#experience post hyperfixation clarity

[thearchercore]

no offense but if you have a reaction that extreme on behalf on some guy you don't know and will never know and who definitely doesn’t need anyone's protection, it's time to go touch some grass

everyone needs to test out the parasocial limits to the point grass touching is essential so the next time their level of self awareness is higher so they don't get more parasocial

[kaurwreck]

hi i love reading your posts about bsd!!! they're very insightful + very clearly written by someone who's spent a while familiarizing themself with what they're talking about, and they're often refreshingly unique. particularly always taken aback (surprised? in a good way) by the trust you have in bsd in a work. even when i disagree with them, your analyses and theories are always (1) interesting (2) evidently written by someone approaching bsd and their conversations in good faith, both of which matter a lot to me.

might be completely off-base, but do you think having a background in law might impact writing bluntly/authoritatively, especially if your writing is perceived differently out of fandom spaces? i don't have enough experience to be confident, but that tone next to the emphasis on clarity in your writing feels like it fits, even if only in a chicken-and-egg way.

I stand by my problematic wife!!!!!!

I really, really do have so much faith in and love for bsd, and I trust Kafka Asagiri implicitly. This is, in part, because months and months ago, as I felt myself becoming consumed by the source material, I recognized I needed to temper myself and my expectations of the work.

My intensity and obsessiveness are as familiar to me as the beleaguered tendons in my wrists. I know twinging aches precede sharp, heated pain, so I know when to wrap the inflammation before it flares any further. Similarly, I know that if I don't ground myself before hours of hyperfixated research become tens of hours, I risk becoming disillusioned, and I risk pouring myself completely into something that won't replenish that time, energy, and emotional investment. So, I wrap my wrist when I can feel the inklings of tendinitis, and I reorient around authorial intent when the hyperfixation begins to spore.

So, I sought out interviews with Kafka Asagiri, expecting that he'd spoken to the limitations of his authorial framework.

(This sounds silly, but it works for me; for example, I adore Vanitas no Carte, but I only engage with the material referenced in VnC (ex: Song of Roland) shallowly except insofar as I have an independent interest. This is because when I similarly felt I might become obsessed, I sought out interviews, during which Jun Mochizuki stated clearly that the references she makes don't penetrate the substance of her characters or the story. So, I'll skim them, but most of the energy I pour into VnC (of which there's a lot), I pour into VnC itself rather than it's reference materials. This is because I'm rewarded by insights into the narrative I hadn't noticed before; different facets of interpretation I hadn't previously considered; greater understanding of the characters; etc. It's reciprocal; otherwise, it drains me dry because I cannot emphasize enough, I do not approach research like any human person should.)

Anyway, so, I searched for and identified statements Kafka Asagiri made about the referenced material. And, I was pleasantly surprised that he is passionate about the underlying literature and, from the outset, wrote the story hoping his audience would gain an interest in the literary works from which he took inspiration. And that sufficed, that constituted assurance that while I couldn't expect that he would intend all of the connections my obsessive, insatiable, pattern hungry brain would make, there was depth I could explore while still engaging with bsd.

What's wild is that I was expecting, like, easter eggs and light or ambiguous foreshadowing. Instead, once I started researching the period, authors, works, etc., the story began to open and come together where it hadn't been before. I clearly was already enjoying it, but there were what I perceived to be fairly severe structural flaws and neither narrative focus nor diverse enough arcs. Except the more I read the source material and the more I engaged with bsd as a multimedia work in which the various adaptations were facets of a whole rather than the same story reinterpreted + the various spinoffs as fragments of canon; the more I noticed a dialogue between bsd and its source materials. Which, taken together, recontextualized what I previously perceived to be narrative flaws such that while novel in structure, bsd became a satisfying, deeply intentional narrative.

This isn't to say I am noticing only and everything Asagiri intended to write, but his own sincere engagement with the works on top of which bsd is written is so tightly woven into the story and characters that bsd is a genuinely innovative medium of literary critique and historical reflection for an expansive array of literature that spans several eras.

So, I really, really do have so much faith in and love for bsd, and I trust Kafka Asagiri implicitly. Not because I think it's without flaws or that it hits each of its marks; because, quite frankly, even evaluated in the context of its unique structure, it's a rough tumbled gem. I certainly don't trust the story to fall into into a more common or familiar structure either.

Instead, I trust it to be sincere, compassionate, thoughtful, ambitiously playful, delightfully absurd, and I trust it to have more heart than sense. But mostly, I trust that while the story and Kafka Asagiri are untethered from convention, they are grounded in the hope and love and desperate yearning for humanity that saturates each of the namesake authors' works and legacies.

So, yeah, I'm never worried; but I'm often delighted.

(also, thank you so much for the kind words!!! y'all are ruining me with how sweet you've been this evening 🥺 you're also very, very on point regarding the impact of my law background on my writing, specifically its bluntness and emphasis on clarity. the authoritativeness actually preceded my legal training and even my ability to write. i'll spare you the baby lore, but, like, yeah, i think we should just cut our losses on that one.)

[saline-coelacanth]

List of my Ninjago Aus

I figured I should make a list of my Ninjago Aus that I can link to my pinned post since sometimes the Ninjago hyperfixation comes back. I'm only including aus that I still have interest in working on, so if an au isn't on the list, it's probably safe to assume that I don't have interest in working on that au (so you shouldn't send asks about it)

Bad Endings Au: An au based on evil versions of the ninja from different timelines, usually referred to as the BE!Ninja. Each ninja has their own origin story explaining their downfall before they all get transported into the main timeline where they team up to take out the normal versions of the ninja

Next Gen Au: Follows a timeline separate from Dragons Rising (since I made it way before that came out) that follows the future ninja, Shayla, (bruise kid and master of lightning) Tara, (other bruise kid and master of earth) Fallon, (oppo kid and master of ice) an Trixie (daughter of Pythor and my oc Asashi)

Purified Au: An au where instead of being destroyed at the end of Rebooted, the Overlord is just left in a weakened, child-like state with amnesia who the ninja find and decide to raise. The Overlord gets named Oliver by the ninja and it mainly follows Oliver as the ninja try to hide the truth from him, fearing that he'll revert to his evil self if he finds out who he truly is.

Weresnake Au: An au where instead of being fully cured from the fangpyre venom, Jay instead becomes a 'weresnake', turning into a feral serpentine form when he gets too cold.

Anacondrai Curse Au: Initially taking place during the Tournament of Elements, Chen experiments on Cole to try and use an alternate spell which ends up 'cursing' Cole and making him appear partially like an anacondrai, and causing him to turn into a full anacondrai at random moments.

Fangdroid Au: An au where Zane gets bit by a fangpyre during Rise of the Snakes where he runs away and ends up teaming up with the serpentine after they manipulate him.

Dragonblood Au: An au where the elemental masters are knows as Dragonbloods and can turn into giant, rampaging dragons. This has caused people to fear them and hunt them down. The ninja form a team and fight against the dragon hunters, their main enemy being Garmadon and his army of dragon hunters. There's a lot to this one that I don't really have time to explain further, so if you really want to know more you can probably find more info about it on my blog.

Pokemon Au: Pretty self explanatory, it's Ninjago characters but in the world of Pokemon. Lloyd is the champion and the other ninja are gym leaders (alone with Pixal, Skylor and Morro to make it 8).

Black Knight Au: It's the plot of Sonic and the Black Knight but with Ninjago characters. Kai takes Sonic's role and get transported to this other world where he meets people who look like his friends but aren't quite the same. He also needs to learn how to become a knight in order to defeat the evil and corrupt King Arthur.

Storm Vessel Au: Taking place during the events of The Island, when Jay gets 'sacrificed', the storm energy around the island ends up corrupting him and turning him into a chaotic and destructive entity that is basically the embodiment of the storm. It's very similar to Nya turning into the ocean as it's basically Jay turning into his element. He occasionally has moments of clarity where he turns blue and is in control of himself, but for the most part he's chaotic and doesn't listen to reason.

Mirage Memory Au: The ninja find a strange artifact that creates a new fake reality where they all have fake memories and don't remember ever being ninja and they don't remember each other. The only one without fake memories is Lloyd and he has to try and get the ninja back together so they can get their memories back and fix their reality.

Scorched Au: An Au about Kai where he never unlocks his True Potential and gets left behind by the others at the volcano. Filled with his desire to be the Green Ninja and a need to prove his worth, Kai goes down a dark path to try and show that he is the Green Ninja. Basically a villain Kai au where he becomes another Morro.

If I end up making more aus, I'll edit this list with them

[jokingmaiden]

it’s my turn on the hyperfixation rant post maker and oh am i going to use it

okay so like. ive been seeing a lot of people talking abt the collector and either how sad it is for them to have been alone for so long, OR how much of a horrifying monster they are in the disguise of a sweet little kid. both of these are partially right, but not the whole story

since the collector speaks deeply to my inner child (twauma babey), adding in my tendency to psychoanalyze everyone and my incessant need to understand my kins as well as possible, i think i’m in a uniquely suited position to put these pieces together

okay. so we don’t get very much content of the collector as of the end of season two, save for some interactions in the mirror realm, the shadow speak technique, the one brief memory with the owl beast, and the last episode. from the minimal interaction we get, we can gather a few key things about them:

-thinks everything is a game

-“collects” things by sealing them in scrolls (or did this at least once, doing so in the form of the owl beast “curse.” this hobby is probably why he’s named the collector)

-is not a witch, human, nor demon. possibly the only one of his kind, rivaled the power of a fully grown titan

-has wanted to “be friends” with King since he was born (laid? put in incubation??)

-trapped in the mirror realm by the titan, assumedly for being dangerous

-is horrifically lonely, hates being contained

-can “zoom in and out” with their eyes, move celestial bodies with the wave of a finger, turn a large, half-palismen-half-corrupted-racist-dude into sludge with a single pointer twirl, break down and rearrange the entirety of a titan’s skull with nothing more than a thought, etc.

-doesn’t react to fear, anguish, disgust, horror, etc. when seen. doesn’t seem to register these emotions at all in fact, other than surface level disappointment and an unprocessed loneliness

-similarly, doesn’t seem to understand death, harm, pain, etc

with these in mind, the collector’s full character begins to approach clarity. they’re, as some have called them, a “toddler with god powers.” this meme is significantly more accurate than i think most people realize when saying it, though.

for starters, empathy takes each child a different amount of time to develop, and does so through exposure to experiences of sharing pain (see: babies crying due to external expression of emotions from others), among other similar occurrences (learning abt how each person has their own memory, experiencing disagreements, etc.)

the collector, seeming to only have long-term emotional exposure to 1. a regal, godly titan, and then 2. a horrible, egomaniacal, manipulative, colonizing, barely-human man, would have absolutely no opportunity to be able to develop empathy towards any creatures capable of experiencing emotions stemming from survival instincts (which, it turns out, is most of all perceivable emotions).

fear means nothing to them. death isn’t a concept they can understand, past knowing a person who dies isn’t coming back (hence why it’s used as a tool to remove the manipulating “LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!!” phillip, yet not understanding why it scares the kids).

they full on obliterate belos for convenience. not malice, not violence, just a desire to remove someone who doesn’t play fair. they then have absolutely no idea why the gang looks terrified when he turns around and suggests they play the same game he was just referencing when he turned a man into soup.

without the ability to empathize, the collector would have no way to understand why those two things are connected for the main gang, because in his own mind, his desire to play a game with them is completely separate from his need to get rid of belos. why are they scared? of course the collector isn’t gonna squish his new friends!! he has no way to know how and why his presence scares the absolute shit out of these traumatized children.

extending this idea, the collector has no problem with erasing the boiling isles entirely if it means he’s finally free. most humans don’t have a problem with crushing ants for personal benefit, right? why would such fragile creatures, so much like ants to the titan he once knew, be any different?

then there’s king, a creature potentially on the same power level and understanding as the collector. one who could be their equal. one who, despite being on the same level of potential, grew up in the place of a low-level demon, and had the opportunity to learn empathy and love and fear and connection. perhaps the only one who can explain it to them while actually being regarded.

but how would someone help them understand? well, the only way to help someone so late in development connect with empathy is to provide a method of logical understanding.

how would one do this? well, it would be best to start with explaining death as loneliness.

what does the collector hate? what does he understand is an awful, terrible experience he would do anything to avoid again? being trapped in darkness and isolated for what feels like an eternity, occasionally able to access a passive, minimal form of contact like a shadow on a wall.

y’know, like death.

if king can get these dots to connect in the collector’s mind, or at least get them to listen to a mature adult long enough for someone else to do it, they could potentially be brought up to the mental maturity level of king, or maybe even the main gang!!

if everyone plays their cards right, the collector could be properly raised. they could, slowly but surely, unlearn these unhealthy mentalities, escape their constant, traumatic loneliness (even before the mirror world), and get to live life as a real kid, even if they’re still absolutely OP. maybe they could even go to hexside to learn how to be a kid!! they could connect with hunter who, in a way, shares quite a lot of conceptual problems in terms of trauma, loneliness, being manipulated by belos, separation from kids their age, etc.

they could finally have a family. maybe, in a world where people love them unconditionally, they could learn to let go of exchanging world-altering favors for childlike forms of affection. maybe, with king, they could learn not to need external worth and connection to feel loved.

it’s up to the community to help them understand this, though, especially the parental figures. after all, no child is beyond redemption.

right?

[a-lil-perspective]

70 Encouragements/Tips For The Writer:

A/N: Rules don’t exist. These are real and personal and stem from a deteriorating, exhausted Writer who is here to tell you (and herself) that you are amazing and keep going. I hope you find some encouragement within.

Your mental health comes first and foremost.

Indulge and embrace your creative writing pieces when they come (and when they don’t). Especially when they don’t.

Suffering from Writer’s Block or fluctuating hyperfixation? Me too. So is your favorite author. Welcome to the Writer’s Block Party (all my uwus if you see the pun).

Did you spend five hours on this one segment, forget the last time you ate, develop chapped lips, dry eyes, and a stiff back (time to get up and move), bang your head on the wall, laugh, cry, fidget, take your ADHD meds, deviate to watch YouTube, have an epiphany, curse in frustration and wonder why the hell you do this to yourself? Congratulations, you’re a Writer.

Embrace all the not-so-glamorous sides of writing, and accept the fact they’re going to happen time over again.

When you say “just one more line” and it’s 2:00 AM, I’ll be here to remind you to “go to sleep” (because I’m also depriving myself lol).

Actually, sleeping helps your mind feel refreshed, and it’s good for your health. If you’re struggling with a particular segment, one of the best things you can do is just put a cap on it for the time being, put in a placeholder, and get some shut eye. I know you don’t want to. But you will feel so much better and have more clarity and energy to continue when you wake. Trust me.

More often than not, those words you “just didn’t write down fast enough and now forgot” end up revealing themselves to you later in a much more profound way. Give the words time to get ready. They’re just spiffing up before coming to visit. :)

Be proud of yourself and your prose. Writing is an amazing part of who you are.

That trope has been written 1000 times before? Make it 1001.

You’ve already written this scenario? Write it again.

You’ve just written a single sentence. Now sit back for moment and think: you just wrote something brand new, never before seen. Nobody out there will ever write that sentence or formulate those thoughts the exact same way. You are a unique, mind-blowing, awe-inspiring human being.

Bask in the excitement that comes with a completed piece. Reflect on what you learned throughout and celebrate the little victories.

Don’t be afraid to ask for feedback, but also understand that you might not always get it, and that is OK.

Please re-read your work. Be gentle with yourself. You had to write that very first piece to get to where you are now. Love the process.

Your personal writing success is not based off of kudos or likes or reblogs.

There is no right or wrong way to write.

There is no such thing as “good” writing.

Improvement is becoming of everyone so get comfy, strap in. The journey of a Writer is a lifelong one. Here’s to many more works ahead.

Don’t mourn the words you did or didn’t write. Celebrate the ones you will.

One day, you’ll read a piece that will blow you away—and it will be yours.

There is nothing “shameful” about reblogging your own writing works.

I promise you’ll find your “wow” piece—either in something you’ve already written, or something yet to come.

Baby. Please don’t write out of spite. You’re better than that.

You are just as valid/deserving as the next Writer. And you do belong.

If you feel sad/unworthy when sharing your works or interacting with others’, get to the root of why. Writing should be fun, rewarding, and relaxing. Not shameful, embarrassing, or a chore.

Writing (fanfiction, specifically) is labeled as “transformative works”. Self-explanatory, right? However, if you notice the transformative part begin to have a personal effect on you—a negative one—it’s time to take a step back.

Right now, I can name a single quality you possess: diligence. How do I know? Because you’re a Writer, and the two go hand-in-hand.

Got that single scene in your head but you haven’t completed or even began all the chapters preceding? Bruh. Jot that down right now. You don’t need 20k words beforehand.

Embrace your writing mood swings. The stray, sweet and condensed blurbie. The ideal, bridging drabble. The solid, substantial oneshot. The hefty, elaborate 10k word chapter. Appreciate everything in-between, and that you are capable of all of it.

Nobody remembers that extra word or typo or stray speech mark back all the way back in chapter 3. Tell the little monster in your head to go to hell.

You’re not a weirdo for making facial expressions and mulling through your dialogue aloud. You. Are. A. Writer.

It’s OK if the Readers can’t always see exactly what you envisioned in your head, or the full extent of the picture you painted. We all see colors differently.

Don’t be afraid to experiment with your writing.

In fact, challenge yourself to dabble into a new plot/trope/concept every day, even if only for a few minutes. You may discover you love writing it.

There’s no rush to finish/begin any written work. If you take your time, you will make your mark. You’re not falling behind or running late. Slow down and wait for it. :)

Three cheers for hiatus.

Listen to your body and mind, know your limits and when it’s time to take a break.

Actually take a break. :)

If you feel like you’re falling stagnant in creativity, looking to/revisiting other forms of creative media can help encourage the flow.

Ask for encouragement, and be at peace with asking.

Take shelter in fellow writers. Uplift each other always.

You are/will be someone’s favorite author. :)

You don’t have anything to prove. You have something to share.

Someone is thinking about your work right now.

Someone started a series because they drew inspiration from you.

Personal writing style can reflect a lot on the state of one’s mental health. Try to always be attentive to that of your own.

Self-validation must be cultivated early on or nothing will ever work.

Freestyle every once in a while. Write a snippet, timed, and go—without editing. Write the first thing that comes to mind and go from there. Do it all the way through the set time. When it stops, you’ll find yourself unable to. 3,800 words here we come. :)

Not everything needs an outline. :)

It is completely normal to write your story out of order.

Create guidelines for yourself. If they aren’t working, toss ‘em.

Word vomiting can help you feel better (it’s just how it sounds). By clearing all those jumbled thoughts and scattered concepts, you achieve a clearer objective. Try it sometime.

A rough draft is supposed to be rough.

Sometimes the words come to you quicker than others. Be patient. That is merely the construct of a Writer’s mind. You’re a beautiful enigma.

A sentence written is a story progressing.

Writing is an endurance sport. You must pace yourself and exercise it daily.

You are still a Writer even when the words aren’t on the actual page.

You’re not obligated to a writing/posting schedule.

As you progress in your journey and gain more awareness, don’t sacrifice your style. Those beginning works are what define you. Hold onto them and don’t ever let them go.

You’re the only one cringing—

Remember that sometimes words are elusive and you don’t always have control over them, and that is OK. Sometimes they write themselves. Sometimes your characters come to life and break out into dance across your page. Dance with them. You can wrangle them back when the music stops. :)

There is nothing condemning or embarrassing about asking for a beta. Allow someone to help carry the load.

Allow people to cheer you on—even if they don’t read your work.

It’s OK if your writing style isn’t someone else’s preference.

Be your biggest cheerleader. Sometimes you are all you have.

You don’t need anyone’s approval except your own.

You love that trope/concept/story you just wrote? That’s all that matters. The end.

You will never write good. You will write you. And that is good.

Above all else: remember to write for you.🤍

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 15

Hannibal gives y/n an idea and y/n negotiates.

@viviace @deadman-inc-bikeshop @dovahdokren

Trigger warnings: graphic descriptions of violence

Aftercare was Hannibal's favorite part of the evening. He loved to spend long, indulgent hours pampering his darlings. But usually, there was only one. And that was Will. And Hannibal's clawfoot bathtub, although beautiful, was not big enough for both of you at the same time. Meaning, you had to take turns.

You and Will argued back and forth about who was in more desperate need of aftercare; each advocating for the other, of course. That was Hannibal's fault, really. He should have known better than to ask you to make a decision.

Hannibal emerged from the bathroom, sleeves rolled up and arms soaked to the elbow. "Who is first?"

Before you could speak, Will shoved you forward. "She is."

Hannibal knew better than to let the argument go on, and so did you. You followed him into the bathroom, the smell of lavender bath salts filling the air.

He removed your fluffy robe and watched you step into the warm bath. The water was just hot enough to soothe the aches in your muscles. Hannibal took his seat at the end of the tub where you rested your head. You leaned back and submerged your whole body. 

“You have such soft hair.” Hannibal said, pouring a bit of expensive-smelling shampoo in his palm. 

“Thanks, I use fabric softener and tumble dry it on low heat.” You answered. 

“You have a hard time accepting compliments, don’t you?” He probed, beginning to lather the shampoo into your hair. “Between that and the self-deprecation, I’d say you suffer from low self-esteem.” 

You felt yourself melting into him. The hypnotic motions of his hands chipped away at your defenses. “Is that really that surprising?” 

“For such an intelligent, sophisticated young beauty?” Hannibal chuckled. “I am surprised you don’t understand your worth.” 

“If it makes you feel any better,” You offered. “The fact that a psychotic cokehead fundamentalist Christian cult leader wants me dead tells me I’m doing something right.” 

“You are a force of nature, my indulgence.” Hannibal assured you, still massaging your head. “But you don’t need me to tell you that. You already know your power.” 

That got you thinking. Would it be so bad to just find a hunting rifle and blow Chase Mulvaney’s head off? What was stopping you? It certainly wasn’t your conscious. All your remaining moral fiber had been ripped to shreds over the course of the last month. 

“Tell me something about yourself, Hannibal.” You said, leaning back.

“What would you like to know?” He asked, retracting his hands. He cupped his hands in the water and poured some over your hair. 

“Do you ever think about morality?” You said, bluntly. 

The question pleasantly surprised him. “Quite a bit, actually. I like to think of myself as a student of philosophy, which deals heavily with the subject of ethics, human behavior, and yes, morality.” 

“Do you believe morality is subjective?” you tilted your head. 

“There’s not a doubt in my mind about it.” Hannibal smiled. “Those who think otherwise usually exemplify some of the best arguments for subjective morality.” 

“Religious nuts like Chase Mulvaney.” You said. “He and millions of others believe in objective morality, but can’t even keep it consistent among themselves.” 

“Darling,” Hannibal whispered. “You don’t have to wait for aftercare to talk philosophy with me. I would be happy to do so anytime.” 

You spent a half hour in the bath, Hannibal stroking, kissing and cuddling you. As much as you wanted to enjoy the affection, your mind was elsewhere. Perhaps it was just a hyperfixation, or post-multiple-orgasm clarity, but the only thought in your head was that Chase Mulvaney had to die. 

Your train of thought was chugging along smoothly until it was derailed by the violent buzzing of your phone against the tile floor. You leaned over the side of the tub, trying to make out the contact name from across the room. 

Hannibal dried his hands on a nearby towel and picked the phone up from the ground. 

“Who is it?” You asked. 

“This number is logged into your phone as just a picture of a...red demon?” Hannibal answered. 

“Oh, yeah.” You dropped your head. “I’ll call her back, just let it ring out.” 

“Who’s the demon?” Hannibal chuckled. 

You stepped out of the bathtub and reached for a towel. “Just somebody I know from work. Probably calling about covering a shift or something.” 

“Would that be the same person who believed I was the devil?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow, watching you wrap the towel around yourself.

You were about to say yes, but caught yourself. “No. Just some lady I work with who always refused to share her tips with the buses. Super entitled, total pain in the ass. I’ve been looking for an excuse to tell her off.” 

“Well, we can’t keep you from that, now can we.” Hannibal cupped your cheek in his hand and looked at your face admiringly. “There should be a clean nightgown for you on the bed. Please tell Will I’ll be ready for him in a couple minutes.” 

“Wow, you really did think of everything.” You rocked back on your heels and swung to your tip toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll let him know.” 

He kissed you back. “Thank you, my indulgence.” 

“Just one more thing.” You stopped in the threshold. “Could I please use your computer?” 

“I don’t see why not.” Hannibal looked up from the quickly draining tub. “By all means, what’s mine is yours.” 

You smiled and blew him a kiss before absconding into the bedroom. 

The nightgown he’d laid out for you had far more ruffles and lace than you’d consider appropriate for sleepwear, but it was comfortable and fit you well. 

You passed the message along to Will, but hurriedly. You were in a rush to be alone. You had some business to attend to.

You sat at Hannibal's desk, turned on his lamp and logged into your google drive on his computer. While you waited for the content to fully load, you scrolled through your contacts. When you found the demon, you pressed the green dial button.

It didn't take her long to pick up. "[F/N]! Finally, I've been trying to call you all night."

"Yeah, I know." You rolled your eyes. "Some of us have lives to live. Not that you'd know anything about that."

"No need to be snippy." She scolded. "I have an offer for you."

"If it doesn't involve a portion of ad revenue, I'm not interested." You shook your head. "I'm not settling for a flat fee while you make the real money off my experience. My goddamn trauma."

"Sounds like we woke up and chose bitchy today." She teased. "You're not even going to hear me out?"

"Freddie," you began, pulling up a document on the computer. "I happen to have a four-page, comprehensive statement of what happened that night right here. Half of it was cut out for the FBI report."

You could practically hear Freddie drooling already. "And?"

"I won't accept anything under $1200 for it." You finished. "Or 30% of all ad revenue on this article."

"That's not fair." She protested. "Best I can do is $750."

"You made ten times that off my first article." You leaned back in the chair. "Don't try to lowball me, Lounds, I can do this all night."

"Since when were you the assertive type?" She asked, deflecting the conversation.

"Remember when you told me my fifteen minutes of fame was running out and you were my only option to get my story out there?" You recalled.

"At the time, I was right." Freddie contested.

"That was before Chase went from a cokehead to a domestic terrorist." You said. "Now I actually can take it to a more reputable outlet."

"But here you are anyway." She said. "Extorting a small, woman-owned independent news site just for the hell of it. I've got bills to pay, y'know."

"With gaslighting like that, I'm sure they're astronomical." You rolled your eyes. Sighing, you propped your knees against the desk. "Look, I don't hate you, Freddie."

"I don't hate you either." She agreed. "I thought trashing each other was just our mutual love language."

"The only reason I'm considering TattleCrime at all is you." You admitted. "You're loud and unapologetic and it makes people listen to you. I need someone who can take the heat."

"Because you know that mainstream news outlets are going to cut your writing down to maintain the status quo." Freddie finished your thought.

You pursed your lips. "Exactly. You're the only one who's got the cajones to run the whole story."

"I'm flattered." She said, then paused. "If I move some things around, I can probably get you $1000."

You opened a new tab and typed some words into the search bar. You scrolled through the results, leaving Freddie without an answer.

"Hello?" She said. "[F/N]? Did I lose you?"

"How soon can you pay?" You asked.

Your phone buzzed. You had a notification from paypal. A thousand dollars from Fredrica Lounds.

"Right fucking now." She answered.

"You've got yourself a deal." You said, firmly. You typed out Freddie's email address and pushed send. "It's all yours."

[innocet]

Most problems relating to terminology-based discourse could be solved by simply using more specific language

Like. Yeah, you shouldn’t say “neurodivergent” when you mean “the overlap of traits between adhd and autism.” So ask yourself: what exactly are you talking about here? What symptoms are you referring to that are relevant? Are you making a post about executive dysfunction? Hyperfixations/Special interests? Sensory processing difficulties? All of those are specific issues you can talk about that not only avoid making generalizations about groups that have nothing to do with what you’re talking about, but also give clarity of purpose to Your Point. This applies to gender identities too; are you really making a post about “girlhood” or are you making a post about your specific childhood as a girl? Are you making a post about transmasc people or are you making a post about people who bind? It really is That Simple. Sometimes your point doesn’t need to be about a broad identity; in fact, most of the time it really isn’t and is rather about a specific experience rather than an identity.

[ashenburst]

Far Goes The Farrago, Chapter 1 - A Sound Little Betrayal

First chapter of my WIP because I have nothing else to post. *auctioneer voice* AND HERE WE HAVE A STEAMING HOT STORY ABOUT DEMONS, MURDER, EXISTENTIALISM AND FRIENDSHIP, COMING FROM A SEASONED FANFICTION WRITER! 

Consider this a psychological Fantasy, eh? The blurb should be:

It is a tale of the unknown hero or the greatest villain: he who has forgiven the devil. But long before seeing his epilogue come true, Ulrich started off as an entirely different person: a fake hero, some unfulfilled hope, tightly promised failure. His inner demons were yet to be brutalized by the outer ones. Briefly put, this is a story set in a foreign world, delving deep into supernatural activities, all of which are slowly dying and being prohibited by humans. Ulrich is an arbiter, one of those who are trained to bring out that prohibition. As many good men, he is distraught by unjust fate. To battle it and prove his good, he must resort to nefarious ways and gather a wicked company to his aid. No training could've possibly prepared him for the inhumane adventure that awaits, orchestrated by none other than the Devil himself.

Very excited to offer this chapter to you :3 more is published on Wattpad, and the best version + some additional content is on my Patreon!

We always seek greatness in others, never in ourselves. A fact so true and firm, known to Ulrich, and yet, he fled from himself.

Where to? It didn’t really matter. The goal was reverse – not to run to, but to run away.

Heaviest sentiments sought a compensation. If the mind were so busy processing them, then surely, other stimuli needed to be deafened. It was the subconscious who stilled Ulrich so; he’d been pacing, insolently small and scared in the vast crowd, and in some vacant moment of clarity, he found it, his very own hyperfixation. A critter perched on top of a stool, quaint and big. How come he hadn’t noticed it? Was it because it looked like décor – or was it because of his own disregard for… everything? He should’ve laughed.

Nevertheless, he neared. It didn’t move much, just a stare here and there, swing of the head from one side to the other. Nobody else but Ulrich seemed to pay it any attention, which provided him with some privacy, or even better, intimacy. The best kind of it at that: the one where the other party wasn’t even existent.

When meeting a future acquaintance, Ulrich knew how to behave. Do the dreaded handshake, and fortify it with a sure stare in the eye. He had no trouble doing those, despite his somewhat reserved nature. Strangely, the problem was still in him, or on him, to be exact.

Years ago, he had read, then distinctly remembered, some author’s words, lamenting about fair eyes of “unruly ice, turquoise waters hungering and withering in the cold” – and upon the reminder of his own sharp gaze, never fair, forever protruding, every reflection would be scowled at; for in there, grew a pair of icicles jabbing at the souls of the seen. He wished for a softer look, overflowing with docile colors, but alas, he could not break the ice. Perhaps others would imagine what hid beneath, as they were, easily, far less tender than Ulrich in their living.

But here? This was a perplexing community. Ignorant and invasive all the same. The overlapping presences were enough of a distress on their own.

On the other hand, the bird… the parrot? It lacked reason, therefore, of course it wouldn’t be affected. It wasn’t affected by almost anything at all, since, well, despite the commotion, it barely moved.

He stepped closer, and it didn’t react. He took yet another step, and it barely moved in its humble residence. Just a tiny, tiny, parrot step. It was nothing compared to Ulrich’s – and it placed him so near the parrot that he might as well be intruding its simplistic home.

Out of all the places on this bird to aim his interest at, he picked an unconventional one to be shot. Ulrich had the opportunity to indulge in its eyes, without noticing his own. Inside awaited a wondrous resort, ripe for his imagination to sow, his scythe that of ardent focus.

The salon and its decadence were flooded with black. Saturated crowds drowned in mute darkness. Dry luxury too suddenly dipped into those murky ponds, pleasantly distant – finally modest. With Ulrich’s anxiety at its staggering peak, the predicament was clear. It was high time the world sank.

It was a damp place, inert and peaceful. Just like all that was good, the universe could never sustain it.

In an instant, death. Ponds fluttered, wise eyes turned primitive, and Ulrich was woken up from the stare, by a stare. Beady eyes mirrored it all, for Ulrich to see: a harmless shadow of reality, where nothing could impact, nothing mattered. He was yearning to slip inside, stay inside, cocooned in reflections. It was much easier than confronting the world – and equally as impossible.

It should’ve been simple. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he’d escape. Black would overwhelm, and in it, he would find everything and anything. It was both the martyr and the cornerstone of consciousness! The provenance of dreams, the dear night’s shroud! And, and in Ulrich’s exceptional case, it was a savior, just a day old. It was black who gave him life!

Yet, this black… it was different. It noticed, it moved, but, but it stared and shivered, and – enlarged. Feathers puffed, head bobbed. Ulrich’s fascination then renamed itself: unease.

The grandiose parrot was no longer as restful. As it shook its great head, feathers in a scarce crest swayed like artificial rods, limp and long, quite – unnatural.

To make it even more terrifying, it was of morphology immense, dark like drowse, cheeks skinned red. There was a budding tongue in that twisted beak, pointed exactly at him as it opened the mouth wide –

Then screeched with a ripping pitch and opened its massive, unexpectedly massive wings.

It startled him. His heart got chased into his throat. He screeched back, and fell back, landing on something rather soft and still. As someone who had horrid experience with bumping into people, Ulrich immediately recognized his fault. He hopped away to face the victim of his fall.

And the victim, well… despite his face being largely covered with a beard, his sentiments were clear. Dour in both bearing and expression, the man had been preparing for a relentless lecture. Ulrich was in the midst of mental preparations too, ready to apologize in a plethora of sorries, but… by the looks of it, he didn’t have to. Although he barely looked at this mountain of a man, he saw, clearly, a drastic shift in expression, from utmost gloom to total glee.

And this person, this once outraged fellow, now hollered at Ulrich as if he were dearest family,

“The heart of the celebration himself! The savior of the Hartschnapps! Ernst Sondermann!”

Ulrich’s fake name resonated throughout the crowd, spoken with such vigor, such elation, it might as well come off as laughter to some faraway folk. Wonderful, how everyone took it for granted – a mere name, more of a nickname.

And it was the right one! It was not false, it was fake – and the very black that saved Ulrich also scarred his cursed pseudonym, rendered it a seething wound, something his frail soul could barely tolerate.

Now he was reminded of his misplaced fame and glory, the precursor of this entire gathering, the consequence of black. Despite the man’s happiness in tone, Ulrich perceived it as the worst scolding, and felt accordingly.

But he couldn’t show it to anyone, ruin this entire ordeal by heroically abandoning his heroism. He had to play along, and his act was poorly executed. In contrast, his shrill laugh could easily pass as a pitched sob.

What did not help was the fact he was stared at by manifold.

He said his sorry, blurted out some diminutions, and continued down the trail, somewhere off – and he knew, he delved deep into words of nonsense, and at some point, he halted, finally meeting the heavy gaze of the man. He was waiting, so, in other words, Ulrich…

Ulrich was not interrupted. He was waited for, and he was esteemed. Something otherwise appreciated, and on this instance, incredibly awkward.

“Lastly, I believe we can infer that this was a poorly woven accident,” he tried to conclude, clasping his hands together. A blink at them, then a blink back at the man – he was too uncomfortable to keep the polite stare one would expect in a conversation.

And what he got was another speech of joy and honor.

“Poorly woven yet perfect for the occasion!” This man tapped forcefully with his engraved cane, emphasizing his oncoming words. “I wouldn’t have dared to approach you by myself, mister Sondermann! Never! But fate has brought us together, and I am honored to be bestowed even with the opportunity to meet you. Indeed.”

He finished with a brisk nod and some twitch in his beard. It must’ve been a smirk, short-lived one. Ulrich had stacked some fancy words for a similar response, but was now, surprisingly, overwhelmed. The man insisted on approaching him, taking over the conversation.

All Ulrich got was a handshake and many, many words of assurance, none of them important. Some long name, he heard – why did the people of Aurun assign such dreadfully complex names? Even if Ulrich managed to remember those (a feat of its own), greater length meant more room for mistakes.

This man, he said he was… Titus Augustine Donao? Ulrich just smiled to it. It was revolting, the amount of times confusion was the cause of his smile. That was all he could do, for mister Donao took over. Suddenly, the world revolved around him, his pleasure and his reputation and his lovely newspapers. Ulrich could barely keep track of it, especially with the constant smacking of the cane against the floor, but he somehow survived. Shaking, perhaps, but he made it.

As soon as he realized the chatter was reaching its end, he felt his mood lighten, and as soon as its end came, he dashed away from the stressors, the damned rich folk, and their blatant hapless extravagance.

Looking for a proper place to hide, Ulrich retreated himself away from the lower section of the hall, almost running up the few stairs, down the pristine marble floor, to reach the bar – the spot where he would not only sit to rest, but also be left alone. No parrots to scare him, no people to condemn him with their praise.

The salon was enormous, fitting for the occasion. It took him a dangerous lot of footsteps to reach his goal. Ulrich already met the major and similarly influential people in this huge complex – he had expected them to show up. What he did not expect was a celebration of this scale, solely in his honor. There was a grand hall, in whose corner he found the parrot, and away from it, there was a bar and a secluded dining area, where, as he spotted, some fine gentlemen played cards in peace. He had no intention of joining them.

But the bar, the bar was lovely. Dim lights provided a seclusion of sorts, and as far as the line of the bar stretched, almost none sat there. Ulrich occupied the most distant stool, ordered tea. Peppermint, of course, he told the barista.

He was unnaturally overjoyed by the fact that he was alone. Nobody wanted to bother a poor duckling like him, despite being in his uniform – it couldn’t compare to the excess in aesthetic every single person showed. He didn’t stand out, and although he was embarrassed of it at first, it proved to be his salvation. He blended in with his inferiority.

He wasn’t even sure how much he wanted to be noticed by them. The wild crowd, everyone pretending to be his friend for a minute, then storming off elsewhere for a similar verbal parade. They were all the same. fake, just like him with his fame and merit.

Ulrich dropped onto the bar’s smooth, cold, so pleasantly cold surface. Brown marble. Could’ve been polished wood, but in Aurun’s fashion, it had to be marble. Cold, hard and soulless. Perfect footing for his heavy soul.

That… that mister, the last one he had met, Titus Donao, who he had fallen on… he was the last drop in Ulrich’s sullen ocean. A shameless narcissist, just like the rest of them, startling him in a startle, and then… simply, fulfilling the duty of being good.

Ulrich did not blame him. He did not blame the parrot, or anyone else. He blamed himself for allowing the fanfare to flare this long. It would be perfect, if he could just… extinguish it in peace. Make everyone forget and go home.

He could’ve done it, but he didn’t, cowardly. And he believed he deserved some escapisms, then? Despite him hiding the great truth? He deserved to dream of a better self?

No, not in the least. But that would happen! Inevitably, his career would advance, due to his “success”. He was becoming famous. He had no idea what it brought to his life, and knew it took away one thing: peace.

His tea arrived and he sipped on it. Such a lullaby for the senses.

Sadly, they picked on something… revolting. An odd gent sat by his side. Ulrich wouldn’t like to call it pessimism, but he knew this man would talk to him. Thus, he peeked, more of a precaution than curiosity, and noticed, firstly, a long face, acute and sleek in every manner. Then the clothing, plenty of browns complimenting each other to form a rather tame suit.

What attracted Ulrich’s attention the most was elsewhere. A silly hat of brown leather was slouched on this person’s head, and as if stuffed with fresh wheat, many pale strands escaped it, all unkempt, wild and independent. Even his ear was hidden underneath that mess.

Then came the side peer of yellow, a glisten like few Ulrich had encountered in his brief life. It was entrancing, but it could not last, simply because: two peers met. The discussion had to be struck.

It wasn’t something one would expect – a riveting conversation all at once, skipping the formalities and small talk, and resorting to something bigger, truthfully engaging. Somehow, fates clashed, and what Ulrich got was exactly the unexpected.

Spoken by the stranger was a mystery anyone would long for. An oddity, some romantic subtext in poetry, where the meaning had to be dug out and felt by each heart. Not in many instances in life could the heart be brought to such use, but this… this one, it necessitated wonder.

All strangers had one talent in common, that being: bizarreness. Not one person would be more qualified for a miracle than a stranger. The tool of this one was a gentle voice, and it inquired,

“It’s nice, isn’t it, this place? Doesn’t feel real.”

Neither did his statement. Ulrich took the liberty to stare. He knew he mustered one of those sorrowful faces, but he did not, by all means, feel sad – he was simply invested. Although few in number, they were the heaviest words to land on his eardrums.

“Much like a dream,” he replied with a slow nod.

A small curve appeared on the stranger’s lips – amusement, and in the very next moment a bow of the head to hide it. “If this is your dream, then your nightmares must be competing with Hell,” was how he estimated Ulrich, and he was right.

Ulrich’s brows went upwards. He was shocked, pleasantly, to find out someone could relate – not only relate, but… approach him in such a peculiar manner. Now abysmally curious, he asked, just to get him to talk, “And you would know?”

The blond did not answer for a bit. “Nobody would.” How distasteful, coming from such a captivating apparition. Ulrich was not disappointed. This event alone was, he knew, insignificant, and yet, something his memory would cradle for years.

He decided a smooth way out, a compromise, “To each his own Hell, then.” Ulrich lifted his glass both as reconciliation and a late greeting.

This man had no glass to greet back, but he managed. He acted as if he had one of air, greeted back with it and, how generously, showed a semblance of a smile. Ulrich let out the most honest laugh this eve had heard.

The stranger offered him a hand, and he accepted, albeit hesitantly. After performing the handshake above his drink, Ulrich had introduced himself – a stupid custom, as the stranger pointed out afterwards.

“Everyone knows you.” He retracted his hand from Ulrich’s formally gloved one. “But you won’t know anyone. You’ll forget us all, all of our jolly faces and names. But that’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Ulrich couldn’t disagree, but the vanity, the wisdom, the straightforward mannerism of this man! It rendered him speechless, but he knew, he wanted to talk, he needed to say something so more could be told, but…

He was left without a clue. Previous agitation did not help in the least, so, not knowing what else to do, he resorted to honesty.

“You are terribly correct, sir. I am both glad and ashamed the truth resonates within you too.”

“It resonates within everyone! But they ignore it, it’s too much for their crammed hearts,” he replied with newfound vigor. He then turned on his stool, arm spread towards the people and their vain heads, to reintroduce Ulrich to the setting.

“And it’s their souls you want to protect?”

It was no disapproval. Ulrich was surprised to find pity on his pallid face.

“It’s an arbiter’s duty,” he mumbled, “and my humble wish.” Taking a sip from his tea, he listened to the blond’s retaliation.

“So, you love them? The people?”

Ulrich set the cup down. “I don’t have to love them. I just believe that… every man deserves good –”

But he was immediately cut off with, “Don’t you hear the venom in that hall? Is that where you wanted to pour your heart out? Who you wanted to shiver with and be loved by?”

What could Ulrich say? “So long good is not betrayed, I will stand by it, and I will offer it to all. It can’t do any harm.” He looked away. “And I won’t suffer either. I understand the bad sides of man. I stray from them, should they prove… dangerous. And those people, who you claim to be… venomous?” Then he too pointed at the crowd. “Perhaps all they need is an antidote.”

The blond had a shift in expression, from aggressive focus to blandness. “Then you’re better than I thought. A shame.”

He tapped his own hat and left Ulrich. No goodbye, no wave, no glance, no nothing. The stranger remained that: a stranger. Ulrich was left with a somewhat bitter tinge on his tongue.

The person left to the area where cards were played; so be it. Ulrich looked down to his tea. The aroma tempted him to calmness.

He rubbed his hands. The tea, the slight tiredness, they all seemed like a proper invite to sleep. He certainly felt so, but on the other hand… his thoughts couldn’t settle. This interaction in particular stunned him, and with every gentle sip, he would realize that, indeed, it stunned him, yet he couldn’t make out much of it.

Mere minutes passed, and an alarming scream shook his frame. Shouts of confusion followed, stomps of footsteps and chairs scraping, and forcefully, Ulrich had his attention averted towards the ruckus

He caught glimpse of cards flying around, people gathering. In the midst of it all, a man writhing on the floor. Shadowed was his spotlight by the concerned crowd, and he stole the show with an act so blatantly desperate: shrieks and tosses and turns, as if it were a matter of life or death.

The thick fence of people allowed Ulrich not to thoroughly examine the star. It was only after the imbalance that the cause of it all was revealed. The people supported him, as he slowly rose, only to reveal –

The blond stranger, his face disfigured in pain, certainly a sight unpleasant. Huffs and violent hacks fell all around him, while his curled-up form barely held its ground. His hands, he was clutching his own hands, holding them on his chest – but why? What had happened?

Pulled by natural magnetism, Ulrich abandoned his seat, hesitant to delve into this trouble… and yet, firmly affirmed that he couldn’t leave it at that. It was too strange, too unsettling, even for his senses – let alone his mind. The stranger hadn’t yet betrayed his good will, after all.

Before he managed to, however, a demand struck him in his tracks.

“A word, if you’re available, sir.”

Ulrich whipped his head around to be met with a tall woman. Hers was a magnificent mane of hair, curly and potent, much like a dark halo. It framed a stern brown face, unforgiving and cold in her grey eyes.

He had to stop and stare. Just a moment, and he got back to his senses. There was a more severe situation going on.

“This man, have you seen –”

She spoke, her voice that of trained authority, “I have. There’s nothing you can do, unless you possess supernatural means to aid.”

Ulrich was a little startled. This lady, firm in her composure and speech, she wasn’t… quite the sort he was used to. She didn’t act around and sweeten her words – no, they remained monotone and overbearing. Swallowing, he tried to shoo his heart away from his throat.

“Then… absolutely,” Ulrich murmured and offered his hand once he had his posture straightened. She squeezed it straight away, and – what the hell?! Her grip was too firm and short-lasting, and way too painful for Ulrich’s liking. He could feel his bones rub against each other!

He stared down to his hand, taken aback by pulsating pain that remained. But the woman didn’t seem to notice.

“My name is Maria Merkator,” she introduced herself, “I am Aurun’s Minister of Police Affairs. It is an honor to meet you.”

His heart leaped. He hid the borderline injured hand behind his back, folding his both hands there. After a cough, he formed the proper voice to answer. “The honor is mine,” he replied mechanically, “I suppose I needn’t introduce myself.”

“Indeed. Your actions are an introduction of their own. It is exactly because of them that I am here. If you would allow me?”

What actions? Did she know?

“Go ahead,” he whispered through his tight throat.

She gave him a curt nod. Her face remained devoid of any emotion. “I am in desperate need of men like you. Men who can deal with demons.”

The truth was avoided! Relief washed over him, but it was not absolute. Troubles were ongoing. So, demons, and him to battle them? The worst idea ever to befall the Minister, surely! He simply wasn’t fit. He would die if he were ever to even see one.

He laughed his stress out, then coughed to buy some time. In the edge of his vision, the Minister’s blank expression was seen, and on it, lips pressed in a strict line.

And after all, out of all the talented and notable arbiters in this world, why would… why would she pick –

Exactly. He garnered some much-needed poise. “I thought arbiters come to aid when summoned? I’m certain you can acquire even better people than me.” Then he peeked back at the Minister, saw her eyes tarnished and mute. To play it off coolly, he sipped his tea a little.

“They do, but largely defective. I won’t inquire why or how, but the fact stands, and our experience here confirms it,” he heard her speak.

As if Ulrich was supposed to justify them! Nevertheless, he assumed the answers. It wasn’t a matter of humbleness, more… his own lack of talent, for he knew he was one of the defective bunch, and the rest of them, they were the same, and probably even worse.

But he faked his surprise. “Defective in what sense?”

“Unqualified. Incapable of matching a street ruffian. You, on the other hand, slayed a demon.”

A violent tinge in his heart.

“It was luck,” he blurted out, dodging the lie.

“Pardon?”

He looked once at her, and saw her brow raised upwards, so cruelly. “I had more luck than brains,” he attempted.

“Don’t give your merit to fate and its pseudonyms. It was you who did it,” she disapproved.

“Not me, no.”

“Then who?”

Ulrich clenched his jaw. He was digging his way to the grave possibility; would he want to bury himself like that? He hid his mouth behind the cup of tea, as if, hesitating to drink.

“All those who had taught me?” His inner doubt made his outer statement come through as more of a question.

“You’re too humble,” she sneered.

He clenched his jaw once again, teeth scraping against each other so hard, he forced himself a cringe. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I strive to be.”

“And you’re too mild-hearted for someone who has slayed a demon, mister Sondermann. It’s so nonsensical, one might say, even poetic.”

He shivered, grossly accused. The ending, the false name, it struck him as an even worse allegation! And it was the worst allegation, for it was true!

Ulrich stared at her. Indeed, she was correct. It was poetic, an egregious exaggeration, much like plenty of modern poems. And if, if the rest of the world was drowning in hyperboles, then… maybe, just maybe –

“But that’s how things are, ma’am. I apologize if this is not the man you want to see defend your city.”

He should become part of it, and vanish, a humble word among the ludicrous metaphors. Perfect destiny for him, for he failed to adapt. He had to accept; it was just.

“Maybe it is.” She paused. “Rest assured, if you have no other business, you are invited to stay and battle Aurun’s blasphemies. You’ll have your accommodation and support of the police, should the need arise.”

“I… of course, I accept.” And he smiled with all honesty.

“Excellent. Tomorrow after lunch, come to the main police station. Another capable arbiter shall be waiting for you.”

Another one?! Perfect to contrast his idiocy! To witness his foolishness! That was exactly what he deserved! He was horribly elated!

“I am looking forward to our cooperation,” he told and stretched his smile. It hurt so much.

Did she know, could she even assume what harrowed the abysses of his vibrating chest? Sprouting from inner oblivion, came a bitter thought, correspondingly as dark: he was willing to play the role of a hero, just so these people could have one. How utterly ridiculous.

She nodded, as if to confirm his sufferings. “As am I. Farewell, and good health.”

“Likewise –”

But she did not wait. She too, just like every single person in this colossal mishap, did not care. It made him desperate. The justice of the city, too, lacked a heart, it seemed. She did not understand her wallops, she did not know, just like anyone else, how much it devastated Ulrich. Except now, for the first time, he had grown awfully anxious. His heartbeat, a race.

Sadly, the tea, it couldn’t help. What was left of it, he downed quickly – at least, as fast as its heat allowed him.

He asked the barista if there was a balcony of sorts. There was one, and it was located left from the bar, down the hallway. He knew his next goal.

Tethers bound him to the chair, weight unknown and unpleasant. He struggled to rise back to his glass feet, but rushed, hurried vastly to eliminate his presence! Only one person was enough to bring him to the brink of dread, let alone the whole crowd.

He moved, at last. Hallways were narrow. Walls, spiraled all around him, threatening to collapse. It was, perhaps, between them, that he realized something was wrong with his head, that vertigo was settling in. Must’ve been the stress; he’d always been the sensitive soul, to a fault.

He took hold of his head, holding it for a few moments, as if to clasp his consciousness. Squinting his eyes, he wondered – just how far could he make it in this state? Would fate present him with another way out?

Gazing down the hallway, he wondered, if perhaps, his future was just as linear and suffocating.

Before he could continue, then, all of a sudden, a creak. He turned around to see if he was caught red-handed in his cowardice. Yet, no one was seen. His mind truly was a mess, he concluded with a huff.

More steps onwards, and he reached the semi-glass door to the balcony. Tugging it open, he was greeted by moist air and secluded darkness.

He dashed to nature’s heavenly pianissimo, away from the salon and its counterfeit music. He had been running all evening, escaping, hiding, reversely dynamic. Finally, he was awarded for his efforts, for outside, nobody awaited. Wet patterns on the marble floor informed him before stepping that the skies had been weeping thoroughly. Still were, in fact. His nostrils, no, his entire being was refreshed by their sorrow. It was so much lighter than his own.

He trod forward, accepting the breezes with arms spread wide, and attempted to reach the edge of the rain. The downpour carried solace unto him, and he yearned for more, came closer for more. Even when the raindrops landed on him, when the pitter-patter tapped gently against his uniform, he did not stop.

It had to be a physical boundary which would stop him. Clutching, clawing at the fence, he found nothing else but the cold. It gnawed back, left him numb. How sad, that the lonely numbness gave him more life than the entirety of celebration.

Before him expanded a city, and measured in avarice – it was vast. Measured in neglect, it extended even further. He could not make out its horizons; the rain and his tired eyes ensured so.

At the sight, he was reminded of the extremes it nurtured. Buildings, renovated and over a century neglected, stood hand-in-hand, comrades despite the extremes. In poverty and fertility, they did not share. Their habitants weren’t any different. Contrasts so large, Ulrich’s perception was daunted. His idea of the city – long ruined. This evening, it served as yet another absurd plague, another mystery for his incapable attention.

He remembered incisions on the walls. Cracks in his mind slid further. The poor condition invited crevices, ill thoughts, ill recaps, to destroy what was left of the mistreated construct. He needed introspection.

Closing his eyes, he could finally tend to his mind. What he found out? He was so confused. At least that was certain of one thing, and one thing only.

It was the entanglement in his own thoughts, like the endless worms that structured his brain. The start was incomprehensible, the finish fictional, and everything between those two points, only curves and turns and whirls and twirls. A patternless weaving, akin to raw wool.

Where had his mind gone to? Why was it so detached, even from his body…?

He barely felt. Humid winds nestled in his uniform. Cold torrents escaped his fingers. He cradled the air like an old friend, who knew him better than he did, because, after all –

Ulrich did not know himself.

It was a makeshift hug, desperate consolation by the fact that there is some absolute in the universe, some truth, that the fates were definite and their Strings stretched infinitely. That, perhaps, Ulrich was a part of it for a reason, that there was a reason for this torment. That his soon to be sacrifice would matter, not because he wanted to matter – because he wanted to matter to others.

There was no one else to confirm that, to confirm anything. It was almost impossible to believe alone, and he tried, he tried so hard, but it was too difficult. And so, in his loneliness, he realized he’d been hugging himself.

His senses landed in some state of anxious languor. He had never felt anything quite like it before. It was much like a dreamscape, presented through hazy ramblings of a dying mind. Through them, a stimulus was registered, so rough, so haphazardly unpleasant.

He was not alone. Someone was intruding his breakdown. A shadow at the door.

He dropped a weightless callout. “You…”

“Me?” It was familiar. Ulrich narrowed his eyes.

“Who?”

That person, standing at the entrance of the balcony, spread their arms in a surrendering manner, it appeared. “You don’t know me.”

Ulrich tilted his head a little, acknowledgment for the sake of it. He dropped the hug – he was no longer lonely. The stranger himself had arrived.

Although his talks were interesting to listen to, Ulrich hesitated to… accept him. He was interrupted in the worst moment, the height of his vulnerability, something he just could not show. That alone caused him discomfort.

He cleared his throat, raising his voice to outpower the rain. “Yeah… listen, I am in an awful mood, and unless you have something important to say, please, please try to leave me.”

But his demand did the exact opposite. The stranger neared, and Ulrich was watching every single step of his.

“What happens to be bothering you?”

What? Did he actively seek to… care? Why was he still nearing him, would he…?

“I don’t think you’d understand even if I were to explain, so…”

He would. He actually crossed the line between the dry and the rain, only to get near Ulrich, and ask, “Are you sure?”

Ulrich’s eyes widened. “Why do you care?”

“Why, isn’t that what humans do?” His expression darkened, twitching every now and then as raindrops fell onto it. “Or at least, should do. It just happens to be rare nowadays.”

True to that statement, the world revolved, and Ulrich had found only one genuine person in the entire ordeal. The only one who wouldn’t betray his good.

“Then, how are you? I’ve seen you… fall? Something happened for sure,” he cared back.

The stranger chuckled – it was a distinct sound, more of a titter. “Just a little accident, worry not. A condition, it’s hereditary.”

Falling and screaming in agony was hereditary…? Ulrich blinked in confusion, then repeated after the stranger.

The blond confirmed with a nod, then stepped closer to Ulrich, only a meter or so away. The meaning of his expression could not be discerned, not with the rain there to disfigure it.

“But you’re the heart of this party, it would be a shame to leave you unattended. Especially since you look so malapropos. Don’t worry about me,” he convinced, almost forcefully, attempting to forge eye contact with Ulrich who shied away from it. Baffled and tired beyond measure, Ulrich finally inquired,

“What do you want?”

Victory steadied his voice. “To tell you a story. Stories holler lessons, breathe lives, heal as much as they scar. I do think one would relieve you.” There was such gentleness to his words, and yet, Ulrich was unfaltering. His smudged line of thought continued the sentence with sarcasm, as always, spontaneous: nothing would relieve him except for sheer oblivion.

He remained silent, narrow-eyed and narrow-minded. The quiet was perceived as a mute yes.

“Not too long ago, an incident has occurred in Aurun. A public figure of solid reputation is involved. Maybe you’ve heard of it…?”

Ulrich waved his head no – wrong move, for it caused him dizziness. He frowned.

“A reformative essayist, your typical educated man with a… mildly, yes, troubled mind.” A nod from the speaker to confirm the speaker’s thought. “Also an owner of an esteemed bookshop. He was the cause of the scandal, the scandal being, hiding horrendous smuggled goods in his shop. Only after the entire folly did his antics surface and make sense.”

“What kind…?”

“Loud and bold and flamboyant, quite the two-faced snake, but very active in terms of society and aiding it. In private, he was… stingy, even, and oftentimes shooed people away from him, whilst keeping problematic folk around. He had some fame, here, not much,”

The stranger showed his hand, then clenched it. “Only a handful, if we were to measure it in our imagination. But he abused all of it. Influenced so many.” He looked back to Ulrich, expectant.

“So, he was just like everyone else,” Ulrich guessed.

The blond smiled widely, the first time he revealed such a smile, so radiant and loose.

“Indeed! Indeed,” he repeated in delight. “But, my point would be this. Men like him, loud and extreme about their innovations… they’re the ones who push and tug the world. But I believe it’s you, the so-called normal folk, who keep the world on its feet.”

Now, despite his lovely conclusion, it didn’t make any sense. Did Ulrich hear that well?

“Pardon, you said, normal, me?” He blinked, as if that would clear his thoughts.

“Yes. I’m sure you’re normal.” He nodded to himself. “That you are so much less than what this party has made of you.”

Ulrich had no idea what this meant. What this story was about, and why he was supposed to be… normal? Why would he even assume that? How did it even… help? Each and every line of his mental narration was interrupted by aches and blanks. “Sir, I pray that you’ll come to understand that… I’m exhausted, and I cannot begin to understand you,” he excused himself, then leaned against the fence – almost slipping and falling, almost. Another miniature heart attack to strain his assaulted nerves.

He quickly got an apology, multiple of them, actually.

“No, no, it’s fine. If anything, I enjoyed the conversation…” He was unsure of his own statement. “I haven’t quite caught your name, mister…?”

“Elior Truco.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mister Truco.”

Reaching out to shake Elior’s hand, Ulrich expected a crushing grip, just like the one he had fallen victim to some time ago. Surprisingly, however, Elior’s hand was barely felt in his, and Ulrich was relieved to avoid yet another unpleasantry. He let out a sigh, even offered a smile. It was returned. The time had come for them to part ways on decent terms – or so he hoped.

All of a sudden, thunder roared. Ulrich twitched, almost squealed, for his heart jumped violently, and continued throbbing against his ribcage. Wouldn’t that mark a dramatic farewell?

Hands slipping from each other, a distinct tinge slithered across Ulrich’s palm, at first merely a disarray of his perception, then actual, burning pain, digging underneath his skin.

Inevitably, he stared down to his hand, and saw unfamiliar darkness on it, darker than his glove. A pool expanding and overflowing from the edges of his palm. He stared, paralyzed due to disbelief, taking in the pulsations of… of that, there, when Elior finally spoke up,

“Is that blood?”

It was only then that the realization settled and fear rose.

Ulrich looked back to Elior, immediately pleading him to dignify him with some, if any sort of clarification, all while meekly holding his bloodied, aching hand.

And he didn’t know. He looked at his own gloved hands, frantically flipping them over, running his fingers over them. His lackluster reaction only shoved more anxiety unto Ulrich, who stared at the oozing darkness, abandoning his being and pounding his senses.

Only seconds into the buffoonery, Ulrich couldn’t handle it anymore.

He yelled, asking Elior what he had done. The storm agreed, shattering the skies with lighting and its thunderous anger.

More excuses, more blabbering. Elior offered to help, murmuring, laughing oddly, uncomfortably, looking at any place other than Ulrich. He was shaking so much, Ulrich, he had no idea what to do, what was happening to him, to Elior –

“Elior!”

At long last, the blond looked up, “So, it’s a deal?”

And finally, Ulrich screamed a croaked “yes”.

And the deal would be completed. Elior took Ulrich’s hand and raised it up, high, for the raindrops to pierce it. Ulrich’s gash was subject to the brutal drumming of the storm. His eyes screwed shut, he silently endured the first wave of pain, and then, quickly, once the reality dawned upon him, he wheezed,

“What the hell are you doing?!”

The blond wasn’t fazed. He didn’t react at all. Panic began to overwhelm, begging his body to move, to seek refuge, but despite the urgency…

He couldn’t battle against it. He tried, he strained his arm, his muscles, but… they were all powerless. They didn’t listen, they couldn’t. He was estranged in his own body, caged in palpitations of pain. And panic was all over, tormenting him for reasons unknown, escapes none.

Gathering a cold glare, he pointed all of his frustrations at Elior, and then – then all of it diluted. Elior’s golden eyes shone, hawkish, with Ulrich as his sure prey. And they too, widened, glowing harshly in the evening’s gloom, melting the eternal ice of Ulrich’s spheres.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To ache for once? To suffer?” His was a voice tenacious and righteous, assaulting Ulrich’s ears. “To finally add some trouble to your merit! Add weight to your title! You’ve always wanted this!”

But… but Ulrich just asked for help, for… for anyone to come by, to… just be good to him… it’s what he deserved? Or he wanted?

Strength was fading. But he would, with the last of his senses, offer at least one last revolt, the final kick before succumbing. “Let me go,” he begged, afraid of himself – the kick was but a worthless twitch. How come? How come he failed?

Yet another surprise. “As you wish.” Elior complied with a smile.

He swung Ulrich’s hand with much force, and carried by the inertia, Ulrich staggered and – fell, sprawling himself across the wet marble, squeaking his way through.

Another round of pain, another distant sensation, reaching him in weak waves. He closed his eyes, once again, clenching his jaw to overcome it all. Confusion, confusion was all over, blinding his logic and tearing him apart.

He barely managed to curl up. He barely… barely found some strength to even move. Where did this weakness come from? His intuition did not wage, but rescued with the irrational, and he stared at the one possible culprit with tired, so terrifyingly tired eyes.

No longer was that man a stranger. He was an enemy, and he, Elior was heard somewhere, misplaced words falling around with the rain. Only one statement was discerned.

The offering to one final dream. “You are needed, Ulrich.”

Black saved him. The veil of oncoming darkness was imperfect. In the lulling fade of his consciousness, there was but a single lesion: the most devious smile Ulrich had ever seen.

[funeralllhome]

When I posted about my trip to Weis, i got some really interesting questions and some really rude questions and had alot of nice conversations about randy with other people, which was great, I really wasn't expecting any kind of response at all.

One of the questions I got the most was "why? Why do you go there?"

And I dont see this as a nasty question or an opportunity to be rude. I haven't individually answered any of them because I was trying to come up with a blanket response but it was a little harder than I thought it would be, but I've thought alot about it recently and I've finally got the words I want to use together, so I'm going to try my best not to sound silly.

I would be lying if I said I was interested in the shooting or with randy as soon as it happened. The shooting actually took place on my 23rd birthday. I live in a part Maryland that borders Pennsylvania, and puts me about 4 hours from tunkhannock where the shooting happened. I read about it very briefly when it happened and that was that, it wasn't really high on my radar at the time. I've been interested in true crime since I was about 14, there really wasn't a platform to share that interest on at that time. My earlier tumblr days had a big emphasis on jeffrey dahmer because he was what I was most interested in. I had become very much obsessed with him and being on this website gave me the freedom to post about him and talk to other people about him which was something I didn't have before. I've had several other hyperfixations of the same kind since I've been on here (Columbine, dylann roof etc.)

But then I found randy.

When I found randy, I wasnt really sure what he had even done, I knew he had been an active shooter and had committed suicide but that was about it. When I got further into him and watched his youtube videos, read his posts, things like that, I was absolutely invested in it, in him. I'm not really sure what it is about him that draws me to him, I'm still trying to figure it out.

When I found out that the Weis was only 4 hours from my home, I was able to convince my brother to take the trip with me there for the first time in January 2019. It was a long, cold trip, in the middle of January. We had to drive up a mountain to get there (literally). We ended up getting to the store around 6 in the afternoon, after it was already dark.

That night when we arrived back home, I had the time to really reflect on where we went.

He died there. The last place he ever set foot in alive was that fucking grocery store. It must have been one of the quietest, loneliest moments of his entire life when he killed himself. His family was at home, asleep in bed, while he was killing himself only a few minutes away. He was someone's something. He existed.

I humanize randy stair. I dont see him as a monster because I choose not to. I see his actions as awful but I dont see him as awful. I dont believe he was a collection of his actions.

Going to that grocery store is important to me. When I say it outloud, it sounds..stupid. I dont ever tell anyone except my family and one or two of my close friends when I go because I dont want to have to explain why I am going there. I have a fear that an explanation would also create the misconception that I'm going there for something disgusting or for shock value gore or something like that. That couldn't be further from the truth.

Seeing that store and walking it gives me a sense of realness I couldn't get from anywhere else, it makes him tangible. I'm never emotional when I am there because I feel like it wouldn't be appropriate. I never go alone, I've been 3 times and my brother accompanies me. We have fun on the trip, we laugh, we listen to music, we stop at restaurants and Walmarts and we have a fun time. But, we both know where we are going. We know things will be different when we get there. It's a quiet experience inside. We dont laugh and carry on in the store. He understands why I go there and he has never questioned me about it.

The second time I went, I cried when I got home. I cried for a long time. I wasnt really sure why, I just was. It was hard, harder than it had been the time before that. I didn't cry the last time I was there and I probably wont anymore when I return.

I have a connection to randy stair that I'm not sure can really be explained. I dont know how to explain it. Going to that store and seeing it, touching it, makes me feel better. It makes me feel less alone. Obviously, I know he isnt there, hes dead.

I've put off writing this post for several reasons, one of them is that I dont want anyone to think im being offensive or turning the death of the people who worked there or Randy's death into an attraction of sorts. I dont see it as anything like that at all. I understand the difference between interested or morbid obsession and that is not what I am doing. The other reason is that I just wasn't sure how to explain it. The last time I went, my mother asked me what makes me go there and the response I gave her was that it makes me feel better, it reminds me that he was real. He was there.

And That's why I do it. It makes him real. It makes him important.

Even though most people dont even know who he was or what he did, he was real. It makes him real to me.

I know that this was rather long and drawn out and if you took the time to read it, I really appreciate it and I hope it can give anyone who asked me why I go there the answer they looked for. I know this kind of conversation isnt really relative to what i mostly post and I hope I didn't offend or upset anyone who finds these kinds of things hard to talk about.

I know randy stair isnt really a well known person of interest in the true crime community so I'm sure most people see my posts and dont even know who I'm talking about lmao but, I hope this could offer some clarity. I'm always always always open to talking about randy or my trips to Weis, so please, as always, feel free to message me if you want to talk!

[spectru-vision]

The Inevitable Blog About Having Autism: The First Post

I'm currently reading "Unmasking Autism" by Devon Price and that has left me with a lot of thoughts with no place to put them except to send them into the void of the Internet. This is intended to be an experience based blog. Knowing myself, I am prone to hypothesizing, therefore I expect a lot of that. If there is any sort of research or science to back up my claims, I'll include links to articles.

If I reconsider something or want to add additional information, I'll edit the post with the edited date for clarity. If I reference other posts or media, I'll try to include links as well.

✨Introduction✨

Age: 26

Race: White

Gender: Agender/Non-Binary (AFAB)

Location: Southeast, US

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Diagnoses: (official) Autism, ADHD, Anxiety, Chronic Depression, Agoraphobia, Chron’s Disease; (self diagnosed/awaiting diagnosis) OCD, Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome

Career: IT Helpdesk (for now)

Political Leaning: Far left

Astrological information: ♊️♓️♋️

Special interests: Astronomy, Technology, Psychology, Art, History/Anthropology/Culture

Frequent Hyperfixations: Star Wars, Japan/Asia, Minecraft, BTS, Squishmallows, Linux, Hearthstone, Seinfeld, Vonnegut, music of the week

[spikedfanta]

over the garden wall

i suppose i had a moment of clarity of sorts. and i just want to express it before it goes away.

1) we are all on our own path

despite knowing there is no point comparing myself to others, thinking about their paths and how i need to do what they are doing to get to the future i think i want - i still do it. i self sabotage by spending my time thinking about what they're doing while consequently feeling bad about the fact that i am not doing anything. i wonder if this root of procrastination comes from my brain just being very fearful of doing work (and also the fact that i haven't been able to do anything for a month) and what i am even going to do in the time i 'wasted'. and from the self hatred of not being able to do the work and then latching onto how much others have achieved. but perhaps i will never be able to get any work done with this hyperfixation and comparison.

but. a) we literally all are on our own path. and i don't want my path to be thinking about others paths. there is a world expanding around me and i don't wanna miss it. i can be in tune with this world. i will allocate 15 minutes a night to self doubt. and when it comes i will remember, i can eat this fear up. i have done it before and i can do it again. b) time is time. time is a moment i spent living. time is me in my house enjoying being here, watching tv shows i like, spending a summer vacation, making clouds and paintings. now time can be doing things that fulfill me, consistently, till my submission. there is no wasted time.

2) consistency and faith

i also had a bit of a moment of clarity where i remembered or realised what this project is about. consistency and doing things every day. the process. spending time on that process. learning how i work. and for that i will have to fail, fail, fail. for that. but if i can write a blog every day recording what worked and didn't work, isn't that great? fearful of doing the 'wrong' thing the 'right' thing... what if i just did things and see what happens?

mindfulness. is the crux of it all. wasn't the point to just be very very very mindful, and live in the moment, as an experiment? why did it end? it must continue. i can use spikedfanta to brain dump and on the blog, make more well thought out posts.

3) adhd

to solve this, to accept this, i need routine. i liked waking up early (by 7), doing a yoga workout, some strength stretches, meditating, hopping into the shower and being mindful throughout. and then sitting down and just 'starting'. and see what happens.

remember, i am a garden, and i need to be tended to. sometimes i need to move my body, other times i need to move my hands. sometimes i need to read and think (but externalize this thinking).

4) characters

some characters i would like to embody this coming month:

manic artist. shaman. getting calls and signs and symbols and creating with everything i have. mixing art and design - design to provoke and surprise. not allowing myself to think about others because there are no others and there is no ((I)). there is only good humor and being nice to others. and chanelling my fears and anxieties into work. even on days where i dont feel like it, putting in the effort. 21 days. let us try this.

embody who i want to be - light, light, light. spreading that lightness and teachings to others. kya hi hai.

i resent that my friends don't understand me, then again i don't talk. there is no point building resentment, i suppose then, cuz it is only harming me. i keep thinking the only way is to distance myself from these people?

paint and make stuff for the room and clothes as well. paint the top ((acrylic)).

[psyprick]

whoops, i’m gushing because i... think this is the best day of my life, genuinely. 8)!!! 

god, i feel so... so amazing and so wonderful. the sheer contrast of feeling CONNECTED when i spent my whole life not and... just, the validation that comes from realizing that all this time i wasn’t fighting myself, i was fighting these awful uncontrollable hyperfixations.... when all i wanted at my core was to love people and support them and... ohh, there’s so much good i’m feeling, i can’t ever hope to put into words i haven’t already said to other privately five or six times by now, but...!!!

i may not be around today, as-- and this is so very exciting for me, so please be patient, if you can!!-- i took adderall... suspecting that these quirks (this... was not a suspicion i fostered myself, but one my boyfriend had-- one that made so much sense i couldnt help but try)-- these oddities about myself that made me feel HORRIBLE, that made me think i was inferior, that i wasn’t human... with the way the medicine has impacted me, with the perspective it’s granted me, i want nothing more than to enjoy this temporary freedom. GOODNESS THIS IS GETTING LONG, BUT I’M SO VERY WORDY... as a result of... being so very excited that i can finally express these twenty years of feelings i have inside me, without blood sweat and tears, without abstract metaphors that never seem to resonate proper... 

all this time i thought i was abnormal because i had no idea that what i was looking at was ADD, not some... awful version of myself that i had no choice but to combat, not some pretentious, snobby core personality that i had to deny. and now i can SEE! i can focus. i have clarity. i can watch my thoughts follow through to the end... and then stop them. i can choose to start a task... instead of jumping on the first thing that needs it the most, according to this dumb brain i have.

i think i’ll have a bit of difficulty prioritizing things until it wears off (maybe, tonight sometime, by my estimates?), just because i’m so... not used to being able to do things... that i WANT to do, that i WANT to focus on... instead of being jumbled and distracted and unable to progress in a linear way... that’s why i think i might be afk a bit.

THIS POST IS SO DISORGANIZED... i completely recognize it, but it’s... flowing in an order that i picked, myself, instead of just... flowing in the way this dumb thing decides it should, so im having to learn how to prioritize stuff, like. pfftb, “all over again”, i guess?? BAH.... i’ll take it. i’m honestly.

i’m so grateful that he had the insight to step back-- and when i told him i was a freak, that i had these awful quirks, that i didnt see things the way everyone else seemed to (though, i know everyone is different, it was like-- the expectation of norms, and deviation from it, that made me so... scared and insecure)... he was able to assess, with his experience, and by way of the universe being so damn wonderful as to place this perfect person within my reach (SOULMATES!! you know!! ive decided we ARE soulmates, we MUST be, and how wonderful it is to be able to DECIDE SUCH A THING!! it’s so FREEING!!!), he was able to deduce that these oddities that disturbed me, depressed me, made me feel alienated... wasn’t a personality thing. wasn’t me being neurotic. wasn’t me being crazy or robotic or inhuman.

that all this time, it’s just been a dumb brain. i can FEEL things the way i’ve always known people feel them-- things as simple as KISSES, and while my brain still went YOU KNOW THERE’S SALIVA THERE AND THAT TEXTURE, and drew my attention to it... i could focus on something else. it wasn’t all i felt. kissing, which seemed so natural and pleasurable to EVERYONE BUT ME... i knew it was foreplay, but i never knew, never understood how people ENJOYED IT... so much time was spent thinking that i was a freak. so much time was spent trying to pretend i fit in, and such a complex was developed in how all i desperately wanted for myself was to be normal... and this medicine. this wonderfully lucky thing happened where i had the opportunity to take it... and i could get lost in my boyfriend’s kisses just like i’ve always read about. just like i’ve always wanted to be!! i could feel it in the way i’ve always wanted. i could feel it like everybody else, finally...

i can touch people without the recoil... without bolstering my endurance, without rushing through actions, knowing that my time was ticking, that i would only be able to handle so much before the feeling of even my own skin brushing against mine was too overwhelming. GLOVES!! we really-- and bless, bless my boyfriend and his flexibility, james, i love you, TRULY-- we really were both going to wear GLOVES all the time because those were easier to process than actual skin contact. UNREAL!!

and the problem this whole time... it wasn’t me. all that fighting i did... all those nights i spent hating myself because i thought that since all i could think of was awful things when i wanted to focus on the good, i was a miserable wretch of a person... and all those days that i fought against that, yelling from my mental prison that i loved and cared for my friends, the people around me, the world; all those hours i spent telling myself i WAS a humanitarian, that i WANTED peace, that this chaos that led my thoughts... somehow, it couldn’t have been the REAL me, because the real me-- had to be-- someone who loved, not hated-- THE WHOLE STRUGGLE!! IT WAS WORTH IT!!

it was ALWAYS worth it. i didn’t have the words to describe what i was feeling. i wanted to die, it hurt so bad, living in such discord! but i can see, i can process... i can finally speak. and oh, i’m speaking so much. i know there’s no rush, i don’t need to rush-- but i just can’t stop talking! i love it so much. i love being connected, i love being able to share, i love being able to talk-- and feel-- and be compassionate, and anyway if you’ve read this far you’re a real trooper, what eth HECK.

god, being alive right now is such a good feeling.

also yolo, no proofreading we die like men.