but you aren’t complaining. 

on the contrary, you’re begging. your hole is sensitive, that's an understatement, but it’s still drinking in his fingers desperately. it's so good, so addictive when sylus fills you up, whether it’s his long fingers or his cock, your pussy craves more each second. 

but now sylus isn’t moving and your recovering walls feel neglected without his fingers massaging into them. “no, no,” you whimper, lightly smacking at his arm. “need more… wanna cum again.”

your hiccups seem to grab sylus's attention again, his crimson gaze heavy yet curious. somehow, even in your pleasured haze, you recognize the expression. he wants something from you and, of course, you automatically want to give it to him as soon as he tells you what it is. He pulls his fingers from you with a sloppy wet sound that has your eyes rolling, your hole clenching as though begging to be stretched again, needing to be filled. 

“sweetie,” sylus slurs, his voice intoxicatingly deep with a tempting lull to his words. “will you make that sound…” his voice catches, tense with his own growing arousal that's evident in the way his brows furrow as he tries to find his words. “make that pretty noise again for me.”

your brows furrow for a moment and you think you notice him using his wet hand to push his boxers down, the other traveling up to the base of your neck. he presses gently, tentatively, a tender massage that eases your breath, makes you comfortable enough to find your voice and ask, “what n—?”

the question catches in your throat, breath hitching beneath his palm as he squeezes. your eyes widen, an internal scream of I can’t breathe! causing your heart to skip a beat. but sylus’s grip loosens just before the panic fully manifests and oxygen floods into your lungs, the relief racing both up to fill your head and down to pool between your thighs. 

“that.”

oh. your thinking is still cloudy, sentences not linking together properly, words not articulating, but you think you know what he’s talking about. how fitting.

sylus fucking likes the sound of you choking, the melody of you gasping and whimpering, even more vulnerable at his hands than you already are. and, honestly, it works out, because you love the way it feels when he chokes you. you know he's at war with himself internally, weighing out his own pleasure and your comfort. always so thoughtful. you respond with your own hand resting gently on top of his, squeezing it as if to urge him to continue. 

sylus seems a bit relieved and he leans down to press a hungry kiss to your lips, catching your lower lip between his teeth before swiping his tongue over it and pulling back just enough to whisper, “so you like that, kitten?” he sounds a bit hopeful and if you could think properly, you’d say it was cute. 

“yes,” it’s a blend of a hiccup, a sob, and likely a deranged giggle. your hand flutters on top of his, pressing it down into your neck. 

that’s all he needs to hear. 

it’s as simple as a flex of his perfect fingers that gets you to keen, your movements in tandem with his as you hook your legs around his waist. your expression, the beautiful sounds leaving you, and the steady stream of bliss dripping from your hole—it has him hard and throbbing as he positions himself between your legs. 

you’d whine if you could, but your voice is hidden behind sylus's giant hand, your breath shallow. you see stars when he slides into you, the stretch making your mouth fall open in a stifled scream, drool trickling from the corner of your lips. you’re unable to take the breath you usually would, to steady yourself, to keep yourself from unraveling then and there. no, now you’re only able to clench, to grip him with your needy walls. your mind is melting and his oh-so-intoxicating voice only adds fuel to the fire. 

“you’re so beautiful, sweetie. always, but especially when you’re like this,” sylus groans, his hips rocking into a pace that has you silently sobbing, the pleasure overwhelming. it’s like both of you have forgotten the level of your sensitivity, your orgasms in the past hour brushed aside. the focus is on how badly you want more, more, more right now. 

sylus is creating a pattern, lightening his grip on your neck only to slam into you right as you’re trying to recover with a breath. “you like it when you’re fucked stupid, huh?” he pants between thrusts. “my kitten just wants to be full of my cock?” 

your acquiescence is broken up into too many syllables, otherwise reduced to gasps and fluttering lashes. your nails dig pretty red crescents into his arms, tears spilling from your eyes as your lungs are tempted again and again, the rush of air being abruptly stopped and sylus pounding into your pussy enough to drive you crazy, if you aren’t already. 

sylus is equally drunk on your pussy; the way it pulls him into your heat, how your walls massage his cock each time he slams into you. it always feels like he’s reminding you that your pussy is all his, just for him. it's always been his goal; by the end of these late nights all you can remember is him, his cock and how nothing will ever fill you as perfectly. 

“aw, my needy little kitten, can’t think of anything but how good you feel right now, hm?” you think you nod, your teary chin hitting the back of his hand as his grasp tightens again. “there you go, sweetie,” he groans, his half-lidded gaze drinking up your tears and gasps. “feel so good you can't stop crying, hm? oh you’re so beautiful. so beautiful and all fucking mine.”

maybe it’s something about the way your eyes roll back, your lips parted in a suspended gasp, the rosy flush that’s filled your cheeks—whatever it is causes sylus’s hips to stutter, pushing into you at a depth that, if you weren’t already suffocating, would take your breath away. 

he lets go, his hand moving to brace himself through his own climax as it mixes with yours and you break down into delighted gasping sobs. “sy,” your voice is hoarse, broken, but the way your fingers trail up and down his forearm proves that it’s all in bliss. “holy shit, you're so—so good, it’s so… it feels so good.”

sylus chuckles breathlessly, the rough pads of his fingers going to draw soothing circles on the reddening skin of your neck. “you’re too perfect for me.” he hums and trails kisses from your neck to your jaw, finally ending at your lips.

his kisses are soft, far more tender than the roughness of his fingers around your throat, each one planting seeds of reality in your thoughts, slowly bringing your vocabulary back together in a way that makes sense, but not enough to draw you out from the pleasure that still has you shivering. “you did so well, sweetie,” he soothes into your lips, taking your weary giggles into his adoring kiss. “you’re absolutely amazing.” 

there’s a beat of hesitancy and Sylus takes the time to slowly pull out of you, trying to keep his eyes away from the way your hole tenses, a milky stream being pushed out and drawn back in with every pulse. He settles next to you and pulls you into his arms, stroking your hair and steadying his breathing to help inspire yours to calm. 

“sweetie?” he starts and you can barely place the discomfort in his tone. “that wasn't…” his brows furrow as the words escape him and he almost looks sheepish when he meets your gaze. so out of character, yet so endearing. “i didn’t hurt you… right?”

the laugh that leaves you is a bit more stable, genuine in its amusement. words are still proving to be difficult, due to both the mental toll and the physical pull on your throat, but you think you can get the point across when you kiss him. “no... didn’t hurt. i liked it—really liked it.” 

relief fills sylus’s sigh and he kisses your forehead, a small smile on his face when he pulls away to look at you. his eyes scan your equally red neck and you absently doodle invisible patterns on his bare chest, peeking up at him through your lashes. 

“what is it, cutie?” sylus asks in that irresistible timbre as he studies your needy expression. He knows what you want, but he’s fully prepared to keep you in his arms for just a bit longer and, thankfully, you’re in agreement. 

“need… a lil’ break…” you admit, nuzzling into his chest with a soft sigh. “but…” you peek up at him again with an adorable amount of playful shyness that makes his heart skip a beat.

“i can go again.”