#how do i say this haunts me without the negative connotation

[marc--chilton]

shoutout to that time i had a dream that larry was cheating on alison with adam only to knock him up on accident and adam never saying a word about it so they could keep the status quo (he didnt want to lose lawrence)

[kitpanthera]

last one for now!! thank you so so much for answering my questions, this has been so fun. (also, my phone randomly started updating in the middle of me typing this out so if, for some reason, you have an unfinished version of this in your inbox, my bad.)

chapters 26-27 🎉

1. dipper thinking about mabel using the memory gun on him to make him forget bill,,, hm. even if they DID do that, that might honestly make things worse? like, dipper would then be bound to deals that he no longer remembers making or what the terms of them are. i also don't know if a child's mind would recover as well to use of the memory gun.

2. dipper feeling like bill is the only one who doesn't have an idealized version of him is his head... i'm not sure i agree! bill's placed him on a very high pedestal with a very high fall should he get knocked off it... and dipper saying that bill encouraged him to be himself and TAUGHT him how to do that because he's never been able to do that before,,, i'm chewing on glass rn.

3. the entire phone call section,,, stan immediately saying he would keep the twins with him and their parents wanting split custody (a fake out to get the other to back down? did they spend the whole time arguing over who got mabel? neither of them wanting to take dipper...). "they can come up here and tell them themselves" yes please! dipper had his moment with mabel, now he deserves to yell at his parents (as a treat). "hey guys! thanks for coming all the way here 💞💞💞 loved seeing you but i can't wait to never see you again! you don't need to miss my choir recitals anymore because my choir no longer exists! you can go back to just being mabel's parents while i go rule with world with my best friend, the interdimensional demon who's bringing about a new age on earth, you might know him. see you never!"

4. it's such a small thing but ford bending down to talk to dipper so they're on the same page!! he cares so much about these kids and he just met them 😭 him taking the time to reassure dipper that they're family and that he seems himself in dipper!!! him smiling when dipper agrees with stan that he's like ford (though not in the way he expects). that must've been another painful moment for stan!

5. does mabel realize how big of a deal it is that dipper can speak to bill during the day/without being asleep?

6. dipper not seeinging weirdmageddon as the apocalypse because the apocalypse has negative connotation!! weirdmageddon is GOOD to him so it's the bringing about of a new age!

7. dipper's mental form changing to look more like bill's human form instead of pre-gravity falls dipper,,, after he has recognizes how much he's changed,,, right after being compared to ford,,,

8. ford must feel so stupid for showing dipper the rift! i'm assuming dipper didn't just smack the rift out of his hands because bill wants ford on his side willingly? not sure you're going to get that, bill...

9. dipper still caring about stan enough to remind gideon of their deal! and being upset when bud threatens stan! the ghost of dipper-past is haunting dipper's mental house (it's empathy and compassion for people other than bill).

10. dipper letting bill takeover the reins because he's so drained from being involved with the pines,,, him still hoping that someone it's not him and no one noticing,,, NO ONE NOTICING (i'm ripping my hair out)

11. dipper watching the billford reunion,,, guys stop being messy, toxic exs in front of a 12 yo!

12. dipper hiding in the grass/wheat... is the distinction important? both represent different things (wheat as salvation and resurrection while grass can be protection and concealment...). are they a mental representation of the ways ford has tried to protect himself or move on from bill?

13. an eternal night!! stars staying the same even during weirdmageddon!! everyone always being able to see the stars!! is that almost like,, a gift? since they both value the stars so much, and bill wanted to bring the stars to his people, is that almost more of a "benevolent overlord" thing from bill? or really just gifts to themselves?

14. how different that conversation would've gone if dipper hadn't mentioned ford!

15. mabel realizing that he's just been around because he's manipulating ford while ford didn't notice,,, is he that desperate for human connection that he doesn't notice dipper manipulating him? or is dipper just that good at acting?

16. dipper telling mabel it's deals PLURAL. i wonder if she had realized that before, if that's a big thing for her, or if she didn't even notice.

17. "he takes my feelings seriously, unlike you," and "you've only ever dismissed me, mabel" but him still missing her and wanting to be close to her,,, him saying that he doesn't want to only be close with bill but she's giving him no choice,,, i am staring into the sun.

18. dipper comparing mabel to their mom! is that because he sees both of them as "checking out" of their relationship with him? and then mabel immediately saying she doesn't want to think about home and that they don't even know what they're going home to 😭 gravity falls feeling more like home than piedmont has in years 😭😭😭

19. i'm assuming bill saying "pine tree" was him trying to warn him that bill was in earshot? i'm kind of surprised that bill didn't take over during the fight to try to separate them before they could reveal dipper and bill's friendship to ford.

20. did ford hear dipper ask bill to take over and that he didn't want to be there?

21. "i know it's me you want!" well...

22. does anyone hear ford shouting at dipper? that would probably be hard to explain to the tourists lol

24. mabel always being the one to start weirdmageddon... fate again? or maybe something more like a fixed point or "canon event" like in spider verse?

25. did dipper stop wearing his bill jewelry once ford showed up? he mentions starting to wear it consistently, but not that he's stopped.

26. physical effects of using magic showing up soon,,, roadside attraction being the next episode,,, dipper being changed SO significantly,,, can he even pass through the barrier anymore? i'm imagining him in the rv and just SLAMMING into the barrier at 60 mph not going well. but it would reveal that as a problem to bill before weirdmageddon begins...

27. dipper learning to take pain rather than bill flipping the switch,,, is that because bill wants to it be authentic or because he knows flipping that switch would be too noticeable?

thank you thank you thank you sm!!! again, i'm sure i'll be back with more, but that's just from my first read through in a while!

Oh yeah I've been spending all my spare time replying?? Truly I could yap about my own series for days, this has legitimately been so so enjoyable for me!!

1. Yeahhhh, it would not go well, especially with how much more impressionable young minds are. Dipper would have no clue who Bill was, but still have a pact bond with him, still have him able to possess him whenever he wanted... A dark AU to consider.

2. Dipper is sort of aware of this pedestal? But he's determined that he set himself there, not Bill. He has intentionally set himself up to be that way for Bill because of his whole "I can fix him" mentality. He wants Bill to think he can fix him, too (and he kinda does?). But who he is on that pedestal, as far as he's concerned, is still himself.

3. The nature of the custody argument is yet to be revealed... But hooooo boy, can't wait to write that one! We stan Stan as a parent stand in for these kids; he's not perfect but he's better for these kids than their parents are!

4. For as much crap as Ford gets from the fandom, I love my boy! He really does care so much about them. They're just kids, they're twins, and to him, they start as a wholesome reminder of himself and Stan when they were that age. He's protective and caring! He also bends down to their level to talk to them multiple times in canon, and I love that for him! He also is someone I love to whump, so be prepared. :)

5. Not really? She knows his whole relationship with Bill and the way it's escalating is dangerous, but she's not aware of how all Bill works, exactly, so she doesn't know how significant that is.

6. Yes!! They're basically ringing in the New World Order (fitting to use an Illuminati term, no?)

7. :)

8. Pretty much, yeah. Bill still wants to be able to convince Ford to join him, and is hoping by cultivating a bond of trust between him and Dipper, he'll still be able to do that.

9. Yes! Dipper gets the chance to defend his family and show off how powerful he is, so he'll take it! Best of both worlds, really.

10. :)

11. They will ✨ not ✨

12. It is wheat! I'm impressed you picked up on that specific symbolism in it; in canon, it's wheat, but the symbolism is more in Dipper's perception that he's pretty sure it's wheat. Bill helped him be reborn, after all. :)

13. Sort of a gift to themselves. More on this to come. :)

14. One can only wonder...

15. Dipper is quite a good actor and it helps that he actually does like Ford. Mabel is definitely a bit smarter than Dipper gives her credit for, though, and more observant.

16. She won't notice until later. :)

17. :)

18. Yes! And his mom has always been emotionally manipulative,, as well, playing the victim and guilting Dipper into doing things for her. Dipper feels he's received the same from Mabel, though admittedly not maliciously. But yeah, Mabel doesn't even know about the divorce :)

19. Bill found it more important in the moment to preserve the idea that Mabel has no idea Dipper is being possessed, because he thought switching in the middle of the heated conversation might tip her off, and she might say something. Ford is a bit easier to deal with, and Bill doesn't need him, he just wants him. (But yes, it was a warning.)

20. Yes!

21. :)

22. Who's to say? :)

23. We'll see how things play out! Coming soon...

24. Oh, he did! But he'll be wearing it again now that the cat's out of the bag.

25. :)

26. A bit of both?? Switching a flip completely would be too noticeable and would have some negative side effects. He also wants Dipper to mirror him, and he learned naturally, himself.

no problem!! Thank you so much, really, this is sincerely so much fun!!!!

[reanimatedcourier]

How to Write Indigenous Characters Without Looking like a Jackass:

Update as of December 26th, 2020: I have added a couple new sections about naming and legal terms, as well as a bit of reading on the Cherokee Princess phenomenon.

Boozhoo (hello) Fallout fandom! I'm a card-carrying Anishinaabe delivering this rough guide about writing Indigenous characters because wow, do I see a lot of shit.

Let's get something out of the way first: Fallout's portrayal of Indigenous people is racist. From a vague definition of "tribal" to the claims of them being "savage" and "uncivilized" mirror real-world stereotypes used to dehumanize us. Fallout New Vegas' narrated intro has Ron Perlman saying Mr. House "rehabilitated" tribals to create New Vegas' Three Families. You know. Rehabilitate. As if we are animals. Top it off with an erasure of Indigenous people in the American Southwest and no real tribe names, and you've got some pretty shitty representation. The absence of Native American as a race option in the GECK isn't too great, given that two Native characters are marked "Caucasian" despite being brown. Butch Deloria is a pretty well-known example of this effect. (Addendum: Indigenous people can have any mix of dominant and recessive traits, as well as present different phenotypes. What bothers me is it doesn't accommodate us or mixed people, which is another post entirely.)

As a precautionary warning: this post and the sources linked will discuss racism and genocide. There will also be discussion of multiple kinds of abuse.

Now, your best approach will be to pick a nation or tribe and research them. However, what follows will be general references.

Terms that may come up in your research include Aboriginal/Native Canadian, American Indian/Native American, Inuit, Métis, and Mestizo. The latter two refer to cultural groups created after the discovery of the so-called New World. (Addendum made September 5th, 2020: Mestizo has negative connotations and originally meant "half breed" so stick with referring to your mixed Latine and Indigenous characters as mixed Indigenous or simply by the name of their people [Maya, Nahua].)

As a note, not every mixed person is Métis or Mestizo. If you are, say, Serbian and Anishinaabe, you would be mixed, but not Métis (the big M is important here, as it refers to a specific culture). Even the most liberal definition caps off at French and British ancestry alongside Indigenous (some say Scottish and English). Mestizo works the same, since it refers to descendants of Spanish conquistadors/settlers and Indigenous people.

Trouble figuring out whose land is where? No problem, check out this map.

Drawing

Don't draw us with red skin. It's offensive and stereotypical.

Tutorial for Native Skintones

Tutorial for Mixed Native Skintones

Why Many Natives Have Long Hair (this would technically fit better under another category, but give your Native men long hair!)

If You're Including Traditional Wear, Research! It's Out There

Languages

Remember, there are a variety of languages spoken by Indigenous people today. No two tribes will speak the same language, though there are some that are close and may have loan words from each other (Cree and Anishinaabemowin come to mind). Make sure your Diné (you may know them as Navajo) character doesn't start dropping Cree words.

Here's a Site With a Map and Voice Clips

Here's an Extensive List of Amerindian Languages

Keep in mind there are some sounds that have no direct English equivalents. But while we're at it, remember a lot of us speak English, French, Spanish, or Portuguese. The languages of the countries that colonized us.

Words in Amerindian languages tend to be longer than English ones and are in the format of prefix + verb + suffix to get concepts across. Gaawiin miskwaasinoon is a complete sentence in Anishinaabemowin, for example (it is not red).

Names

Surprisingly, we don't have names like Passing Dawn or Two-Bears-High-Fiving in real life. A lot of us have, for lack of better phrasing, white people names. We may have family traditions of passing a name down from generation to generation (I am the fourth person in my maternal line to have my middle name), but not everyone is going to do that. If you do opt for a name from a specific tribe, make sure you haven't chosen a last name from another tribe.

Baby name sites aren't reliable, because most of the names on there will be made up by people who aren't Indigenous. That site does list some notable exceptions and debunks misconceptions.

Here's a list of last names from the American census.

Indian Names

You may also hear "spirit names" because that's what they are for. You know the sort of mystical nature-related name getting slapped on an Indigenous character? Let's dive into that for a moment.

The concept of a spirit name seems to have gotten mistranslated at some point in time. It is the name Creator calls you throughout all your time both here and in the spirit world. These names are given (note the word usage) to you in a ceremony performed by an elder. This is not done lightly.

A lot of imitations of this end up sounding strange because they don't follow traditional guidelines. (I realize this has spread out of the original circle, but Fallout fans may recall other characters in Honest Hearts and mods that do this. They have really weird and racist results.)

If you're not Indigenous: don't try this. You will be wrong.

Legal Terms

Now, sometimes the legal term (or terms) for a tribe may not be what they refer to themselves as. A really great example of this would be the Oceti Sakowin and "Sioux". How did that happen, you might be wondering. Smoky Mountain News has an article about this word and others, including the history of these terms.

For the most accurate information, you are best off having your character refer to themselves by the name their nation uses outside of legislation. A band name would be pretty good for this (Oglala Lakota, for example). I personally refer to myself by my band.

Cowboys

And something the Fallout New Vegas fans might be interested in, cowboys! Here's a link to a post with several books about Black and Indigenous cowboys in the Wild West.

Representation: Stereotypes and Critical Thought

Now, you'll need to think critically about why you want to write your Indigenous character a certain way. Here is a comprehensive post about stereotypes versus nuance.

Familiarize yourself with tropes. The Magical Indian is a pretty prominent one, with lots of shaman-type characters in movies and television shows. This post touches on its sister tropes (The Magical Asian and The Magical Negro), but is primarily about the latter.

Say you want to write an Indigenous woman. Awesome! Characters I love to see. Just make sure you're aware of the stereotypes surrounding her and other Women of Color.

Word to the wise: do not make your Indigenous character an alcoholic. "What, so they can't even drink?" You might be asking. That is not what I'm saying. There is a pervasive stereotype about Drunk Indians, painting a reaction to trauma as an inherent genetic failing, as stated in this piece about Indigenous social worker Jessica Elm's research. The same goes for drugs. Ellen Deloria is an example of this stereotype.

Familiarize yourself with and avoid the Noble Savage trope. This was used to dehumanize us and paint us as "childlike" for the sake of a plot device. It unfortunately persists today.

Casinos are one of the few ways for tribes to make money so they can build homes and maintain roads. However, some are planning on diversifying into other business ventures.

There's a stereotype where we all live off government handouts. Buddy, some of these long-term boil water advisories have been in place for over twenty years. The funding allocated to us as a percentage is 0.39%: less than half a percent to fight the coronavirus. They don't give us money.

"But what about people claiming to be descended from a Cherokee princess?" Cherokee don't and never had anything resembling princesses. White southerners made that up prior to the Civil War. As the article mentions, they fancied themselves "defending their lands as the Indians did".

Also, don't make your Indigenous character a cannibal. Cannibalism is a serious taboo in a lot of our cultures, particularly northern ones.

Our lands are not cursed. We don't have a litany of curses to cast on white people in found footage films. Seriously. We have better things to be doing. Why on earth would our ancestors be haunting you when they could be with their families? Very egotistical assumption.

Indigenous Ties and Blood Quantum

Blood quantum is a colonial system that was initially designed to "breed out the Indian" in people. To dilute our bloodlines until we assimilated properly into white society. NPR has an article on it here.

However, this isn't how a vast majority of us define our identities. What makes us Indigenous is our connections (or reconnection) to our families, tribes, bands, clans, and communities.

Blood quantum has also historically been used to exclude Black Natives from tribal enrollment, given that it was first based on appearance. So, if you looked Black and not the image of "Indian" the white census taker had in his brain, you were excluded and so were your descendants.

Here are two tumblrs that talk about Black Indigenous issues and their perspectives. They also talk about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people of Australia.

However, if you aren't Indigenous, don't bring up blood quantum. Don't. This is an issue you should not be speaking about.

Cherokee Princess Myth

"Princess" was not a real position in any tribe. The European idea of monarchy did not suddenly manifest somewhere else. The closest probable approximation may have been the daughter of a chief or other politically prominent person. But princess? No.

Here is an article talking about possible origins of this myth. Several things are of note here: women from other tribes may have bee shoved under this label and the idea of a "Cherokee Princess" had been brought up to explain the sudden appearance of a brown-skinned (read: half Black) family member.

For a somewhat more in depth discussion of why, specifically, this myth gets touted around so often, Timeline has this piece.

Religion

Our religions are closed. We are not going to tell you how we worship. Mostly because every little bit we choose to share gets appropriated. Smudging is the most recent example. If you aren't Indigenous, that's smoke cleansing. Smudging is done in a specific way with ceremonies and prayers.

Now, a lot of us were forcibly converted. Every residential school was run by Christians. So plenty of us are Catholic, Baptist, Anglican, Lutheran, etc. Catholicism in Latin America also has influence from the Indigenous religions in that region.

Having your Indigenous character pray or carry rosaries wouldn't be a bad thing, if that religion was important to them. Even if they are atheist, if they lived outside of a reserve or other Indigenous communities, they might have Christian influences due to its domination of the Western world.

Settler Colonialism and the White Savior Trope

Now we've come to our most painful section yet. Fallout unintentionally has an excellent agent of settler-colonialism, in particular the Western Christian European variety, in Caesar's Legion and Joshua Graham.

(Addendum: Honest Hearts is extremely offensive in its portrayal of Indigenous people, and egregiously shows a white man needing to "civilize" tribals and having to teach them basic skills. These skills include cooking, finding safe water, and defending themselves from other tribes.)

Before we dive in, here is a post explaining the concept of cultural Christianity, if you are unfamiliar with it.

We also need to familiarize ourselves with The White Man's Burden. While the poem was written regarding the American-Philippine war, it still captures the attitudes toward Indigenous folks all over the world at the time.

As this article in Teen Vogue points out, white people like to believe they need to save People of Color. You don't need to. People of Color can save themselves.

Now, cultural Christianity isn't alone on this side of the pond. Writer Teju Cole authored a piece on the White Savior Industrial Complex to describe mission trips undertaken by white missionaries to Africa to feed their egos.

Colonialism has always been about the acquisition of wealth. To share a quote from this paper about the ongoing genocide of Indigenous peoples: "Negatively, [settler colonialism] strives for the dissolution of native societies. Positively, it erects a new colonial society on the expropriated land base—as I put it, settler colonizers come to stay: invasion is a structure not an event. In its positive aspect, elimination is an organizing principal of settler-colonial society rather than a one-off (and superseded) occurrence. The positive outcomes of the logic of elimination can include officially encouraged miscegenation, the breaking-down of native title into alienable individual freeholds, native citizenship, child abduction, religious conversion, resocialization in total institutions such as missions or boarding schools, and a whole range of cognate biocultural assimilations. All these strategies, including frontier homicide, are characteristic of settler colonialism. Some of them are more controversial in genocide studies than others." (Positive, here, is referring to "benefits" for the colonizers. Indigenous people don't consider colonization beneficial.)

An example of a non-benefit, the Church Rock disaster had Diné children playing in radioactive water so the company involved could avoid bad publicity.

Moving on, don't sterilize your Indigenous people. Sterilization, particularly when it is done without consent, has long been used as a tool by the white system to prevent "undesirables" (read, People of Color and disabled people) from having children. Somehow, as of 2018, it wasn't officially considered a crime.

The goal of colonization was to eliminate us entirely. Millions died because of exposure to European diseases. Settlers used to and still do separate our children from us for reasons so small as having a dirty dish in the sink. You read that right, a single dirty dish in your kitchen sink was enough to get your children taken and adopted out to white families. This information was told to me by an Indigenous social work student whose name I will keep anonymous.

It wasn't until recently they made amendments to the Indian Act that wouldn't automatically render Indigenous women non-status if they married someone not Indigenous. It also took much too long for Indigenous families to take priority in child placement over white ones. Canada used to adopt Indigenous out to white American families. The source for that statement is further down, but adoption has been used as a tool to destroy cultures.

I am also begging you to cast aside whatever colonialist systems have told you about us. We are alive. People with a past, not people of the past, which was wonderfully said here by Frank Waln.

Topics to Avoid if You Aren't Indigenous

Child Separation. Just don't. We deserve to remain with our families and our communities. Let us stay together and be happy that way.

Assimilation schools. Do not bring up a tool for cultural genocide that has left lasting trauma in our communities.

W/ndigos. I don't care that they're in Fallout 76. They shouldn't be. Besides, you never get them right anyway.

Sk/nwalkers. Absolutely do not. Diné stories are not your playthings either.

I've already talked about drugs and alcohol. Do your research with compassion and empathy in mind. Indigenous people have a lot of pain and generational trauma. You will need to be extremely careful having your Indigenous characters use drugs and alcohol. If your character can be reduced to their (possible) substance abuse issues, you need to step back and rework it. As mentioned in Jessica Elm's research, remember that it isn't inherent to us.

For our final note: remember that we're complex, autonomous human beings. Don't use our deaths to further the stories of your white characters. Don't reduce us to some childlike thing that needs to be raised and civilized by white characters. We interact with society a little differently than you do, but we interact nonetheless.

Meegwetch (thank you) for reading! Remember to do your research and portray us well, but also back off when you are told by an Indigenous person.

This may be updated in the future, it depends on what information I come across or, if other Indigenous people are so inclined, what is added to this post.

[ladyonfire28]

Came back from my little break for that new article ! Here is the translation of Adèle and Aïssa’s interview for Libération. It’s a very long, but very interesting one. So i recommend to read it. There may be a lot of incoherencies so please tell me if something doesn’t make sense ! 

Aïssa Maïga and Adèle Haenel : «Finally there’s something political happening»

They stood up together at the César and have since been striving to invent a common front against all forms of discrimination. For "Libération", actresses Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga retrace the journey of generational awareness.

Some kind of symbol. A large mural, in tribute to George Floyd, a 46-year-old black American who died on 25 May when he was arrested by a white policeman, and to Adama Traoré, who died at the age of 24 on the floor of the "caserne de Persan" (Val-d'Oise) following an arrest in 2016, was painted at the beginning of the week on the façade of a building in the 10th arrondissement of Paris. Close by, the Adama Committee organized a press conference on Tuesday. Words, demands and the announcement of a new march to fight against police violence. It takes place this Saturday in the capital, from the Place de la République to the Place de l'Opéra. The organizers dream of seeing a huge crowd come together. This demonstration comes at the heart of a tense period. Young people are demanding answers and action, while many police officers feel that the Minister of the Interior is letting his troops down in the face of the scolding.

In the street, we will find associations, politicians and many people. Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga will be there. Not a first. They were already present on  June 2nd at the rally in front of the Paris high court. The actresses didn't really know each other before the last César ceremony, marked by the speech of one and the shattering departure of the other. Since then, they have never left each other. Both describe the moment as a "turning point". The fights converge.

When the idea of a cross-exchange came on the table to put words to their commitments, they did not hesitate. On Thursday, in a roadstead near Belleville, Adèle Haenel arrived first, followed by Aïssa Maïga. They are not of the same generation, the journeys and paths are different. The styles too. The one who got up at the announcement of the prize awarded to Polanski goes up and down, talks with her body. The one who, at the same ceremony, invited to count the black people in the room appears calmer, stays seated on her chair, speaks in a low voice. Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga complement each other.

From where are you speaking?

Adèle Haenel: I speak from my personal political background, rooted in feminism, a background that is shaken by the worldwide movement around police violence and by the French movement around the Adama Committee. I would say that taking charge of my own history has given me the ability to deal with other broader issues that do not immediately affect me. I'm talking about a kind of political awakening. This desire to show my support for the families of the victims, for the political movement against racism and police violence in France, and for the actors who take a stand. I'm thinking of Omar Sy, Camélia Jordana and you, Aïssa.

Aïssa Maïga: This intersectional awakening evoked by Adèle is a place where I have been for a long time without necessarily being able to name it. For a long time, the racial question in cinema was so pervasive in my life that it cannibalized everything else. I felt that it was less difficult to be a woman, in a world that discriminates women, than it was to be a black woman. The work done by Afrofeminists in France and abroad put the words in my mouth that I didn't have because I didn't have that heritage. I am speaking from a place that is on the move and that is not made up of certainties, that is made of interrogations, especially about the fact that I can implement changes on my own scale. And I'm also speaking from a place that is purely civic and is tinged with various influences. I didn't grow up in a poor suburb, I didn't live in financial precariousness, I come from a rather intellectual middle class, it gave me certain tools, and yet I haven't escaped this very French thing, a soft racism, rarely seen but which is haunting... because it's omnipresent.

Why did you get involved with the Adama Committee?

A.M.: Because this is a fight for justice. It was Assa Traoré who came to meet me during the release of the collective book Noire n'est pas mon métier ("Black is not my job"). I knew her from afar, I knew her struggle, and she appeared. The support became obvious and it has really taken shape in the last few months. I was immediately impressed by this woman, her quiet strength, and this ability to forge a bond, to think of her family drama in political terms. Her voice matters. She's not just an icon: she allows a movement to emerge.

A.H.: For me, it's even more recent, I had to go through a problem that was going through me, that involved my body in discrimination in order to mingle with other injustices. I was listening to what Assa Traoré was saying and I was struck by her determination and intelligence. But it is only very recently that I also became physically aware that I could not fail to support this woman and the whole fight against police violence and racism, in the same way that I am taking up the fight for feminism and against sexual violence. I can't have it two-tiered.

On June 2nd, more than 20,000 people gathered in front of the High Court of Paris, at the request of the Adama Committee. An unprecedented turnout, with many young people, why?

A.M.: The Adama Committee saw very well the link between George Floyd's drama and their own. The death of Adama Traoré, choked under three gendarmes, was materialized before our eyes with the unbearable images of Floyd's death. The French youth who look at these images cannot fail to make the connection, it is obvious. There is also a form of accessible activism that is developing via social networks. Activists will involve others through simple, accessible sentences: if you are not a POC, you are still involved, it is your responsibility to listen and take an active part, at your level, in the fight for equality. There is also the idea that we need to establish a link between police violence, the racism that can be found in other social spaces, the issue of gender equality, the environment, and the urgency of dealing with these problems now. There is also a form of anxiety among young people: they are told that in fifty years' time there will be no more water. And finally the feeling of injustice, which is omnipresent and linked to the circulation of images on social networks. Police violence follows one after the other, and this creates an accumulation effect. It is not just a dogmatic political vision, but a reality that is lived or perceived as real.

A.H.: There is a turning point in the effectiveness of the movement as well. This feeling carried by Assa Traoré that we are powerful. It's not just ideas that go around the world, it's ideas that make the world happen. It gives hope and responsibility to a whole generation.

During Aïssa's speech at the Césars, in which she confronts the profession with the near-invisibility of actors, filmmakers and producers from French overseas territories and African and Asian immigrants in French cinema, you are in the room, Adèle. You don't know each other yet. Do you understand her speech immediately?

A.H.: It's obvious, but it's not immediate, it takes a little time to understand the extent of the racist mechanism when you, yourself, haven't been forced to see how it works. I was brought back to particular assignments, but not to this one. So it takes a long time before it becomes unbearable evidence. When Aïssa takes the floor, it's courageous because the room is very cold and it's making it even colder. I thought it was funny and I thought "finally, something political is happening".

Did you both understand that people find it violent to count black people in the room, and even that they might find it paradoxical to split the audience?

A.M.: Counting isn't splitting, it's measuring the gap between us and equality. When it comes to inequality, to be blind to color is to be blind to the social burdens that come from our history and the imagination that flows from it. I am fighting for art and culture to deconstruct racial fictions. In our field, cinema, there is a tendency to believe that when a few exceptions appear, the problem of racial discrimination is solved. I do not think that my presence, that of Omar Sy, Ladj Ly or Frédéric Chau, Leïla Bekhti, for example, however gifted they may be, exonerates French cinema from an examination of conscience. There is always an over-representation of people perceived as non-white in roles with negative connotations - and it's not me saying this, it's the CSA, through its diversity barometer. There are still too few opportunities for younger people, who today in 2020 deplore what I deplored when I was starting out. Still too few non-whites behind the camera and almost no one in decision-making positions. I started this job when I was 20 years old. I am 45. A generation, not a few exceptions, should have risen. It hasn't. And it's unbearable as a citizen, a mother and an artist.

At the César ceremony, I deliberately used a inflammable symbol. If we refuse to measure differences in access to opportunities in terms of racial discrimination, perhaps we are accepting the status quo. Today, we need concrete action by decision-makers and numerical targets in order to measure progress. A few personal successes, however brilliant they may be, cannot justify the violence of large-scale unequal treatment.

A.H.: The substance of what Aïssa said to the César is relevant, it speaks to the moment, and being shocking has the virtue of awakening. The criticisms that followed were "I agree but"... In fact, it means that even when the substance is right, the form is never the right one. It's a form of censorship, there are people who have the right to speak and others who don't.

A.M.: Allowing oneself to express anger head-on is taboo because we are actresses and we are supposed to preserve the desire that others project on us. And also because it highlights the precarious nature of this profession: are you able to overcome your fear, to express your opinion, with the risk of losing something?

A.H.: From my point of view, that of a white woman - forgive me for putting myself in this position, but it's still unfortunately an assignment - I see that when I spoke about what happened to me personally, I received a lot of support, especially from people who are not especially on our side. However, as soon as I spoke up, politically, to say that giving the prize to a rapist fleeing from justice was an insult, all of a sudden I was really overstepping what I was entitled to do, what I could interfere in...

Do you think there's a "white privilege"?

A.M.: Words are so tricky...

A.H.: When Virginie Despentes uses the term "white privilege", it's a bit related to Aïssa's gesture when she counts the black people in the room. It's a question of pointing out, by calling up words that should be those of the past, the gap between the evolution of universalist ideals and the facts of manifest exclusion at work. Provocation points out this flaw and invites us to close it.

Is there state racism?

A.M.: I don't know about "state" racism, it would have to be written into the laws to say that. The right word is systemic: it means that there is something that does not allow for real equality, something in the established rules that allows a small number of people to discriminate without being worried. What also raises the question is the inertia of the state in the face of the continuation of systemic inequalities.

From what you say, we are at a turning point in the struggle against racial, gender, social and other forms of discrimination...

A.M.: I felt the turning point in 2018 with #MeToo, Time's Up, and when I saw all these women from such diverse backgrounds (in the streets) after Trump's election. It was an image I had never seen before in my generation. It was in the United States, and yet something happened to me in France, because I had been dreaming of this convergence for a long time. I'm not here to defend my chapel. I'm not going to be satisfied with a breakthrough if blacks have more roles while Arabs and Asians are still in a degraded situation in French cinema. The convergence I'm talking about didn't quite take place at the time of #MeToo, which quickly became a white women's movement in my eyes. In French cinema, there is also the "50-50 for 2020" movement [collective for parity and inclusion founded in 2018, editor's note] that I saw coming like the guerrilla movement we had been waiting for for a long time, pragmatic, quick, positively impatient, very constructive. The work done in favor of parity is colossal. On the other hand, I regret that diversity is the next program. But it cannot be the next program for me, that is the mistake. I've talked about it very openly, and frankly in a fairly relaxed way with some of them.

A.H.: Much more relaxed than I was, by the way!

A.M.: And then I said to myself that the battles are progressing on different levels and that we're going to have to find some kind of alignment. The fight for women's rights is not just a women's issue, it's a men's issue, just as the fight against racism is not just about POC. And it wasn't until 2020 and the murder of George Floyd that there were those voices, especially white voices, that said, "This is my problem too." Including in France, where this awakening of consciousness is made possible by the work done by the families of victims of police violence.

A.H.: In my political journey so far, I had forgotten to understand the places where I am not just in a situation of domination. I am also, as a white woman who is not in a precarious position, in a dominant position in certain aspects. Understanding that, feeling that, is essential. My political agenda was focused on feminism, and I didn't realize that it was implicitly white feminism, unintentionally excluding. What Aïssa says seems fundamental to me: the agenda that would order one cause after another is not conceivable and leads to inertia. It leagues us against each other in identity issues that are sterile, since they reiterate the terms of oppression. This is a major issue in the effectiveness of political struggles: how can we mobilize without reiterating the categorization we are fighting against? This implies understanding that there is a deep articulation between all systems of domination and that there is a need to defend these causes in a cross-cutting manner.

Aïssa's speech on June 2nd, during the demonstration initiated by the Adama Committee, called for a fair, dignified and positive representation of minorities in the media. But who can judge what is dignified and fair? Only the ones who are affected ?

A.H.: Today, in France, female characters in films are implicitly white women: I have a much wider range of possible jobs than that offered to a black actress. But in my field of so-called universal women, very often, women are offered satellite roles around male characters. These roles take up what is considered to be the normal white female nature, of restraint and reification. What appears natural here is a cultural construction of identity that is done precisely through stories. This is one of the reasons why the political stakes of representations in the cinema are so important.

Is this a criterion for assessing or rejecting a work? What should be done with existing works that have been reassessed as problematic?

A.H.: Works must be recontextualized. They are not created out of nowhere, out of time. Let's question them! That doesn't mean that we stop watching them, but that we ask ourselves what their political substratum is and what they convey. Questioning representations is a sign of vitality. And that does not mean that we would no longer have the right to see these works.

A.M.: With this waltz of statues of slavery figures in the United States or in the French overseas departments at the moment, the citizens gives their answer. Either the work must be contextualized, in a museum or in a place with a historical explanatory note, or it must stand out.

Is it women, more willingly than men, who carry this convergence of fights ?

A.M.: I feel a change in the scale of our lives, a major turning point in the way we perceive each other and allow ourselves to hybridize in these battles. Regarding the massive presence of women from cinema in front of the High Court on June 2, I wonder. In particular about my own capacity to build bridges... while guaranteeing the visibility of the fights against discrimination against women or POC. How do we ensure that the fight against discrimination, for equality and equity, is as visible as the rest? I am not at all sure how to do this. But it has to be done. When, the day after the César, I received a text message from Adèle, even though we don't know each other, and she writes to me to say "I heard you. I'm here. Let's meet", it can be as simple as that.

Why did you send that text?

A.H.: Because of the solitude in this room. And the brave gesture of saying what she said on stage. We'd met the same evening and maybe I hadn't caught the moment, I was captivated by our own event... That is, what had happened after we'd, let's say..., gone to get our coats a bit earlier in the dressing room... (Aïssa Maïga laughs) And I thought, let's not forget the constructed gesture, the political intentionality of Aïssa in there. I wanted to get closer to her courage. So I think that we shouldn't talk about masculinity by saying "men", that we should consider masculinity as a field of organization of power with its own complexities, and its intersectional repercussions. I refer to Angela Davis' book, Women, Race & Class, on the issue of the difficult articulation between the civil rights movement in the United States and the emerging white feminist movements where there was a lot of racism. Why don't we think of ourselves as spontaneous and necessary allies between categories of discrimination, racial, social and gendered? We need to take the history of this division seriously in order to work on it and overcome it. As Assa Traoré does in an ultra-intelligent way when she says "Whatever your religion, your sexual orientation, wherever you come from, whatever your skin color". It is an invitation to self-criticism of our own movement. This is my discovery at the beginning of this year: the self-criticism of my history as a white feminist.

When you get up during the César, is it thoughtful or impulsive?

A.H.: This award was a claim to the right to do whatever you want as long as you are at the top. That is to say: rich white men who don't feel concerned when we talk about violence. What it means beyond sexual violence is that there are people to whom repressive laws do not apply. It's as if the police and the laws shouldn't act against them, but around them... And that's what you feel in that moment in the room. What happened on César night was a dissolution of the status quo. Now it's either you stay in the room or you don't stay in the room.

A.M.: And it was important to be there at the César, because I read a lot about boycotting that evening, but for me there was no question of backing out. A boycott is not just staying at home behind your television, not being there without anyone really noticing. It was important to say that the home of cinema is also our home, our space, our place of expression. We are in a position to speak out and for that to have the virtue of provoking discussion. When that person wins that award, it's the time of the turkey, where someone praises the rapist grandfather, when everyone knows. And you're breathless, you can't move, time becomes elastic, everything is extremely heavy, it's unreal. You enter another dimension. And the fact that a person manages to regain possession of time, to become master of their time and master of their body by standing up and saying no, it put oxygen back in, it woke us up. Adèle and I looked at each other two or three times during the evening, we knew we were together. There was something like a physical experience. We boarded the ship together.

We're spotting the allies.

A.M.: That's right. And time returned to normal when Adèle, Céline Sciamma and others, including me, got up. It was a coherent political gesture in which many people recognized themselves.

Do you think that your political positions, formalized at the César, can have an impact on your career?

A.M.: The question is how do you break a family secret? Festen is one of my favorite films. (Laughs) I wasn't born at the time of the 2020 César, it's the result of a personal journey and a legacy. Others before me have spoken, for example Luc Saint-Eloy and Calixthe Beyala on the same issues at the Césars in 2000. When Canal + and the César invited me to come and give an award, I said "yes, but I want complete freedom". Blowing up a family secret is a movement for self-liberation, it's an essential meeting with yourself. Choosing to be on the side of silence, of the status quo and therefore of injustices with full knowledge of the facts is something I was quite incapable of doing. The consequences for one's profession are not that one doesn't care, but spitting out what one has to say is a top priority. The question of what it is going to cost behind it is resolved by the feeling of freeing the word, provoking debate, making a generational contribution to the fight for equality, which in essence concerns us all. I have an appointment with myself around 60, 65, the age when my children will be about the same age as I am today. There is something about transmission. I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror. I don't want to tell myself that I haven't taken advantage of my little privilege of being a POC exception in French cinema to the detriment of all those young people I meet on the street, who aren't white and who say to me with fear in their stomachs, "Do you think I can still do this job?"

What about you, Adèle?

A.H.: The message that was sent to me very clearly by a casting director is that I will never work again. Obviously, this person was very sure of himself, since he wrote it in print capital letters about a dozen times. What do you say when you ask for respect and silence? They say, "Don't speak out politically because it's not your role". But also: "Don't take the lead artistically either because you're an actress, you have to follow the genius of your director". This whole structure is part of this culture where you shouldn't listen to yourself but to submit. I don't know what the consequences will be for my job. What is certain is that I will never regret it. We did something that night that freed the voices of a lot of people. That is worth much more than all the threats to my career, which in any case is always fragile, because it is a precarious environment. If I totally respected the rules and said, "Yes, yes, you have to separate the man from the artist", that wouldn't stop me from being able to get out of the game. It's as much about inventing one's life as trying to open up the future.

Written by Cécile Daumas , Rachid Laïreche and Sandra Onana. Photo by Lucile Boiron

[hearthandhomemagick]

Cottage Witch Journal Entry - New Beginnings in Imbolc

It’s all an internal process. 

Imagine a tiny version of yourself, sitting in an empty, maybe even run-down room. You are surrounded by four blank walls and no décor. You have supplies and tools and options for how you fabricate this room, it is ultimately your choice on how you shape it. You can change it, you can adjust and repaint it, and you can even tear down certain walls, or build new ones with doors. All in all, this room is your choice and responsibility to maintain. 

The catch, though, is that this room is your responsibility and yours alone for the rest of your life on Earth. So, you can literally do whatever the fuck you want with this room, including private parties, public parties, etc. But you own it.

Now, imagine, if you could, inviting someone into your room. This is risky, but some are more comfortable with company in their room than others. A person comes and goes, leaving a sticker on your wall. Another person takes some flowers from your garden. Someone shows you a new section of your home you’ve never thought could exist. And another takes you to a place you wish you never knew existed. And then there will always be that one. The destructive, hard hitting and absolutely draining person who comes and takes everything you have before trashing the place and leaving you in shambles and surrounded by fire.

Addendum, imagine you isolate in your room, and are surrounded by so much beauty and art that you have curated. The room has always been one shape, but you’re comfortable and choose not to let others in. You have a bunch of internal thoughts and personality included in this room, but you are also haunted by the thoughts that never grow past their negative connotations. And when you look in the mirror, that shadow seems to hover around you as if it were an old friend. You make your own choices and own independence, but at the cost of lack of growth and understanding of others experiences. You eventually get used to the frozen feeling suffocating you in this room.

I bring this all up for it applies to the conversation at hand. 

Your entire life is completely shaped by your experiences, how open you are to influence, and how you process your experiences. I notice a lot of people, more recently, allowing a massive amount of people to influence the way their internal room is shaped and decorated. Example, when I was going home one night from karaoke, after having a rough night and not having a lot of fun, I decided to sing as loud as possible in my car so I could start feeling better. I get to a stop light and immediately feel this gut feeling of “you’re being watched.” I look over and the driver next to me had been laughing and recording me the entire time. I gave him the “wtf” look and sped off. That one person hurt me so bad in that moment that for well over a year I didn’t sing in my car or anyone else’s car. I had convinced myself that everyone was watching me from that point onward, and got sketched out doing something that provided me a sense of release and therapy. I allowed someone else to alter and change my room. From then on I started just trying to “blend in” and get by in society without people noticing or pointing me out to make fun of me and my flaws. But that’s not a way to live.

I shouldn’t live under the influence of other peoples realities. Of course, I am responsible when my actions affect someone’s reality, but to act is if we know what’s right for a person is ridiculous. This is where people start living for other people, including myself. There’s always a healthy amount of interaction to have with people, though, so as to be completely aware that they are living a life just as detailed and intricate as our own. Seeing others perspectives could lead us to something wonderfully amazing, so long as those perspective don’t dictate our own.

Ultimately, everyone is on their own spiritual journey so unique to their situation that it’s hard to figure out what is truly the right way to “live”. It’s easy for any of us to say, “This works! You should do this!” and it comes from a good place. We want to share our experiences with people so they may not have to endure the same thing. 

Here’s the deal, it may have worked for you, but it may not work for someone else. Your way of living is your own. Your wisdoms come from a place of history in your own life, and it is your responsibility to navigate your morals from a personal stand point, an understanding of others perspectives, and a logical stand point. It is NOT your responsibility to form another persons life, opinion, choices or spiritual journey. That’s all personal, Darling. 

Now think of this, when you offer advice to someone that worked out for you and they get excited to use it, only to find out it didn’t work at all for their own situation. At that point, it is just as much your fault the situation failed as much as it is the person who took your advice in the first place. Sometimes, it’s better to wait to give advice until it is asked, and then ask yourself whether your input is necessary or would offer a sustainable difference in the other persons life. 

Ultimately, everyone’s choice is their own, and when you pressure someone to choose what you would typically choose, you take away their freedom and power. This is where the balance of your life and it’s experiences come in. Learning to balance external and internal experiences and how they affect you/how you are receptive to them can be extremely complicated. This is especially so for people who simply don’t wish to reflect on themselves, because they feel as though the world has wronged them in some way or that the rose colored glasses are more favorable than the reality they must face. 

That’s not my Spiritual Journey, though. In the end, their eyes look back at them in the mirror and reflect reality. And, in time, they will understand lessons they didn’t before, but it’s not my responsibility to teach them those lessons. Again, it’s their journey, not my own. They have to want to know, want to learn and want to grow. 

I say all of this to simply throw out there some food for thought. Are you truly responsible for yourself, or are you pushing blame on others? Now, that’s not me saying, “It’s your fault this happened.” but rather me asking if you are being responsible for yourself after what you experience? You have every right to feel whatever you feel, especially if you are hurt. But you will only ever feel that feeling if you are not willing to heal and move forward. Ultimately, it is your choice, and it’s okay to take that route if you feel it is justified. But you are responsible for your feelings, no one else has power over that unless you give them that power.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that no one can be responsible for your bedroom except for you. And you have to be gentle with yourself in the process, otherwise you put more pressure and damage on your room.

Balance is key, even when we have extreme moments in life. If we give ourselves margin to grow, space to breathe, capacity to listen, and time to slow down, life becomes easier to manage. When you get caught in the current of a river, they say to relax so you don’t lose energy. When you flow with the current, rather than against it, you prevent yourself from drowning and have an easier chance at grabbing something to stop you and slow you down. It’s a survival tactic, and a great one for your mental health. Then again, is it even my place to tell the fighters to stop fighting? Who knows, truly. Complicated Concepts.

I simply wanted to open these thoughts and elucidations, and hope someone can read this and offer conversation or dialogue so we can talk about these concepts. I appreciate all of you and hope you have a wonderful day!

Happy Imbolc!!!

[firelord-frowny]

I’ve talked a little bit about how at least one ~negative aspect~ of white supremacy/racism that impacts white people is that it can be SO DIFFICULT to avoid being Accidentally Racist over something that really shouldn’t have been that deep, and WOULDN’T have been that deep if not for the pervasiveness of white supremacy in america, and this bit about the lil country band Lady Antebellum and the controversy surrounding their name illustrates that pretty well, I think:

The band members have always said that the band's name was chosen arbitrarily, complaining about the difficulty of choosing a name. Inspired by the "country" style nostalgia of a photo shoot at a mansion from the Antebellum South, they said, "one of us said the word and we all kind of stopped and said, man, that could be a name"[40] and "Man that's a beautiful Antebellum house, and that's cool, maybe there's a haunted ghost or something in there like Lady Antebellum."[41] Haywood concluded, "[We] had a lady in the group, obviously, and threw Lady in the front of it for no reason. I wish we had a great resounding story to remember for the name, but it stuck ever since."[40] The name was always controversial, with a critic in Ms. Magazine writing in 2011 that the band's name "seems to me an example of the way we still — nearly 150 years after the end of the Civil War, nearly 50 years after the Civil Rights Act; and in a supposedly post-racial country led by a biracial president — glorify a culture that was based on the violent oppression of people of color".[41][42]

On June 11, 2020, joining widespread commercial response to the George Floyd protests,[41] the band announced it would abbreviate its name to its existing nickname "Lady A"[43] in an attempt to blunt the name's racist connotations.[1] The band members stated on social media that, never having previously sought the dictionary definition of the word "antebellum", they now consulted their "closest black friends and colleagues" so that their "eyes opened wide to the injustices, inequality and biases black women and men have always faced and continue to face every day. Now, blind spots we didn't even know existed have been revealed."[44] Fan response was mixed, with many decrying virtue signaling or even disparaging the protests.[41]American Songwriter said, "Given that the world knows what that A stands for, to many this change does little more than add extra insult to this ongoing injury."[45]

The next day, it was widely reported that the name "Lady A" had already been in use for more than 20 years by Seattle-based African American activist and blues, soul, funk, and gospel singer Anita White. The band again admitted ignorance of any prior use, which White called "pure privilege". Interviewed by Rolling Stone, White described the band's token acknowledgement of racism while blithely appropriating an African American artist's name: "They're using the name because of a Black Lives Matter incident that, for them, is just a moment in time. If it mattered, it would have mattered to them before. It shouldn't have taken George Floyd to die for them to realize that their name had a slave reference to it. It's an opportunity for them to pretend they're not racist". A veteran music industry lawyer observed that such name clashes are uncommon due to the existence of the Internet.[46][47] The band members contacted White the next week to apologize for having inadvertently co-opted and dominated her name,[48] saying that the Black Lives Matter movement had inspired them to a collaborative attitude. They nonetheless required retaining the same name, though she believed dual-naming is inherently impossible.[49]She said "We talked about attempting to co-exist but didn't discuss what that would look like"[48] because the band members would not directly respond to that explicit question three times during the conversation or in two contract drafts. She soon submitted a counteroffer that either the band would be renamed, or that her act would be renamed for a $5 million fee plus a $5 million donation to be split between Seattle charities, a nationwide legal defense fund for independent artists, and Black Lives Matter.[49]

On July 8, 2020, the band filed a lawsuit against White, asking a Nashville court to affirm its longstanding trademark of the name. The press release read: "Today we are sad to share that our sincere hope to join together with Anita White in unity and common purpose has ended. She and her team have demanded a $10 million payment, so reluctantly we have come to the conclusion that we need to ask a court to affirm our right to continue to use the name Lady A, a trademark we have held for many years."[50]

On September 15, 2020, White filed a counter-suit asserting her claim to the Lady A trademark and rejecting the notion that both artists could operate in the same industry under the same brand identity. She is seeking damages for lost sales and a weakened brand, along with royalties from any income the band receives under the Lady A moniker.[51][52]

Like????????? this REALLY didn’t need to be a thing. 

And one thing I think black folks and other poc need to chill out with is dismissing any white person’s attempt at Being Better in how they move through a white supremacist world in a way that seeks to undo or at least not exacerbate white supremacy. I can TOTALLY believe that, in their white ignorant bliss, this band really did choose their name without realizing for a moment that it might leave a fucked up taste in some people’s mouths. Honestly like... antebellum IS a cool sounding word lmfao and if it wasn’t so heavily associated with slavery-era america, i’d wanna name something antebellum, too! 

And like, yes, it’s true that it ~shouldn’t have taken george floyd’s death~ for anyone at all to suddenly decide that they want to go a little bit out of their way to denounce or at least not seem to promote racism in some small way. But it did. And it does. And every fucking time there’s a gross act of violence and injustice acted out on a person of color in front of the world, there’s always going to be a brand new white person out there who Sees The Light for the very first time. That doesn’t mean their new perspective isn’t genuine, and it doesn’t mean it happened All Of A Sudden. If anything, it was something they’d been thinking about for a long time, but didn’t know how to address it, or what to say, or who to say it to, or how to talk about it in their own community. OBVIOUSLY that problem is WAY LESS BAD than, ya know, actually experiencing racism, but it’s still a real thing that some white folks go through, and being mad about it isn’t going to make it NOT a real thing. it shouldn’t have taken george floyd’s death. it shouldn’t have taken trayvon martin’s death. it shouldn’t have taken the instatement of one of the most vile human beings to ever assault the face of the earth for This Person or That Person to finally want to make a positive and public change, BUT IT DID. It always does. That, unfortunately, is How It Works. 

And so, this band adjusts it’s name in an effort to not seem hostile. OBVIOUSLY it’s not a grand show of solidarity. OBVIOUSLY it’s not meant to convince anyone that they’re Super Amazing White People Who Will Stop At Nothing For Racial Equality. It was literally just a small, simple gesture. They’re just modifying their image, because they were no longer comfortable with knowing how that word makes a lot of people feel. Bc like... let’s be real: probably a solid ZERO of their fanbase would have given a shit if they’d just left the name as it was. Nobody who’s going to a Lady Antebellum concert was pouting about the name. And if anything, they prolly stood a better chance of LOSING fans for ~being politically correct~ than gaining fans for changing their name to something less annoying. 

And it JUST SO HAPPENS that the slight lil adjustment they made to their name steps on the toes of an existing artist, and it JUST SO HAPPENS that this artist is black, and is also an ACTIVIST in social and racial justice. 

Oops. 

And so, obviously people don’t interpret it as an honest mistake. Instead, it’s a result of white privilege. And I mean like??? ok, maybe it is. But I ALSO had never heard of Anita White until I read this fucking wiki page lmfao. So like... my ignorance isn’t due to no white privilege on my part. Maybe it’s a consequence of a white supremacist culture that wouldn’t glorify her and celebrate her and put her name everywhere... but that’s a different thing from privilege. 

So now not only are the bands efforts to adjust to a world that’s becoming more aware of racial injustice being dismissed as disingenuous or too-little-too-late, but now they’re ALSO being accused of Using Their White Privilege to trample all over an artist they’d never heard of. 

i DO think that after finding out the name was already taken, and after talking with her about it and determining that she wasn’t interested in sharing - as is her right - they should have just said “ok, sorry, thanks for talking with us about it” and picked something different. i think it’s kinda ridiculous that they think they should sue her and i think she’s HELLA right for suing their asses right back, and I hope she gets her damn money. 

But I’m also cognizant of how emotionally/psychologically upsetting it can feel to have to just Change Your Name after so many years of living with it. It makes sense that despite their desire to adapt and choose a new name that doesn’t make people cringe, they still want to try to hold on to the feeling that THEY associated with their own name. “Lady A” seemed like a happy medium: They can remain Who They Are while also showing that Who They Are is someone who’s not trying to glorify a disgusting era of history. But if “Lady A” isn’t an option... what’s left? What else could they call themselves that wouldn’t feel like a totally new, alien identity?? 

So, I understand how, on an emotional level, they want to fight to keep it. 

But uh. They really need to just Be Sad about it and let it go. Just consider it one of the small, upsetting sacrifices that white folks may sometimes have to make as we ALL struggle and stumble through this fuckin long-ass road of Making The World Less Terrible For People Of Color, and move on. 

But yeah, like. 

It’s fucking ridiculous that this was even an issue, and it was only an issue because of racism!!!!! If white supremacists didn’t manufacture a culture that oppresses people of color and glorifies the pre-civil-war era SPECIFICALLY for the good ol slavery, then perhaps people could wax poetic about the artistic and environmental aesthetic of that era without it being assumed that they Must Be Racist. Bc like??? idk if yall know this lmfao but i LOVE????? colonial american music. like, the kind of stuff with that Ashokan Farewell vibe. I think it sounds beautiful. And i really fuckin love the black spiritual music that was developed in that time. and i think so much of the architecture and fashion was so???? Nice. Just pleasant! But I can’t even get myself to fully enjoy it because of all the fuckin connotations that have been stuck to it. 

A band should be able to name theirself a name without it being such a goddamn fucking cultural crisis. 

But they can’t! And it is! 

Thanks, White Supremacy! 

[p0ck3tp03t]

Rampant Thoughts 18.

I want to talk about the concept of power and its significance to me. Recently I have been having dreams where I find myself in a state of being oppressed by forces that I cannot control. They end up causing enough harm to make me raise against them and retaliate without mercy. Upon waking up, the only things I end up recalling is how I take the lives from those that brought me suffering. Scenarios change each night and the dreams always occur towards morning but that is besides de point. The point I want to make is that, fighting back makes me feel just in my actions as if the consequences have no hold over the future; I fight back until my body decides to awaken.

The only assumption that can be drawn from this is that my mind is possibly trying to cope with anxieties manifested within the realm of reality. Unlike dreams, reality brings with it consequences much more dire than anyone would want to acknowledge, thus retaliation becomes a tougher choice to take for most. It is really hard not to make this about politics, laws, values, principles that concern the relation between society and the multitude of people living within it.

In order to be as concise and specific as I want I will have to ignore any form of objective thinking and purely focus on what this idea makes me feel as someone who sternly believes they are weak in more ways than one. Long story short, I want to be strong, powerful and intimidating to the point where I wouldn't have to suffer the fear of being in danger at the hand of unforeseen events. Despite reminiscent of paranoia and I agree that this urge stems from that concept, that doesn't mean that manifesting such an urge classifies one as ill. Wanting to feel safe is a natural thing to desire but sadly, human nature brings with it many irregularities that end up preying on the mind, causing it to have distorted views of reality. When such distortions occur, the concept of life becomes imbalanced and thus the safety of life is discarded for the sake of such distortions. A cycle is born where one distortion gives birth to another whose only goal is to negate the distortion that birthed it. Between them there exists a fundamental difference that ironically balances the two. As one distortion is born from selfish desires, the other receives life out of the will for revenge. Though they are both the same thing in essence, the reasoning between them causes the act of vengeance to receive more justification on the basis of human instinct.

Not all distortions fall in the same category as some are milder in their intensity when it comes to modifying the way one perceives the world. This being the case, I can safely say that all people have more or less developed and manifested some form of distortion during their lifetime. There are multiple positions from which someone can develop a distortion but I want to concentrate  on the position that I consider my own. When someone suffers from a strong enough distortion of reality, they will try and modify the world to fit the distortion that haunts them. For this change to occur, force must be applied on reality in order for it to fall in the mold of the distortion and this can be challenging since reality will not simply follow orders and fall in place without convincing. When reality simply refuses to follow the law of distortion, that is when the concept of power comes into play, in order to force the unruly into a submissive position from which they cannot retaliate without suffering various forms of consequence. Thus another form of balance is created that follows the law of one against many, which despite being faulty from various points of view ends up existing still, all thanks to the concept of power. I mentioned the idea of one versus many a few lines back, and it is obvious that said phrase does not portray anything even remotely connected to balance but when you give the one, power then a distorted form of balance catches life. Power given to someone with a strong enough distortion can bring about great change that can affect the world in ways that fall in the mold of the distortion.

Fundamentally, distortions are a sign of the human mind working, creating and evolving in order to bring itself to higher places as it strives to become better. Sometimes they manifest in forms that cause people to crave power in order to bring the distortion to fruition and this is where distortions become a detriment as opposed to a benefit. Given power, such distortions become selfish aspirations that subject the world to suffering simply to satisfy the needs of the distorted mind. As such events transpire, they give birth to other forms of distortion such as vengeance as I mentioned prior as well as fear as a response that balances the view of the one in power.

One aspect that influences the way a distortion affects an individual is the intent behind the distortion. Without intent a distortion cannot be brought to life, making the distortion into nothing but empty words, passing thoughts and untapped potential. Different results can be obtained based on the type of distortion and the intent behind it but generally they fall into the category of positive and negative. Both types of distortions have the potential to inspire the creation of other distortions as the cycle is perpetuated naturally. Change is something that both create but one of them, specifically the negative type though it brings with it change, this change is never wanted or desired  by anyone but the creator. The blend of intent, distortion and power give life to an entity that creates nothing but fear around it, which as a result creates more fear which eventually craves power in order to satisfy the newly born distortion of revenge.

Coming full circle, I crave power because I have always been in the position of the oppressed most of my life and living in fear, be it irrational or otherwise isn't a life that should be considered normal. Despite the negative connotations of power, it isn't something that is exclusively negative, on the contrary it is a tool available to all that feel the need for it. It is actually distortion inducing in a positive way to witness weakness be overcome through the application of power and intention in order to achieve a goal that in its own way is a form of creation. Craving power in itself is not a bad choice if the intention behind it is a positive one.

Though I may never achieve the levels of power I crave in order to completely eliminate the way I feel regarding the world around me, I rejoice in the knowledge that I can pursue it in peace and not war. As a last note, I just hope that I will never have to pursue power for vengeance due to the lack of power in my possession at the time, because then I do not know if I could cope with such a reality and I might turn into something unsightly.

                                                                                                 By:PocketPoet     

[kaylormovedsept5th2019]

is it too late to do reputation discourse??? im doing reputation discourse.

...ready for it? says the subject is a "killer" and she "wonders how many girls he had loved and left haunted", despite toe never having a serious girlfriend before 👻

end game says the subject has a "big reputation" and she has "heard about you" despite toe being very, very unknown upon their meeting (and that anonymity is allegedly why taylor wanted to date him, so...which is it?); later a post that noted she was wearing a nude lip despite the lyrics saying "here's the truth from my red lips" so she was lying, and taylor liked it 💋

i did something bad says the subject a "playboy" despite allegedly being super in love with her last two beaus; she also says she "let them think they saved me" so the listener must assume taylor is describing herself as not being invested in these relationships ✈

don't blame me says taylor was "toyin' with them older guys/ just to play things for me to use" despite allegedly being super in love with her last two beaus; she says she "would fall from grace" which according to the het narrative implies she'd be willing to be a cheater to be with toe 😇

delicate says "do the girls back home touch you like i do?" despite toe never having a serious girlfriend before; she then pretends "you're mine, all the damn time" which is contradicted by the aforementioned lack of his previous romantic ties, or that taylor couldnt be with him right away because it was too soon after her previous relationship which means in the brief one month gap between dumping tom and dating toe she began at least sleeping with him which means she did not care about tom enough to need time to recover (despite later saying she has made up her mind she's better off being alone) (and despite liking tom enough to date him instead of toe even though she allegedly wrote a whole song about being taken with toe immediately), OR that taylor cannot be with him all the time because she is with someone else - making her a cheater 🦋

look what you made me do is excluded for obvious reasons

so it goes... says "all eyes on you, my magician/ all eyes on us" despite keeping their relationship secret until after reputation was done (since papa swift said reputation's release was put on hold because of the trial) so how could she have written those lyrics before they were true; "gold cage, hostage to my feelings" the only imagery used by taylor about a gold cage has a negative connotation as she is a prisoner of one in lwymmd 🐦

gorgeous says taylor was still dating cowpatty "and i got a boyfriend, he's older than us/ he's in the club doing, i don't know what" when she met toe and wrote this song about how enchanted she was with him despite dating tom immediately after cowpatty; why would taylor date someone else if she felt that "you've ruined my life, by not being mine" and "there's nothing i hate more than what i can't have", implying she was emotionally cheating on tom basically the whole relationship, and then immediately hooking up with him after that relationship ended so she did have him and that contradicts the latter lyrics; why should toe "think about the consequence/ of you touching my hand in a darkened room", since no one will see anyway if it's dark, and it would only be bad if she was dating someone else and was cheating; why would taylor think "if you've got a girlfriend, i'm jealous of her" but then say "but if you're single that's honestly worse" because why would him being available be a problem especially if him having a girlfriend made her jealous, and then also she...went and dated someone else 🥃

getaway car says taylor "didn't mean it" and "i wanted to leave him/ i needed a reason", meaning not only did she actually not like tom but was using him to leave cowpatty; she frames the end of the relationship as "i was cryin' in a getaway car/ i was dyin' in a getaway car" implying it was very hard for her to do so despite the contradiction in aforementioned songs implying she either didn't care about the relationship, was emotionally cheating, or only using him to get away from her old boyfriend 🚘

king of my heart says "i'm perfectly fine, i live on my own/ i made up on my mind, i'm better off bein' alone", despite dating both tom and toe immediately after the previous relationships; "we met a few weeks ago" if about toe the met gala was months ago at that point, unless she wrote the song during her relationship with tom, again making her an emotional cheater 👑

dancing with our hands tied says "i, i loved you in secret/ first sight, yeah, we love without reason" but then proceeded to date someone else and implying she harbored secret feelings for him through another relationship; the entire story of the song also doesn't even really make sense when taylor has said it was written and recorded in january 2017, long before the relationship went public, but if the song is saying the fame ruined their relationship there is no public incident between october 2016 and the song's completion so what is even being talked about here, why would she not be able to dance with him again💃🏼🕺

dress says "i don’t want you like a best friend" but after allegedly being close with taylor since may toe did not know what greys anatomy was in november 2016; she says multiple times throughout the album their relationship is a secret, even in the first verse of this song singing "they've got no idea about me and you", which completely contradicts the line "everyone thinks that they know us", and the song was completed before the relationship went public 👗

this is why we can't have nice things do is excluded for obvious reasons

call it what you want says "so call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to" which doesn't super make sense because why would anyone want to call it anything other than a romantic relationship 🔥

new year's day is implied to take place on said holiday, meaning it was conceived on january 1st 2017, so taylor made the decision "you and me forevermore" about two months after they began dating 🍾

bonus: in taylor's cover of september, she changes the song's original date to "the 28th night of september", placing an important time stamp on that date for toe, however if that date was in 2016 and is their allegedly anniversary as many have assumed, that would mean they officially began dating within the same month of her breakup with tom, which would also make the king of my heart lyrics of taylor deciding to be alone absolutely impossible, and also brings into question the subject of multiple other songs that our allegedly about toe when the timeline of the evidence of when their recordings took place and the relationship beginning are not possible 🎼

[tpo-akemi]

Chapter 2: Reflection

There is a reason why people say the dead haunt you forever. The situation I am in is the perfect example for it.

           Sam. The friend I thought I lost a decade ago, was now standing right in front of me. There wasn’t anything to debate, it was him. The devilish gleam in his dark eyes gave it right away. It’s hard to forget the eyes that ruined your life.

           Back in high school, he was always the adventurous teenager that people liked, whether they were male, female, classmates, parents or teachers. He was a magnet that attracted people naturally, so it was normal for me to get close to him. One thing that people didn’t know about his life was the negative connotation to his adventurous spirit. He always liked to try new things, which got him into trouble. Bit by bit, his adventures walked the thin line of law and morality. Trespassing, destruction of property, and finally, drugs. Nobody beside his mother knew about his dark side, since she was the one using everything in her power to cover up her son’s mistakes. Unfortunately, the drugs came into his life at a time when I was at my biggest low, so he offered to help in his own way. He was the reason I became addicted. The highs were the only thing keeping me from sinking even lower mentally at that time and Sam was the only friend I had. He pulled me down under the water with him, but the problem is that you can only hold your breath for a few seconds.

           It was a cold winter night, just three days after my birthday passed, when my mother and I were woken up by loud knocking. It was Sam’s mother, shaking uncontrollably, sobbing so much that I feared she was going to lose all water in her body, and screaming “He is gone! He is gone!” We called the police, but it was too late. Sam’s death certificate said that he had died from a cocaine overdose, but it was all lies, because here he is right now, standing alive and well in front of me.

           Sam pulled his mask down without a word and turned to the other members. “Today’s meeting will be postponed. We will meet tomorrow at the same time. Also, Mark, call one of your men to take out the trash.” He pointed his opened palm in the direction of Johnny’s dead body.

“Yes, Master Max.” A rather short man answered to the request from the 6th seat on the left from Sam’s chair. His voice was deep, not something you would expect from someone with such a small figure. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket, buttoned up only so a little sliver of his black shirt from underneath could be seen. On his head was a white mask covered in small white doll hands. Right after he answered he stood up from his seat and gave a deep bow from the waist down before returning back to his chair.

           With that, Sam turned on his heel back towards the door he came from and said “Everyone is dismissed.” In union, everybody stood up, bowed and chanted “Power to Simon.”

           I watched as the room emptied out slowly, one by one member leaving the conference room. Looks like there was an order in which the members left the room, probably to lower the risk of them finding out who their members are. When the last one left the room, I took a step towards the exit, but was immediately stopped by Sam’s hand wrapping around my forearm. I stopped in my tracks and turned towards him.

           “Tomorrow after the meeting, you will be coming with me to my office for some additional interrogation. It’s nothing special, I just want to collect all the necessary information before you begin taking on your role.” He explained and let go of my forearm when he realized I wasn’t going anywhere and had my full attention.

           “No problem. There isn’t much to say about my life anyway.” I answered. “Should I make a CV?” I added the joke at the end.

           At that Sam took off his mask again, showing the amusement on his face with a smirk and a low chuckle. There was that devilish gleam in his eyes again. God, how I wish I could wipe it off. That way I could at least have some revenge after he ruined my life with drugs.

           “There will be no need for a CV Chris. Just make sure you tidy up a bit. You will be showing me your face, and I am a sucker for good first impressions.” He added.

           If I didn’t have the mask on, he could easily see the color disappear from my face. I will have to show him how I look like tomorrow. There is no chance of him not recognizing me. Even a decade later, my face structure and hair haven’t changed one bit. The only thing different are the bags under my eyes and the level of messiness of my hair. Who knows what he will do if he finds out that one of his members knows who he really is and his backstory? I gulped down the large lump in my throat and with a slightly shaky voice said that it was not a problem. A pleased smile appeared on his face, showing that he was happy with my answer. Just like with the other members, he turned on his heel and started walking to his own exit.

           “You will be getting your official mask tomorrow too, so hold on to that one for one more day. When you exit the building, head right and you’ll find a parking lot . A black car with a chauffeur will be waiting for you and will drive you back home.” He added as he was ascending the stairs. I gave a noise of confirmation that I understood him and headed towards the exit. I could see Sam staring at me from across the room, waiting for me to leave so he could leave too. I took the hint and got out and went down the dimly lit hallway, alone this time.

           As promised, there was a black Honda waiting in the parking lot next to the building. My mask was already off so I wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention from people passing by. The main street of the city was always busy. Whether it was people heading home from shifts at work, or teenagers going out to clubs, there was always someone roaming the streets at night. I reached out and opened the car door and quickly entered the car. There was a tall man behind the wheel, the top of his head almost hitting the ceiling of the car. His age was clearly visible on his face, you could see that the wrinkles on his face were there for a while. His hair was jet black with a shine from the gray hairs that started to appear. His eyes had a stern, yet kind glare and above them were a pair of bushy eyebrows that matched his equally bushy mustache.

           “Excuse me sir, I believe you are in the wrong car. This is not a taxi, I am a paid chauffeur for someone.” Said the man calmly while turning to face me from his seat. His voice matched his appearance, it was deep and smooth, giving of an aura of safety around him.

           “I presume you were Johnny’s driver?” I questioned.

           “And I presume that by the tone in your voice and by your question that he is dead.” He replied. I didn’t say anything and after a few seconds he let out a deep sigh and shifted in his seat to face the wheel in front of him.

“Thought so. He was always getting in trouble with Master Max. I knew his sarcastic remarks would one day cross the line.” He added and shook his head. “Where to, Sir?”

“You will leave me at the bottom of the hill where the main church is.” I answered.

“Unfortunately Sir, that won’t be happening. My duty is to drive you home safe from the meeting, leaving you anywhere that isn’t the front of your house is out of question.” He explained.

“Then drive me to Liberty Quarter, the house number is 14.” I unwillingly complied.

The ride was quiet, the only noise coming from the subtle rumbling of the car engine. If the small bumps in the road weren’t rocking the car, I would have fallen asleep. I folded my arm at the elbow and leaned it against the closed window and put my head on top. The traffic lights would periodically splash a little light in the car so the interior would be visible for a few seconds. It was a decent looking car with black leather seats.

The thoughts in my head wandered to all the things Sam said. I will be showing him my face tomorrow and all will end. Sam will find out that his new member knows who he is and will shoot me dead. For some reason it doesn’t bother me. Maybe this shit show of a life will probably be over and I’ll get some peace. No, I can’t think like that, survival instinct Chris, activate it. I have to find a way to make myself unrecognizable to Sam. From what I remember, Sam had a very short fuse when we were teenagers, so there is a high probability of it still being prominent even ten years later. So somehow making an excuse to not take off my mask may make him become angry and shoot me anyway. There will definitely be a weapon for self-defense in that office. I will have to comply to everything he says. Maybe I could make some cuts and bruises on my face? I would need help for that, but the guys around my neighborhood can’t be trusted. Give them a finger and they’ll take the whole arm. I’d be dead in two minutes. I will have to find a way to do it myself. But how? Maybe…

“We are here Sir. I wish you a pleasant evening and night.” The driver broke the silence along with my chain of thoughts. I shook my head as an attempt to get back into reality quicker.

“Yeah, thank you for the ride. Hope you have a nice night too…uhm…”

“…Harrison.” He finished my sentence.

“Harrison, right. Your name really suits you. I’m Chris.” I mumbled.

The tall man shifted in his seat and faced me. He extended his hand and between his bony fingers was a little card. I took it and examined it. There was a series of numbers and underneath was a name. Harrison Duncan.

“This is my phone number, so you can call me when you want me to drive you somewhere, but keep it Simon related. I am not a free taxi. Call me 15 minutes before you need to leave for a meeting and I will be waiting in front of your house and take you to the place you need to be at.” He explained while pointing at me like he is scolding a child. I had to physically stop myself from rolling my eyes at him.

“No problem Harrison. My next meeting is tomorrow at the same time as this one. Can you wait for me here at 21:45? I think 15 minutes will be enough to get back to the building for Simon meetings.” I said.

“That works too.” Harrison added, ending his sentence with a chuckle as to show that he is amused with my answer.

After wishing him good night, I left the car and went towards my house. It could barely be called a house, but it was all I got. Harrison drove off after he saw that I got in my house. I turned on the lights and saw the familiar interior of my living room. Or maybe it is best to call it my bedroom. The room was small, just enough space to put in everything a person needed to live. On the left was a couch with a bundled up blanket on it and a pillow leaning on one of the armrests. Around it was random junk, from empty baggies to ramen cups filled with water and cigarette buds. Opposing the couch was a small TV, outdated and barely working. Left of the couch was a bar stand that divided the living room and kitchen, also covered in useless junk. The kitchen was also standard. Unlike the living room floor that was lined all the way around with a stained gray carpet, the kitchen had a tile floor. In the middle there was a small table, next to it a fridge, alongside with some work surface. Passing the fridge, a bathroom can be found and inside a washing machine, toilet, a dirty tub and a sink with a mirror above it. This dirty place was what I called home.

I sighed deeply and took off my jacket before throwing myself on the couch. I contemplated on if I should change into sleepwear before dosing off, but my body and mind had too much stress this day that they really needed some rest. I took the blanket from underneath me and covered myself with it and was off like a light.

Unfortunately, my slumber was short lived. I woke up screaming from a nightmare. The light was still turned on and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the brightness of it. I didn’t remember what the nightmare was about, but I know it had to do something with Sam and death. I glanced at the clock above the TV. It was 4 AM. I continued staring at it while I concentrated on steadying my breathing. When I felt my heart rate slow down I closed my eyes and sagged into the couch with a sigh that quickly turned into a grunt. I raised my hands and covered my face, completely closing myself off from the rest of the world.

I can’t do this. I’m not ready for this kind of pressure. I will slip up at some point I’ll be as good as dead. The thought that the day I slip up is very likely tomorrow, actually today now that midnight passed, alone is making my heartbeat rise quickly. I need to find a way to calm down.

I got up and rushed to the bathroom as quickly as my still half asleep body would let me. Turning on the faucet, I tried to cool down with splashing my face a few times, but to no avail. I can’t wash away my features, I can only make them clearer by getting off the dirt from my face. Can I take them off? Before even questioning my thought process, I started clawing at my cheeks and pulling down my skin as if I was trying to rip it off like a mask. I grunted at the slight sting my fingernails made on my cheeks, my frustration only growing bigger realizing that it isn’t working. I finally came back to my senses and stopped. Splashing my face one last time, I turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel to dry off my face. What I saw in the mirror was a face of a madman. Streaks of redness went down from my eyes down to my jaw, yet I could still recognize the pale man in front of the mirror. No doubt about it. It was me. The jet black, dry hair and the round, foggy, hazel eyes that were staring right back at me. I could still see that it was me, and that means Sam will too. I was not out of danger yet. I need to think of something else. C’mon Chris, think, think! Then an idea popped into my head.

The mirror.

Smash your head into the mirror. It will leave you with bruises and cuts all over you face.

I looked away from my reflection and started pacing around the little bathroom. Is it really worth it? I am genuinely debating if I should smash my head into glass just for the sake of being mutilated. I don’t have anything to treat my wounds if I do go through with it, so there is a possibility of my dying from losing too much blood. But dying after Sam finds out who I am has a 100% chance of ending with me dying. I have to pick the less of two evils.

I stopped in front of the sink again and braced my hands on its sides. I took another glance in the mirror. I was met with an undetermined glare, and with that I knew I was going to chicken out.

“Focus!” I yelled at myself and glanced down at the drain and shook my head. I took a few deep breaths as I tried to make my thoughts shut up. I needed an empty head if I wanted to do this. I started tapping my fingers into the side of the sink, listening to the pleasing clinks of the stone. Clink, clink, clink. Suddenly, it was as if I heard him. The chuckle. That same low chuckle I heard just a few hours ago. Was Sam here? Is he mocking me? Does he think I’m weak? I lifted my head and in the reflection of the mirror I didn’t see myself. My face was swapped with a man in his late twenties, with black eyes and ashy blonde hair. I tapped the sink again.

Chuckle.

Without thinking, I let out an animalistic roar and smashed the mirror with my forehead. It broke on impact and some of the pieces fell into the sink below. Not that I cared. I finally attacked Sam. There he is, I see him stumbling, clearly surprised I actually had the balls to attack him. Serves him right. First he ruins my life, then he makes fun of me? He is looking for a death wish acting like that. I head-butted the mirror again and saw him fall back, but so did I. I wasn’t going to lose this fight this easily. I quickly got up and hit the mirror again, the amount of blood on the glass shards slowly getting larger with every try of an offense. At some point Sam turned into me, but at that point I was too gone to actually care. I got the momentum I needed and I wasn’t planning on losing it anytime soon. My body had different plans. I only got in a couple of more head-butts before my vision blurred from the mix of blood loss and multiple concussions. I tripped over my own feet and fell, hitting the area around my left cheekbone on the edge of the bathtub in the process.

I whined in pain when I finally hit the ground. I could feel the blood trickling down the sides of my face as I lied on the cold bathroom floor. The ringing in my ears was almost unbearable and the pressure in my head only made it worse. My breathing was shaky and no amount of air in my lungs, no matter how much of a deep breath I took. My heart was going a mile a minute, trying to pump blood to make up for the lost blood. My fingers shook and chills went down my spine every few seconds. My eyes were closed so the blood from the wound on my forehead wouldn’t get into them. I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, trying to slowly calm my whole system down. Slowly, my breathing got back to normal along with my heartbeat, and my shakiness and shivers went away. I slowly brought up my hands to wipe away the blood that was threatening to get in my eyes and got myself up into a sitting position.

“So...that happened.” I told myself as I rose from the floor slowly. I could finally see the aftermath. There was blood almost everywhere, a small pool of it on the floor where my head laid, on the walls around the mirror, the mirror itself and in the sink. This will be a bitch to clean up. Then I finally took a look at myself in the mirror, or what was left of it. In one of the shards I saw the reflection of an idiot. There was dried up blood all over my forehead and cheeks, cuts from the glass all over my nose and chin and I noticed a purple eye forming under my left eye. It probably came from the hit against the tub. Even if she tried, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me, which meant my job was done successfully. I reached out and opened the drawer under the sink in hopes of finding something that will actually help me clean my wounds a little bit. Lo and behold, an almost empty pack of anti-bacterial wet wipes was at the bottom of the drawer, along with some duck-tape. I carefully cleaned my wounds, one by one, using one wipe to clean it, and using another as a band aid, securing it with duck-tape to my face. After finishing the treatment, I took a few gulps of water before leaving the bloody bathroom. It is too early for chores; I’ll clean everything up in the morning. My steps were still shaky from the blood loss, but holding on to the wall and nearby furniture, I managed to shuffle up to the couch. I sank into my seat and threw my head back slowly and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes before finally sinking back into my pillow and covering myself with the old blanket. This round of sleeping there were no nightmares.

[news4dzhozhar]

I FIRST MET Dzhokhar “Jahar” Tsarnaev in seventh grade, on the basketball court at the Cambridge YMCA in Central Square, where I played on weekdays & in a Saturday league. He went to the gym to use the weight room & shoot around. I disregarded him  —  he sucked at basketball.

Basketball helped me feel like an American, instead of a Muslim whose single mother dragged him here from Morocco looking for a better life, then worried constantly that we wouldn’t find it. Before basketball, I didn’t really fit in. I wasn’t particularly smart or witty. Worse, I had started second grade in Cambridge the very same month that the Twin Towers fell. On the playground, kids would call me “sand [expletive]” “Saddam Hussein’s son,” or “Abu,” after Aladdin’s monkey. One kid nicknamed me “Unicef,” which was brilliant, in a way: It rhymed with my name & alluded to my African heritage, financial situation, & emergent unibrow. When we were a little older, kids would come up to me, place fake “bombs” on my body & then run away making ticking noises. I got into a fair amount of fights until my mother, who worked three jobs, told me I had to stop. Even if it meant saying nothing when bullies taunted me, I had to exercise self-control. It felt completely debilitating.

My mom always made me stay in the apartment until I finished my homework. But she agreed that as long as I kept my grades up, I could play basketball after school. I began spending hours on courts across Cambridge. This freedom allowed me to meet a slew of people who helped me develop as a young man & truly feel a part of the culture of Cambridge. As I improved, I gained confidence, sociability, & friends.

I met Jahar again in high school, when we enrolled in the same lifeguarding course in my sophomore year, his junior year. Lifeguards were paid well for minimal effort: You sit in a chair & watch people swim, or so we thought. We were actually terrible swimmers, but our teacher stressed that if we failed during a rescue attempt, people could die. So we learned how to breathe while swimming with our heads in the water, & swam endless laps to get in shape. We took turns “drowning” at the bottom of the pool, holding our breath & waiting to be “rescued.” Jahar & I learned to trust one another in the pool — and that trust soon extended beyond class. After we became certified, a group of us from the class applied to be lifeguards at Harvard University during the summer of 2010. To our surprise, we each landed positions.

Jahar & I became part of a small group that would gather at “808,” a tall apartment building off Memorial Drive overlooking the Charles River. After dark, we frequented a party spot nearby that we referred to as the Riv. We were all classmates, peers, co-workers, & good friends who shared common interests. We called ourselves the Sherm Squad. We didn’t know that “Sherm” referred to Nat Sherman cigarettes dipped into liquid PCP (I didn’t even know what PCP was). All we knew was the word Sherm had a negative connotation. We used it to mean someone who messed up a lot; we called it being a Sherm. I felt Jahar & the Sherm Squad accepted me unconditionally; they became my home base of friends, almost an adopted family

My real family’s life centered on Islam. I was raised to follow the teaching of the Koran & the five pillars of Islam, which boil down to self-discipline, love for yourself & toward others, & growing your relationship with God. We typically went to the mosque on Prospect Street twice a week, plus whenever my mother forced me to come to some event she’d volunteered for. I never looked forward to it. Men & women separate when they enter the mosque, which drove home my lack of a father or other male role models (I have an older brother, but we haven’t talked in years). So I would sit by myself or with someone else I knew who didn’t want to be there, engaging only when the call for prayer was sung.

One Friday near the end of sophomore year, my mother yelled at me to go to prayer.

When I walked in, I did a double take  —  Jahar was sitting there, listening intently to the imam. We had been hanging out all that year & he had never mentioned being Muslim. I picked my way through the large crowd sitting on the patterned carpet & squeezed into a spot next to him. “What are you doing here?” I whispered. “You’re not supposed to be here!

He chuckled and whispered back: “I’ll tell you after.”

After we prayed, he told me his family were also Muslim immigrants who expected him be a model Muslim. We both were trying to maintain an image as wholesome Muslim youths at home while being normal American teenagers away from it.

Balancing our family & American lives was stressful. As a junior, I played point guard on Cambridge Rindge & Latin School’s famed basketball team, and Jahar, a senior, was the wrestling team’s co-captain. During the fierce month of Ramadan or on the fast day before Eid al-Adha, the Feast of the Sacrifice, we might endure grueling sports workouts on empty stomachs & no water. At least we could complain to each other.

Maintaining separate Muslim & American lives sometimes meant keeping secrets from & even lying to those closest to us about our other life. We were shamed just for being Muslim by strangers, the media, & even some of our peers, just as our Muslim families shamed us when we were caught committing a sin. Jahar & I shared countless hours toking herb, hanging out, & hitting social events. We lived near each other, & often walked home together from parties. We’d hit Cambridge Street, dap each other up with a handclap and bro hug, then head off to our Muslim lives.

He was fun to be around  —  always cracking jokes, coming up with things to do. He was smart, warm, respectful & a good listener; and many of us admired his ability to “code switch,” moving effortlessly between social crowds & people of different races. He was also adept academically, holding his own in honors & Advanced Placement classes. He was generous, too. Whenever I ran short of funds, he’d give me money for lunch & crack “Stop being a broke boy!” in a way I found endearing.

Sometimes, when we were hanging out, he’d get calls from his older brother, Tamerlan, telling him to get home. Jahar mostly heeded these requests without question. (He admired his older brother, and I envied their seeming closeness.) At one point, Jahar told me that his family was arranging a marriage for him & he was considering it. All I could say was, “Well, it’s your life, bro.”

* *

IN SENIOR YEAR, my priorities were playing basketball, finding the right college, my fantasy basketball team, girls, watching the Celtics, partying with friends, the prom, & making sure to get my homework done. In the secular, diverse melting pot that is Cambridge, I had my American life at school & my Muslim life at home. Adhering to the tenets of Islam, especially the daily prayers, was a struggle, & it didn’t help that Jahar, one of my main confidantes, was off at college.

My mother still expected me to act like a strict Muslim, even though by now I was really only going to the mosque on the major holy days. She forbade me from attending “unwholesome” social gatherings, including school dances & any event held at the home of a female. I was not to swear, use drugs or alcohol, or flirt, among other vices. My mother knew little of what I actually did when I left the house, since I usually climbed out my bedroom window after she had gone to bed. But she often guessed at what I was up to, & frequently berated me as unworthy.

I was much more interested in my American life, where religion was immaterial. You were judged on your social standing, whether your personality added life to the party, and how you expressed yourself through fashion or music. When Jahar was back from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth on breaks, it seemed like we picked up right where we left off, cruising the city with the homies in his green Honda, looking for a party. My future felt bright. I was going to attend Bentley University, & become an entrepreneur. I had fulfilled my mother’s American-immigrant dream of getting into college & building a real life in America.

* * *

DURING MY FRESHMAN YEAR at Bentley, I realized that I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in school. I took a leave during second semester & went back to Cambridge.

I was at a friend’s house on April 15, 2013, when the bombs went off on Boylston Street. We ended up on a nearby rooftop, watching the commotion — the helicopters scouring the city & flashing police lights everywhere. I felt angry & under attack. I wanted the monsters who had committed this atrocity to get what they deserved.

On the 19th, I was at another friend’s house and still up at 3 a.m. when I got a call. “Turn on the news!” my friend said. They were broadcasting a photo of the possible suspects in the Boston Marathon bombing. “Just look at the picture, fam,” he said to me.

I looked at the blurry image on screen. “What am I supposed to be looking at, bro? I don’t know who that is.”

“Yo, doesn’t he look like Jahar!”

I thought that was outrageous. I fell asleep on the couch, & the next morning I woke up to see my friends huddled around the TV. I had never seen kids my age so absorbed in the morning news. I wondered if maybe a late spring snowstorm was approaching. They told me Cambridge residents had been asked to stay inside, and it did sort of feel like a snow day.

Suddenly, Jahar’s face appeared on the screen — there was no mistaking him this time. He was the bombing suspect still at large, the anchors said. Aside from the sound crackling on the TV, the room was dead silent. I felt like 10,000 volts of electricity were coursing through my body. It had to be a mistake. The Jahar I knew wouldn’t even do something mean, let alone commit an act of terrorism.

One of the girls’ cellphones rang; the call was from a TV newsroom where her sister’s friend was working. As our friend answered questions, her name appeared on the screen & we heard her voice come from the television. Within minutes, the doorbell rang. Our high school principal came into the house, along with two FBI agents wearing bulletproof vests. The FBI agents said they were looking for Jahar, and collected our cellphones. They had us sit in the living room & pulled us into the kitchen one by one to question us.

It didn’t take long for one of the FBI agents to step in the room and say, “To save time, which one of you knew him the best?” I raised my hand. In the kitchen, they asked what I knew about the bombing  —  nothing  —  where I thought Jahar was, whom he might try to contact. I answered their questions as best I could, and then they left.

Much later on that surreal day, a group of us were walking around Central Square, saying almost nothing. A pizza shop had its TV on & that’s where we saw a news update: A body had been found in a boat in Watertown, it said. Though we’d later learn he’d been captured alive, at that moment we believed our friend was dead. I remember a man riding toward us on his bike screaming like some sort of modern-day Paul Revere: “They caught him! They caught the bomber!”

This infuriated us, and we started screaming insults & epithets at him. I’ll never forget his shocked expression. That’s probably how most people reacted over the next few days when some of us defended Jahar, saying he was a good kid. But really, that’s the Jahar we knew.

* * *

SOON WE KNEW THE FACTS of the despicable acts Jahar committed with his brother, Tamerlan. We witnessed the heartbreak & loss suffered by those they hurt & by the families of those they killed. Jahar left behind an ocean of pain that is still washing across my city, & my country, sowing hatred & division between people who hardly know each other’s lived reality. Jahar wounded those he grew up with as well as millions who practice a religion he perverted with his crime. He made suspects of everyone who knew him.

Jahar put our safety & freedom in direct peril. Cambridge gave way to the real world, a place where I found myself feeling clueless. Like many of my friends, I did not have easy access to a lawyer. Later, I would realize I didn’t have access to what I needed even more: medical advisers, counselors, or therapists. Some of our mutual friends made bad choices & ended up in jail.

In the fall of 2013, I returned to Bentley to start my second semester, but I was still struggling to cope with the aftermath of the bombing, the FBI calls & questions. I felt guilty I even knew Jahar, after what he’d done. I was ashamed about what had happened to his victims  —  I still feel terrible for them. It feels awful that innocent people were hurt by a person I cared so deeply for.

That November after the bombing, three days before midterms, the FBI interrogated me for five hours, as far as I could tell simply because I had been friends with Jahar. I had nothing to tell them; I still felt betrayed by him, & knew he deserved the full brunt of the judicial system. After that interview, I found myself completely unable to focus on my studies. I asked my professors for extensions, but all of them made me take my midterms. I failed several of them, & soon after I took another leave.

This time I entered a downward spiral of addiction, insomnia, severe stomach pains, & depression, which fed off each other. I didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours a night for months. I felt paranoid & distrustful in every social interaction. Every aspect of my American life I had had to figure out on my own, and it seemed as though I hadn’t figured out anything at all. I felt like I had fallen behind my peers, unable to compete with their intelligence, their access, their privilege.

I was exhausted from maintaining multiple, often conflicting identities as a Muslim-American, from not being Muslim enough for my family, but too Muslim to feel secure in a hostile, post-9/11 environment. It was soul crushing; I felt I had lost touch with the person & identity I fought for years to establish. It got to the point where I could no longer follow a normal conversation. I lost around 25 pounds, and the ability to play basketball, which had been my sanctuary.

CONTINUED AT THE LINK

[djesusgetnaked]

Something’s got a hold on me (Rafael Barba)

A/N: This is literally the first time I write a fanfiction and something in English. So it’s probably a bit shitty. But I have like thousands ideas for hundreds of characters, so screw it. Maybe I’ll give it a try. And I don’t pretend to be an expert about Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, even though I did study them few years ago, so please don’t get offended or I don’t know. I actually really like their story and their works. A huge thank you to @ghostofachancewithyou for being the beta-reader on this one, and encouraging me to write.

Rafael has never been a very social person. It’s not like he doesn’t want to make friends. In fact, he knows sometimes it would be great to have some, just a bunch of trusted people who could help him relax when his work life is all chaos. When he was younger, he didn’t have enough time to socialize, going out to party or whatever his classmates did when he was studying his ass off to become a great lawyer. Which he did. But now he's still very busy and making new friends is harder than he thought. But he knows better than to complain. And even if whiskey helps him to relax most of the time, he really doesn’t want to become an alcoholic – the image of his father still haunts him in the back of his mind, although he’s nothing like him. Now he has found a way to get rid off the thoughts that haunt him after a distressing day at work.

He likes that the library isn’t completely silent. A few whispers from people who come in small groups reverberate in his ears and create a soft background melody during his reading.

Maybe it’s a bit cliché, because he’s that intellectual, but he realizes when he reads, he’s completely immersed in the story and doesn’t think about anything else. Even if he just lost a very emotional case.

However, his concentration breaks when he hears a librarian, whom he recognizes immediately, and a very pretty lady walk toward the section near him. She’s really beautiful. And not only because she is undeniably pretty, but her expression has something sweet and determined at the same time.

When he catches himself staring, he blushes lightly and his eyes turn back to his book, even though he isn’t really reading anymore. What, why, how? That is not like him. Okay, reading all that poetry is definitely messing with his feelings.

When he persuades himself to focus on the verses again, he can’t help but overhear a few words of their conversation. “I’m sorry, it should have been here. Maybe someone took it. I’ll check on the computer, if you don’t mind.”

Rafael frowns. Despite himself, the situation made him curious. And while the stranger nods, he clears his throat to catch her attention. “What book are you looking for?” Her eyes scan him very slowly, not without respect but only to get to know the man who talked to her. Because he has no doubt she’s trying to analyze every small detail she can see. Under her inquisitive gaze, he feels himself shivering.

““Sagesse”, by Paul Verlaine.” And finally she’s smiling. Suddenly Rafael doesn’t want to read those verses anymore, he wants to read each and every one of her expressions.

“Oh, then…” He’s surprised. But she’s even more astonished when he raises his hand to show her the book’s cover. “I plead guilty.”

Her mouth forms an ‘o’, before she starts to laugh, quite silently not to bother someone else, and Rafael shivers one more time, smiling with her.

“I really didn’t think someone would read that. Do you like French poetry?” she asks, with amusement and curiosity in her voice. She sits down on the chair next to him.

“Yes and no, I guess.” She raises an eyebrow, signaling him to continue without saying a word, and he laughs joyfully. “I mean, I studied some when I was younger but forgot about it. And few weeks ago I thought about giving it a try again.”

They talk for hours, to Rafael’s delight. It’s only about Verlaine, his work, his life and of course Arthur Rimbaud. But it’s good enough for him, for now.

“No! No! How can you – I mean. No! You can’t think that. It’s… Yes, it’s shit!” She explodes, because she’s so passionate. And he laughs, because she’s very clever, but she curses easily. Usually he would be offended, but he finds he likes that about a lot her.

When some people around shush them – they must have been talking louder than they thought –, Rafael moves closer to her, their knees almost touching. He continues with a lower voice. “Do you think so? He wrote these poems when he was in jail, that must count for something.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly disagreeing with him. The book is long forgotten and he doesn’t care at all, because the debate is really interesting, and he doesn’t want this moment with her to end, ever.

“The guy ended up in jail because he shot his lover, and called his volume of poetry “Sagesse”. What does it say about him?” She’s so confident, it makes him think he’s glad he doesn’t have to be against her in court. She would eat him alive, and maybe he would be fine with it.

 “Their love was so strong, it really consumed them. Don’t you think it adds a certain beauty?”

“Absolutely not.”

He hasn’t even finished his sentence when she answers him and he blinks twice, a bit startled. She sighs, trying to find the right words.

“Love is a tricky concept. I mean, I believe in love. I’ve been in love before. But I don’t understand why love always has to come with these negative connotations. Passion doesn’t equal hysterical suffering. Beauty can be found in the most positive things, it doesn’t always have to be tragic.” she’s almost whispering now, running out of breath because of her little speech.

He doesn’t know how and when their debate has taken such a turning point, but once again, he doesn’t mind. Rafel’s no longer interested in other people’s romantic tales, he’s only focussing on her and the way she thinks.

He does understand what she’s saying, he really does, but the horror of his job violently comes back to him.

“Love is only a direct representation of what people are.” he sighs. He still believes in love, wants to be married one day and everything, but when he sees so much domestic violence and so many rapes, he can’t help but feel a bit disillusioned.

“People are what society wants them to be.” She smiles softly at him, and suddenly he understands. She’s realistic, she knows the world is crap, but she also has a real hope for a better one.

He’s about to open his mouth to answer – what, he doesn’t know. When a voice echoes in the library, startling both of them, announcing they’re about to close. Rafael sighs. His heart is suddenly quite heavy, an unpleasant contrast to how she was making him feel.

Both of them stand up and stare at each other, not really knowing what to do when they had such a great and an unexpected time together. His heart beats a bit faster and he doesn’t think twice before he blurts out,

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” He can feel his cheeks burning, and his lungs are screaming for oxygen. Professionally, he’s really confident. But here it’s so different. “To continue our discussion, of course.” he quickly adds.

She smiles at him as though she knows what’s going on inside his head.

“Well, only on two conditions.”

He raises his gaze to hers, his eyes shining with hope.

“If you tell me your name and if you promise me a much more beautiful love story than Verlaine’s and Rimbaud’s.”   

[bomb-anon]

im in kind of a bad place mentally right now so could you do something, like literally anything, for albert comforting and holding a crying reader? thank you so so so much, love, i adore your writing and this blog is one thing that can make me forget about my issues for a bit.

hey love, i understand where you’re coming from with how you’re feeling. I’m not in a much better place at the moment, but i’m glad i can be that escape for you. please, if things become too much my messages are always open. i don't bite and im always willing to provide a shoulder to cry on or just be someone to vent to. i believe in you and i believe you are stronger than whatever has it’s grip on you. keep you’re head up, you’re worth so much.

((tw: eludes to depression))

word count: 783

To say Albert was concerned when he saw the door to your room shut tightly would be an understatement. Your door was always open, without fail.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach and approached the door cautiously, as if it could disappear from his vision in any moment. When he reached the frame he brought his knuckles up to knock, but he didn’t want to scare you. Dropping his hand back to his side, he lays his head up against the door to try and hear inside.

“Hey, Y/N. Doll, is you in there?” he warily asked through the wood of the door.

No response. 

Albert starts to panic. His eyes dart around the hallway, searching for answers as to what his next move to be. If the door was closed, it was closed because you didn’t want to be disturbed. He didn’t want to intrude on that right. But he was worried. What if something was seriously wrong. 

Amidst his panic, he almost missed your small whisper through the door. 

“Al, please. I want to be a-alone,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice as steady as you could manage. You had been crying for a while now. Every negative connotation in your mind washed over you at once this morning, leaving you with thoughts you had previously believed you’d moved past. 

“Doll, please let me in. Is something wrong?” 

Sat up against the door, you lean your head back letting more tears fall down your cheeks. No one needed to see you in this form, no one deserved your burdens. “Al, please. I’m fine- n-nothing’s wrong,” 

Albert heard the hitch in your voice and immediately started fumbling with the door handle. He realized all at once that you had been crying, he knew that you needed him whether you realized it or not. He quickly found though that you had your body weight against the door. It was enough to keep the door shut, keeping that barrier between him and you.

“Y/N, please. You’se not fine, I can hear it in your voice. Darling please, let me in,” he pleaded. Seconds pass and he believes that you didn’t budge. With one last attempt, he twists the knob and pushes in the door expecting your weight to be meeting his own force. When it didn’t, the floor flung open. He stumbles in, fighting to find his bearings, and is met with the vision of you.

You had moved from your position from the door and sat cross-legged leaning on your bunk, your head in your hands and your shoulders slightly shaking from the echoing sobs that you did your best to silence. Albert acts fast, joining your side and pulling you close to his own body.

“Shh,” he coos. “Listen to my heart, Darling. Let it center you,” 

You listen. Laying your head on his chest, you hear the steady rhythm of Albert’s heart. It had a positive effect on you, diminishing your sobs. 

Albert doesn’t say anything more for a while. He hums nameless tunes as he slightly rocks you. He appears calm, but inside he’s terrified. He had only seen you like this once before, and it still haunts him to this day. He loved you more than anything, he couldn’t bear to see you like this.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks after a while. You just shake your head, still focusing on the pounding of his even heartbeat. “That’s alright, Darling. You know I’m here for you though, right? I ain’t ever leavin’ your side,” he whispers in your ear. 

You don’t know how long the two of you sit on the hard ground, but as soon as the worst of the emotions subsided, a wash of drowsiness settles within you.

“Can we take a nap?” you ask, still not picking up your head from the protection of his chest. You almost didn’t recognize your voice. It was small and frail.

You don’t notice, but Albert lets out a sigh of relief. He knew all too well of the wars you waged in your head. He knew that the worst was over. He knew that even though you weren’t okay in the moment, you were going to be okay.

You knew the same thing. 

The two of you transferred from the ground onto the bunk. Albert let you get settled first, you laying on your side under the thin blanket you had acquired. He protectively wrapped his strong arm around you and left a kiss on the top of your head. 

“I’m not leaving, Darling. I’ll always be here to protect you,” 

Those words are the last thing you hear as you drift asleep.

[harry-writings]

Pretty in Pink

- The one where Harry fakes date Kendall but is in love with Y/n

Masterlist linked in bio.

.

The red wine leaves a particular stain on Harry’s lips that he hadn’t noticed until Kendall pointed it out to him.

“It looks like you’re wearing lipstick” she laughs, “I didn’t know you were going to dress up this much for the party.”

They are currently sat at his mum’s kitchen island, drinking red wine while munching on some chips left out for the guests. The house is filled with familiar faces, friends and family all throughout London coming together for Anne’s birthday celebration.

They hosted one every year for as long as Harry could remember, a time of year where nearly every one of his family members, including his step family, would unite. It was their favorite time of year, believe it or not. Despite all the excitement for the holidays, Anne’s birthday celebration was certainly something special.

It was Kendall’s first time attending, considering the fact that Harry had only really talked to her whenever he was assigned to be with her for publicity. It wasn’t always ideal, however, he built a stable friendship with her, so he didn’t mind the extra company with him from time to time.

She was invited last minute, of course, since his management called last night to ask if there was any way for them to be seen together. With Harry’s new movie coming out and his solo album just released a couple weeks ago, it was almost a given for him to be rumored with a girlfriend. That’s how it’s worked all throughout his career.

He normally wouldn’t have minded, however, this was the worst possible date for him to be with Kendall.

Because it’s Anne’s birthday party, this means that it’ll be the first time in one year that he’ll be seeing Y/n. They have been best friends since they were five years old, basically growing up in the same house as they went through school together. But as time went on, and as they both went to their separate ways, it was hard to keep in touch with each other all the time.

She remained in the small towns of London while Harry was traveling world wide, where his name became known everywhere as Y/n’s was only known through people she attended school with. Of course, they still talked, considering they both admitted to having more than friendship feelings, but their lives were busy in their own ways, preventing them from being more than what they wanted to be.

For the past couple months, Harry planned that this would be the day he’d finally move forward with Y/n. Or, at least attempt to. With the loss of her over the past year, it made Harry realize just how much he couldn’t imagine a life without her. It had been so long—too long, and he couldn’t stand how long he’s lived without keeping in touch with her.

But now, everything he planned for the two of them is becoming impossible. He can’t begin to imagine how Y/n would feel knowing he brought Kendall to his mum’s birthday party after they both confessed their love for each other. In all honesty, he wouldn’t blame her for giving up on him. He keeps doing this to her, even if it’s unintentional.

He watches around the kitchen at the guests he hasn’t seen in quite a while. His leg bounces with impatience when each new person walking in to attend the party isn’t Y/n. It’s been nearly an hour and has never been so late to anything before.

And as horrible as it sounds, he almost wishes she doesn’t come, just so that she can avoid the heartbreak that will come when she reunites with Kendall again.

“I’m sorry I’m late!”

Harry’s head whips around when he hears the voice he’s been deprived of for the past year. The first thing he notices are her lips, and the way they move around her words so softly. They’re slightly glazed with a lipgloss, painting her lips with a rosy shade of pink. They look so much fuller to him now, but he knows not a trace of them are artificial.  

His eyes only drift from the shape of her lips when her fingers reach to tuck loose pieces of hair behind her ear. It’s then he notices just how much shorter her hair has gotten. What was once so long and lank is now falling just above the shoulder, set in luscious curls he can only imagine twisting around his fingers.

His jaw goes slack when he sees the pale pink dress she’s wearing. It’s made from silk, the metallic fabric glowing with each step she takes. He gulps when he notices just how much the dress accentuates the curvature of her body and how much of her legs are put on display for him to see, and he can’t help but to wipe the sweat off his palms when he watches her greet his mother with a proper kiss on the cheek.

He notices that his eyes haven’t shut since he’s seen her, but he’s so completely intrigued by how much has changed in her. Something about her seems so much more real—so much more vibrant—and he can’t seem to stop himself from praising how time has done her so goddamn well.

“You never told me she was going to be here.“

His body jerks at Kendall’s sudden appearance, her body slowly occupying the seat next to his at the kitchen island. If it wasn’t for her, he swears he would have caught himself drooling.

“Didn’t think I had to,” he says with a shrug, “she’s been my best friend since we were five. She’s basically apart of this family, she wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

Y/n hasn’t missed a single one of Anne’s birthday celebrations since she’s known Harry. Their bond is irreplaceable—so irreplaceable, in fact, that Anne has been convinced Y/n is a miracle for their family. She was there for them through all the troubled times; helping them through their hardships and family instabilities.

When Anne and her husband first got divorced, Harry and Y/n were seven. Harry didn’t understand much of what was happening, all he knew was that his mum and dad weren’t going to love each other anymore. He was hurting, even when Gemma was there to try and keep him together. He started to believe everything between his parents was a lie.

She understood the whole separation process. Her mum left her at a young age, leaving her alone with her father. They were close, of course, but she always missed having a mother figure in her life. It made her upset to know she could only listen to one voice in the house, but as she grew older, she accepted it more.

By the time she met Harry, he kept bringing her over to his house as the years went on. Anne was the closest she had to mother, and their bond became unbreakable by the time Y/n was a teenager. Nearly seven years of Y/n being like another member of the family, Y/n started buying Anne Mother’s Day cards.

So when Y/n watched her second family fall apart, along with Anne’s heart, and she was determined to patch them back together again. Even at her young age, she’d pick flowers from her garden and give them to Anne everyday after school. Y/n said they represented her, and how she felt being a woman with such love and beauty could die all too quickly. Harry never understood what it meant, but Y/n did, which is why she never stopped until she heard Anne laughing again.

She also started to draw pictures and write her letters, reminding her of how loved she was by everyone. As much as Anne was heartbroken during the time, she took the letters everywhere she went and kept every flower alive for as long as she possibly could. Anne would always tell Harry “That girl came into our lives for a reason, my love. She’s a special one, our little miracle, never let her go. You hear me?”

Harry didn’t understand what it truly meant to let someone go, but he did his best to do anything but that. And now, as Harry sits on his mother’s kitchen island and seeing Y/n for the first time in a year, he feels he’s done just that.

“Guess not.” Kendall mutters, taking her last sip of the red wine left in her glass. “She’s just so strange, I guess. I can barely hold a conversation with her without her making an excuse to leave.”

Kendall and Y/n never really got along, it was extremely noticeable to everyone who held a conversation with the both of them. They just don’t see things in the same light. Y/n is very outgoing and lively; an extreme extrovert that seeks adventure—and Kendall can’t stand it. She thinks Y/n does it for attention, especially because she’s remained a small town girl while being surrounded by well-known celebrities. And even though it may seem like Y/n likes the attention, that’s not her purpose. She gives all her attention to others, never to herself, and it has always been something Harry loved the most.

And when it comes to Y/n, Kendall was that one thing that was constantly in her way of Harry. No matter how many times Harry and Y/n discussed how there was something between them, Kendall always found her way back to haunt her. She was her worst goddamn nightmare. She was perfect for Harry in the public eye, and nothing made Y/n feel worse than knowing she’ll never be her type of perfect, especially when it came to Harry.

But Kendall doesn’t know that. All she knows is that Y/n is extremely stand-offish with her, and she’ll never understand why.

“She’s not used to our lives. It’s extremely difficult for her to understand how we live, you know? She’s normal.”

Kendall scoffs, eyes rolling around the room because she hates that word. She feels so divided, like she’s in a categorization in society and everything about it makes her teeth clench.

“We’re normal, too, you know. I don’t understand why she feels so intimated and feels like she has something to prove.”

Harry’s jaw clenches slightly at the negative connotes Kendall has about Y/n’s life. Something about it makes his stomach twist the wrong way, and he can’t help the underlying growl in between his words.

“We’re not normal. Deep down, you and I both know that. You also don’t know Y/n, so stop making irrational assumptions about her.”

Kendall narrows her eyes at Harry, a gaze full of confusion and disbelief at the undeniable grumble in his tone. Any rational conversation they have about Y/n always end the same—with Harry quick to end the discussion and jump to her defense. It’s times like these Kendall never understood the true extent of Harry and Y/n’s relationship. They always claimed it was platonic but there has always been a sense of something stronger in them, like unaddressed or unchased feelings, or a past they shared that was kept between the two.

Either way, it annoyed the shit out of Kendall because they both were hiding something that she’ll never be able to get answered.

“Fine, whatever.” She sighs dramatically, scooting her chair back until she has room to stand properly. “Want some more wine? Getting some.”

Harry slides his empty wine glass so that it’s in front of her, muttering a small “yeah, thanks” before she’s on her way to the counter across the room, retrieving extra wine and mingling with some of Harry’s family.

Harry sighs while his head rests at the palm of his hand, eyes gazing directly to where Y/n is standing. His lips tug up lightly when he hears her laugh from the living room, his tongue running over his bottom lip ever so slightly as he watches her mouth lift and her eyes squint shut as she catches up with one of his uncles about his grand annual weekend fishing trip.

And as his eyes stay so transfixed on the woman in the other room, he can’t help but imagine seeing that type of perfection every day for the rest of his life.

“And everyone thinks Sweet Creature is about me.”

Harry’s head snaps to Gemma’s figure leaning over the edge of the island, her elbows hitched on the counter as a small smirk plays on her lips. She found it abnormally amusing how he didn’t even acknowledge her presence until she spoke, too invested in hawking over Y/n’s every move.

Harry grumbles, but the smile from Y/n’s laughter is permanent on his lips when he does so. Gemma even notices his cheeks brighten with pink, another hint of confirmation to the words she spoke.

“Shut up, Gem.“

She puts her arms up defensively, “Hey, don’t take it out on me. I’m just making an observation.”

Harry rolls his eyes as Gemma wraps her arm around his neck, hunching over so that her lips are close to his ear and eyes are directed toward Y/n again.

“She has gotten hotter, hasn’t she?”

She has no idea. All Harry can think about is how someone already so beautiful has grown to be so perfect. Everything about her makes Harry want to get down on his knees and worship every inch of her body. He has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from thinking how much of a wreck he wants to make out of her.

“I don’t know how she did it. You better get her while you still have the chance, I know many, many men who want a taste of her.”

No is the first thing Harry thinks when the words leave from Gemma’s mouth. As hypocritical and selfish as it is, knowing other men have shown an interest in her makes his skin crawl. And he can’t help but feel his throat tighten at the moment Y/n realizes he had brought Kendall to this party.

“Is she—“ he can’t even finish his sentence without his jaw tightening again, hindering the rest of his question from leaving his lips.

“Oh, quit your worrying, H. She’s single, I don’t think she’d ever date someone who isn’t you. Besides, I don’t think you can do much about it with Kendall here.”

Gemma lifts a finger to where Kendall is standing, still in the same spot as she talks to his aunt Leslie. His heart hurts knowing what Y/n will feel when she finds out. He knows that there is always a part of her that feels discouraged whenever there’s a new woman in his life. In between Harry and Y/n’s love for each other was a mix of false hopes and miscommunication, and it always fucked them up whenever anything else was put in their way.

Gemma pats his shoulder before making rounds to her family and friends again, leaving Harry slumped against the counter with not a drop of wine to numb his scrambling mind.

When Y/n finishes catching up with the rest of Harry’s family, she finds that her patience is wearing thin. It’s been a year since she’s seen the love of her life, and knowing that he’s somewhere near her is enough to get her heart racing.

When she sees him sitting alone at the kitchen island, wearing his infamous pink suit and staring down at his fingers, it’s as if her body starts to malfunction. Her legs stop moving and her lips part, eyes glistening with admiration as she sees him for the first time in so long.

He’s as beautiful as ever, his new haircut accentuating his facial structure. His lips seem so much more red, too, which are complimented greatly by that goddamn suit. Everything about him radiates, like he’s developed into a whole other person. She’ll never quite grasp the idea that she’s about to reunite with him; something about it makes her palms sweat.

“Hey, stranger.”

Harry lifts his head up to look at her in all her glory. His heart warms at her presence more than the wine did, and he can’t help but to take a breath of relief when he finally hears her voice again.

“Y/n.” He breathes out, his fingers instinctively reaching up to the ends of her cut hair.

He chokes out a laugh of admiration when he sees her this close to him. She is so much different—so much more perfect than he ever remembers her being and it takes his breath away.

His fingers twist her hair, wrapping them around the digits before letting the strands fall back in place again. He never saw her without her hair down to her waist, and now that he has, he never wants to see her hair past her shoulders again.

“It’s so beautiful” he whispers, “you look so beautiful like this, Y/n. I absolutely love it.”

She blushes, her chin tucking slightly into her neck as if trying to hide how much of a reaction he got out of her. No matter how many years she’s known him, she was never used to the way he spoke to her.

“It was spontaneous. Really wanted a change, and it looks like I’m not the only one.”

Her hands reach to his hair, which is so much shorter compared to the last time she saw him. She remembered she couldn’t keep her hands out of it last year, constantly finding ways to tangle her fingers at the ends. Harry found it hysterical, actually, and thought it was the cutest thing she’s ever done.

“It’s just so soft” she’d say, “it’s like a whole other world in there!”

But now her only option is to tangle her fingers at the roots, and as she does so, her mind drifts to all the other occasions she could have her hands in his hair again.

“It’s so much shorter. Look at that! I can barely tug on it anymore!” She laughs in amusement, her fingers slipping as she pulls too hard.

He smirks up at her, a giggle falling from his lips as he watches her utterly amused reaction. They begin to catch up with the part of their lives they both have missed. Harry talked about his album while Y/n started discussing her new journalism job.

Talking to Y/n is one of the only normal parts of him left, it always gave him a sense of grounding whenever he felt his career was taking off to heights he wasn’t ready for. She is one of the only sense of normality he has left in his life, and it’s another reason as to why he admires her so dearly. She brought out parts of him nobody else could reach, and it’s another reason why he feels so upset he’s barely talked to her.

“Y/n?” he asks hesitantly, reaching his hand over so that his fingertips graze her hand.

Her breath breaks when he touches her, the softness in his voice proving that what is about to be discussed is far more important than their previous conversation. She notices the stress lines in between his forehead and the parting of his wine stained lips when he begins to speak. 

“I’m so sorry I haven’t kept in touch with you. I know how it makes me look, especially after everything that happened between us. With the new album and everything, I’ve just been so busy with—“

“Kendall?”

Harry’s head jumps to where Y/n stares dumbfounded, Kendall holding two glasses of wine in one hand while the other is carrying a plate of chicken wings. She’s looking down at Y/n, too, her eyebrows lifted up in an intimidating manner. There’s a scowl present on her lips as she continues to tower over her.

Y/n feels tears building in her eyes as she takes in the situation at hand. She was so fucking dumb to think that Harry was going to come to Anne’s party alone, especially since his new album just released. This is Kendall’s prime time appearance, when Harry needs a familiar famous face beside him to advertise his solo career.

This isn’t anything new—this isn’t anything unfamiliar, but the pain feels like a fresh wound to her heart. Harry and Y/n are nearly 24, with having known each other and felt something for each other for years, she thought that if anything were going to happen, it was going to happen now. But everything between them has remained stagnant for so long that the last sliver of hope she had for their potential relationship has been completely taken away from her. By Kendall, again.

“W—Wow, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know Harry had invited you.”

“Yeah,” Kendall nods, “he invited me last night.”

Last night.

Y/n’s lips purse together, nodding her head as her eyes drift around the kitchen. Anything to avoid Kendall’s eyes—anything to feel as unimportant as she does now.

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, a small hissing releasing from his tongue at how wrong it all sounds, considering absolutely nothing happened between Harry and Kendall the previous night besides being demanded that the two of them are to be seen together again.

“Right,” Y/n’s voice cracks, “well, I’m sorry to interrupt your time together. I’m going to go to Gemma’s room, got a phone call from my dad a while ago so I should go check up on him. I’ll see you guys around.”

She musters up a pathetic smile before practically running away from them. After everything they both told each other, after all the feelings they’ve had toward each other, how could Harry keep doing this to her? How could he keep being with Kendall when he says he loves Y/n?

She doesn’t even find the strength in her to hold in her tears before she approaches the steps, not daring to look back at them again. She never wants to see them in the same room again, it’ll be too much her heart can handle. 

“You’ve really got to be fucking kidding me, Kendall.” Harry growls.

His hands fist around the wine glass, his knuckles turning white and he’s absolutely shocked it hasn’t shattered into pieces in his hands from all the anger pulsing through his veins.

“Jesus, Harry, neither one of you can take a joke. Does she not understand that all of this is for the press? She keeps acting like we’re a couple.”

“Could you really blame her after that? ‘He invited me last night,’ you’re really getting a kick out of making her uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

He grumbles as he takes a long sip of his wine, hoping that the alcohol loosens his muscles enough to restrain himself from doing anything he regrets. He loves his mum too much to start an argument during her birthday party, and as much as Kendall’s shifting Harry’s mood, he still appreciates her as a friend to ruin anything.

“That wasn’t even my fault, you both dug into that way too deep. Last night does not mean while we were fucking. It’s a time of day.”

“It’s the way you said it.”

“Are you being serious, Harry?”

He slams his glass down on the island, grumbling under his breath while he stands up from his chair. No matter how much anger is in him now, the only thoughts swirling in his brain are wondering if Y/n’s okay. She would have never left the party to go into a secluded room, not even if her dad called her.

“You leave her the fuck alone, Kendall. I mean it.”

He storms away from her, desperate to find Y/n because God only knows what’s really happening in that bedroom. Y/n’s emotions and feelings are always positive, always so bright, and he refuses to be the reason they turn upside down. She doesn’t deserve all he keeps doing to her, she doesn’t deserve him.

When Harry nearly swings himself onto the first step, he can already hear the soft murmur of Y/n’s and Anne’s voice, which makes him stop from approaching them any more than he has already.

“Y/n? Y/n, darling?” Anne asks with worry when she sees Y/n climbing up the top step with tears in her eyes, soft cries falling from her throat as her hand attempts to silence them.

She reaches an arm out for her, tugging at the front of Y/n’s dress slightly to get her attention. She’s grateful it was Anne who found her this way instead of any other guest at the party, considering nobody besides her and Harry have seen her with a frown on her face.

“Y/n, baby, what’s going on with you?”

The lights are off in the hallway, with no guests permitted in the area, which gives Y/n the proper time to fully allow her tears to fall down her cheeks.

“I’m so s—sorry, Anne.” Y/n cries.

Anne’s hands rub her shoulders, reassuring her that there’s absolutely nothing for her to apologize for. It also lets her know that she’s willing to listen to her, no matter where or when—she’ll always be there.

“I’m almost 24, Anne, and I’ve put so much of my life on hold for him.”

She knows instantly who Y/n’s talking about. It wasn’t difficult to notice the undying connection between Y/n and her son, especially as the years went on. They have grown so strongly together, there has never been a doubt in Anne’s mind that Y/n is going to be the girl Harry ends up marrying. Everyone in the family called it a destiny waiting to happen, but it has been so long since anything has happened between them, and Anne can’t help but feel heartbroken to know Y/n’s carrying the wrong idea about him and Kendall.

“And I’ve sacrificed so m—much to continue waiting for him, but I don’t think I can keep doing this anymore. We’re nowhere near where we should be, especially when he keeps spending time with Kendall and I just—I just don’t know if I can—“

“Oh, my darling.” Anne sighs, cradling Y/n’s head against her shoulder as she rubs down her back.

She shushes her through her tears, rocking her slightly in an attempt to calm her from her cries. It’s extremely rare for Y/n to feel upset, so when she does so, Anne knows she deserves all the comfort and love she can get.

“I know you so well, and I know my son. I always knew you were a match made in heaven, my dear. I knew from the start you were more than just an ordinary girl. You’re so special, to everyone in our family, but especially to him. He may not have his head screwed on right most of the time, but if I can promise you anything with all my heart, it’s that he loves you. Please, no matter what, never forget that.”

Y/n nods against her shoulder, thanking her through her violent cries before Anne insists she takes some time to herself. And as much as Y/n wanted to refrain from going into Harry’s bedroom, it’ll be the only place that brings her a sense of comfort.

Harry already knows he’s in for a lecture the second he sees his mum coming down the stairs with bewildered eyes. She grips his shoulders, her face tight with frustration.

“Mum—“

“You go over to her and you be the man I taught you to be, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widen at her words, swallowing thickly at the thought of disappointing another person in his life.

“She loves you and you love her. Stop doing favors for other people and start thinking about you before you ruin both of your lives forever. You hear me?”

Harry nods feverishly, determined and more motivated than ever to fix all that he’s caused. Love comes first, always, and he needs to remember that before he breaks Y/n’s heart completely.

She’s it. She’s all that matters to him.

He barely responds to Anne before he’s racing to his old bedroom, completely clueless as to what he’s going to say, but willing to do anything to get her back.

“Y/n?” Harry calls through the door of his old bedroom. “Y/n, can I come in?” 

He knocks on the door lightly, just using the knuckles of his pointer and middle finger. He hears her feet pad over to the door, opening it to reveal her tear stained cheeks. Her hands are trembling against the knob, her breath broken with soft, gentle cries. Her eyes are widened with sadness, wet and red from tears she barely ever cries.

“Y/n.” He whimpers, tentatively reaching his shaking fingers up to her cheeks. He wipes away the tears from the bottoms of her eyes, sighing upsettingly as her eyes close at his touch. “Never seen you like this. Please talk to me.”

Her lips quiver as another sob rips through her, her hand reaching up to capture his between her fingers. Her saddened and wet eyes looking down at the intertwined hands now resting against her lap.

“I’m so tired, H.” She whimpers, “So tired.”

His lips press against her forehead, “I know, love. I know.”

She wraps her arms around him, her face burying in between his chest as he lets her tears soak in his undershirt.

“I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought I’d finally be alone with you after all this time. I missed being close to you, I wanted to be closer to you and I thought you felt the same about me and I didn’t understand, Harry, I didn’t get it and—“

“Hey, relax for me.” Harry mumbles, his lips grazing tenderly along her cheek.

She takes a deep breath, her fingers fisting the back of his suit tighter in her fists. She rests her chin on the top of his chest, tears still roaming down her face as she lets out an exasperated sigh. Her fingertips trace patterns on his back, her eyes fluttering closed as he pushes some of her hair off of her face, refraining them from sticking to her wet cheeks.

“I didn’t get it,” she whispers, “I was so confused, and when you didn’t answer my calls or texts I thought you didn’t find me important. And I was under no right to be upset about it, because you’re busy and you have priorities. But when I saw you today, I didn’t see you as the Harry I always have, I still can’t tell you what I saw but I wanted every part of you more than I ever have before. But when I saw Kendall I—“

Her cries and words die down when she feels Harry’s tender lips against hers. She’s taken aback at first, and before she has any time to really kiss him back, he’s already pulled away.

“Let me fix this.” He breathes out, “let show you that I only want you.”

His lips press against the side of her mouth, not allowing himself to kiss her the way he wants to until she lets him. They then begin to travel down her neck, along her jaw, around her mouth.

Y/n’s breath is stiff as he does so, embracing the feeling of his mouth against her skin. They’ve only ever kissed a handful of times, none of them being passionate or loving. They’ve shared pecks while saying goodbyes or after confessing their feelings, but none quite like this—none quite like the one anticipating to happen.

His breathing his hard when he continues to kiss along her skin, his fingers moving longly in her hair the more his mouth presses against her.

“Will you let me?” He whispers when his lips are ghosting over hers, “this okay?”

She nods feverishly, hitting the point of desperation when she feels his breath fan over the skin of her face. She’s been needing this for far too long now.

“Yes, please.”

His thumb runs over her bottom lip one, two, three times before he finally leans in. Their lips mush together passionately, only breaking apart to move their position before locking again. Their tongues meet in the middle, making the both of them moan at the unfamiliar spark coursing through their veins.

Harry walks toward his bed until Y/n’s knees hit the edge of it, making her back meet the mattress. Their lips haven’t detached once, not daring to break away from the feeling they’ve both been deprived of.

They’re both making out on Harry’s childhood bed, grinding onto each other half naked like two hormonal teenagers. Their clothes thrown across the room, lips swollen from all the suction and nibbling, and hair completely knotted from either of their fingertips, the party below them long forgotten.

“Wait, wait wait wait!” Y/n gasps, lifting herself off of his chest.

Harry’s chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to catch his breath as he looks up at Y/n in confusion. He watches as a smirk lifts from her lips as she peers down at his flushed face, giggling slightly at his complete fucked out appearance.

She notices that his lips remained stained from the red wine—a little faded—but still making her body weak at the sight of it.

“’s the matter?” He croaks.

His voice is thick—an entirely different level of raspy, and Y/n wonders how she’s lived so long without hearing him speak in that way. Between all the kissing, all the touching, all the moaning, his voice has a particular roughness to it that Y/n could feed off of if she had to.

“We shouldn’t do this, right? I mean, we’re about to fuck during your mum’s birthday party. Your entire family and Kendall are downstairs, anybody could walk in at any second, or hear us, and your mum could find that so disrespectful and—“

Her rambling is interrupted by his lips, meeting hers passionately between her words.

There is no way in hell he’s leaving this room tonight. Everything that’s been stagnant between them is finally moving in the right direction, and he can’t find it anywhere in him to walk away from it.

“You think I’m letting you go now?” He whispers, his thumb running along her bottom lip. “I have been waiting for this moment with you since high school, sweetheart.”

His lips reattach to her neck, sucking on spots he hasn’t already left marks on, soaking up every bit of the time he has with her before it’s over. This is the first time they’re going to make love, and he wants to feel and remember every bit of this moment.

“B—But your mum—“ She moans, her fingers nearly tangling at the ends of his hair as she hisses in pleasure from his tongue.

“Every single person downstairs knows about us. This—this happening right now, has been expected to happen since I first brought you home. I guarantee you, nothing will make her more happy than knowing her son and his future wife are finally acting on our feelings instead of pushing them to the side again.”

His words make Y/n blush like no other; her cheeks turning the shade of pink on her dress she wore previously. It’s then he notices just hot fucking pretty she is in pink, how every tint of the color compliments her in ways he can barely wrap his head around.

“Future wife, hm?” She smirks, tapping the pads of her fingers against his bare collarbones.

He kisses her again.

“Thought you knew that, love. Wouldn’t know a single soul I’d rather spend the rest of my life with.” His fingers dig into her hips, “’s always been you.“

Y/n pushes Harry’s back against the mattress again, trailing her fingers down his torso. She giggles when his teeth clench at her touch, finding it almost irresistible to embrace the way he responds to her touch so easily.

“Trust me, I always knew.”

[endlessly-elizabeth]

Twenty-eighteen.

One of the hardest years of my life. The year that felt like obstacle after obstacle. The year I was barely able to keep my head above water. The year that challenged my spirit. The year that I felt like I lost everything.

I, for one, am glad to see this year go. It started out on a shaky foot. I celebrated the new year with friends whom I grew closer to this year, and a friend or two that I completely drifted apart from. I didn’t kiss anyone at midnight, I just remember throwing shot after shot back to distract myself and to make myself feel numb. Being numb felt good... I was in a transient phase where I was no longer in pain. I couldn’t feel anything at all, and I repeated this more often than I’d like to admit this past year. 

I get a bit of seasonal depression, so the colder months are already more of a struggle for me. But I was just depressed in general most of this year. I felt broken. I lost motivation to do simple things like spend time on my hair and makeup. I lost motivation to keep in touch with friends and make plans to hang out with them. I felt very lost and very much unlike myself. I had friends bring it to my attention. I had family members sit me down and express how concerned they were for my overall well-being. 

Every year has had its ups and downs, but I genuinely feel in my soul that this year was the worst of them all. I can’t think of many “highs” other than an enchanting vacation to Nashville and the completion of the beach house. Those were some of the brighter moments of the year. This was the year of the downward spiral. I drank a lot. I went through weird phases of being so anxious I couldn’t eat much to gorging on food when I felt the slightest bit better. My weight fluctuated like crazy. My mood swings were a bit more unpredictable than I had noticed in the past. I encouraged any distraction I could find to lessen the burden I was feeling; the weight of the broken heart I carried around. 

There were times where I didn’t think about my ex much, and times where I thought about him and the way he so easily separated his life from mine more times than I could count. It haunted me. I held onto memories far longer than I should have. I can think of a couple times when I acted so out of character and reckless because it made me feel dangerous; it made me feel alive. I chased those highs, which lasted for the night, and then I would always wake up in the mess of my actions and the reality of the situation the next morning. I didn’t like who I was this year.

It’s funny, because I was so sure that I was going to rebuild myself to be this incredibly brave and incredibly strong woman. I thought that my breakup would ignite some kind of fire in me to make all of these necessary changes that I needed in my life. But I didn’t become that girl. Instead, I became a version of myself who was far too critical of herself and was torn apart by her own insecurities. I was someone who felt so genuinely lost, because my support system just wasn’t there. Sure, I had friends who checked in on me. I had friends encourage me to find new hobbies, look for a new job, etc. But I didn’t get the same kind of energy that I put into my friendships back, and that took its toll on my mental health. Feeling alone when you’re already so unhappy with different aspects of your life is a struggle I never want to have to face again.

I didn’t let every struggle I encountered this year take me down. In some ways, I was forced to make changes that I am entirely happy with. For example, after everything I went through the previous year with having loved and lost, I decided I wouldn’t let that happen again. Obviously I have no control over someone falling out of love with me, but I DO have control over how long I’m willing to stay in a situation and how much I’m willing to deal with. I refuse to be an afterthought to men. If they can’t give me the attention that I deserve, then I automatically cut them off. So many guys tried to talk to me and take me out this year. To be honest, I just wasn’t feeling it. I needed to be alone to process my feelings and to move forward with my life before I would be able to commit myself fully to another person again. I needed to rid all of these toxic behaviors and thoughts I was having, because I didn’t want any part of my past to ruin the possibility of a future with someone new.

I went on a couple dates with a couple different dudes, sure. I had fun, sure. I had a couple sexy stories to share with my gal pals, sure. But there weren’t many people who excited me. People who got under my skin and that I couldn’t shake. People who made me feel as special as I am. So, I ended things pretty early. I certainly didn’t want to force myself to be interested in someone if I wasn’t feeling it. I didn’t want to lead on a genuinely good guy just for the sake of having someone to talk to and make myself feel better. I hope, one day, I am able to meet someone who does those things for me, but I’m not ‘looking’ for anything to happen. I just want to meet new people that I can hang out with, who I can rely on.

I held onto the same job I’ve been working for the past five years because it was reliable. With all of the changes and obstacles I was experiencing this year, I felt like I needed something dependable, because no other part of my life was. My friend and I got into a huge fight at the beginning of the year, and despite trying to patch things up before she left, we never did. So I had lost one of the best friendships I had, one of the most kind and dependable people I knew, during a time when she needed someone to be there for her and I needed someone to be there for me. That’s one of my biggest regrets from this past year, but I’m happy to say I reached back out to her and we’re on very good terms. I even think that huge fight may have strengthened our friendship in many ways. I think we know what we lost during those few months we weren’t speaking and will actively choose not to take the other person for granted.

Having lost two very, very important people grounded me. It showed me just how important it is to rely on yourself and to choose your own happiness; something that I neglected to do most of this year. It caused an ache that I felt each and every day. But here I am, and I ache less. That’s something that I never thought I would say, because those wounds felt too fresh. Running into my ex was emotionally exhausting, and I think that’s why we see eachother so much less now. I can’t speak on his behalf, but seeing him stirred up too many memories and it felt like the flame would rekindle. We talked again briefly towards the beginning of the year. The whole, ‘miss you, I still think about you every day’ stuff. The words that I realized were utter bullshit because, while he told me he still had feelings for me and wouldn’t be over me for a long time, I realized he was talking to someone else. I would like to think that I can handle the truth, but I will not tolerate dishonesty. 

With that being said, I think the hardest pill for me to swallow this year was realizing that I probably didn’t mean as much to him as he did to me. When I love, I love deeply. I love fully. And I’m afraid to do that now. I’m afraid of repeating the same mistakes. I have to actively remind myself that I am stronger than the pain I’ve experienced this year. I am better than the way he and my other former flame tarnished my name and reputation. The way they made me the butt of their ‘snake and weasel’ jokes. If you think you know the whole story, you don’t. People only tell you what they want to know about their lives, and I cannot control the way they choose to talk about me. This is what I DO know--I know who I am. I know the reality of everything that went down. And I refuse to ever reach that level of petty.

It was also hard to swallow how much I rely on other people for happiness. I would let the smallest things ruin a good mood. I felt so much FOMO when my friends would hang out without me and I’d have to watch everything happen on social media. That shit is poison. My parents sat me down and told me how concerned they were. I thought I had done a good job hiding my unhappiness from them, but I guess my mom knows me better than I know myself at times. She mentioned that maybe I should go to therapy to see if I would feel more comfortable opening up to a stranger, because I had bottled up so many negative emotions this year. I left the room and cried at the words ‘therapy’ and ‘therapist.’ They still carry such a negative connotation in our society, even though mental health is such a prevalent topic these days. It’s hard to admit that you have a problem, but I decided that in 2019, I want to give a therapy a shot. I want to see what emotional baggage from my past I can leave at the baggage claim.I want to let go of the shit I cannot control. I want to be able to let go of the past. I want to shed this skin. 

Twenty-eighteen, you were an asshole to me. You made me cry more than you made me laugh. You taught me difficult lessons that I might not have learned otherwise. You were my year of the dark cloud. But, guess what? I forgive you. I know one day I’ll look back at this year and wonder why I let myself be in so much pain, to be so unhappy. That day isn’t here now and it probably won’t be here for months to come, but I AM hopeful that 2019 will be the start of something amazing. 2018 was the year that felt like it had reduced me to nothing. It was the year of destruction. But 2019 has so much more potential--the continuation of healing. The year of the rebuild. The phoenix year. My comeback year. 

[tallat-of-thralls]

Morning ramble

I have been thinking much about the occult and the religious. Obviously... Im a witch and this is a witch blog so it ia expected.

However, one of the things that bothers me is the predominate misfortune. Several of my covens that i follow, i had mentioned in the past of my intentional estrangement, are going through massive strife and turmoil. Im sure the day and age with the current events has a great impact on these people as much as it has impacted everyone else i know. At the same i am filled with doubt.

I work very diligently to keep about my logical sensibilities and constantly question the validity of divination techniques.

Some of my mutuals will be like, "waaaa? You get direct communication though."

Like i know but it doesn't me i trust the ocurance with out a test of sanity. And using the same technique that i am questioning is not comforting. I cant question the information by continuously confirming with the source i pulled it from.

Unfortunately, i test this using others. Sometimes my mutuals do free readings or other techniques. I find their effort fun and engaging at the same time im comparing their random cold draw to my heated several hours worth of layouts.

Furthermore, i run my guesses, assumptions, and predictions past skeptics, atheists, thelemites, and luciferians. Why? Skeptics can still be pagan but distrust divination like my husband. Thelemites have organization and an eclectic array of information to source from. Luciferians, because their idealogy orchestrates in a way that condemn planned or divine destiny and encourage choice and freedom allowing them to scrutinize patterns. And athiests, because their grasp of logic helps find scientific reason behind supposedly inexplicable events.

(Powers combined its Captain Blasphemy! Lol)

Regardless of whether im confirmed or denied in this process i learned that mayhaps i am being reckless with my knowledge and blind studies.

I feel awful about it. I worry that my blind readings and extension to these covens and individuals will cause a disturbance in their own practice just because i am using them to divine for me without knowing what i am truly asking. I guess its one thing to ask about my crush and another to postulate on latent theory.

Logically, it makes little sense. Me asking another to pull from a deck of cards or to spin their crystal accordingly should not be of serious consequence. I have not asked for evocations/invocations nor pushed for any sort of harmful rituals so there fore my only crime is being vague with my questions in order to compare a shitton of random sequences to no benefit but a satiating of personal deliberation.

Logic says that my own drawings and layouts are equivocally psychological as it is random. Seeing how each card has pretty colors, numerical associations, and upright/reversed connotations that can referenced in just about any aspect of life without any thing specific. To make order of it is creating a narrative based of off internal dialogue and retrospection. Continuously interpreting randomness as something significant then aligning it with a convoluted sense of truth.

My mother says that is what magic and divination is. To be honest, her agreement is unsettling. Mostly because i know what random theories she had assigned importance in her life.

My husband usually shakes his head and shudders. "Perhaps youre putting too much weight on that one thing. Have some common sense." He says uncertainly. But he cant deny that everyone i had shared information with had ultimately had their mind broken.

Coincidence... People who are attracted to this already experience internal chaos and it wouldnt have taken much to fall over.... So i tell myself.

Im still haunted those whom i had shared knowledge with that took it with them on their journey and never came back. Or did and came back in pieces. :(

So what is the conclusion?

Doubt... So much doubt. Doubt in myself. Doubt in my craft. Doubt in my gods. Doubt in my life. Doubt in my friends. Doubt in magic. Doubt in faith. Doubt in accountability. Doubt in logic. Doubt overall. Doubt, doubt, doubt...

Doubt is the pain in ones tail as the Ouroboros seeks to dissuade starvation.

I am confirmed as i consume. How far can i go?

Is it reckless to ravenously seek the knowledge? To compare the work of mine to others? Is this an understandable risk that we take when performing divination and craft?

The process it takes to get to some conclusions makes little sense. But as atheists proclaim, i cannot prove a negative. I cannot prove the non-existence of something of some element without first considering the possibility of its ineffable form then breaking laws to prove it wrong.

I can write off my divination and attachment to this tool as a psychological need to assign order to chaos. I can proclaim the affirming cold reads are mere common sequences in repetition. The responses from the void of which i call to to be just sanity chipping away.

I pound my head resoundingly against the table.

I am no more convinced a decade and a half down the path than when i first started.

Im merely more informed on that the tower i see in the distance and how it never actually gets any closer no matter the distance travelled.

[sailorrrvenus]

A Message from a Spider to Arachnophobes

Hi, my name is Charlie and I’m a giant house spider. I share my house with a human macro photographer named Maxim Piessen. My roomie loves to take photos of insects and other small organisms. We have always been on the same wavelength.

He’s been able to capture a lot of insects using his camera. I did the same using my web. He shows people the small things in nature. I… I… Euhm… I just scare people? Apparently, I don’t have the best reputation.

With so many people being afraid of me (apparently you humans call them arachnophobes), I thought it was about time to jump from key to key on this laptop’s keyboard and tell you my side of the story. After an intensive brainstorm session with Maxim, we came to the idea of trying to understand why people fear me so much and to counter-argue these misconceptions.

Thus far, you have already read 2 paragraphs. Reading is boring, isn’t it? Even with 8 eyes and reading 4 times as quick as you do, I feel the need for visual imagery. Although I have the privilege to have 7 legs — I lost one during one of many adventures — a camera is just a bit too heavy for me AND as you all know, it’s difficult to take high quality selfies. Luckily, my roomie agreed upon my request to supplement my text with photos.

After Googling “Why are people scared of me?”, I found an interesting Quora thread titled, “Why are people scared of spiders?”.

The most viewed and most up-voted answer: “Because they’re silently creepy, wall-crawling, web-spinning, abundant egg-laying, hell-spawn creatures on Earth.”

I must say, this is a very objective answer full of scientific facts. Let’s try to portray this answer in the following photographs:

Spooky, isn’t it? This could be the poster of the next blockbuster horror movie. I would almost say I’m a (handicapped) hell-spawn creature on Earth. You don’t even see the real me. I’m silently creepy and my shadow will haunt you in your dreams.

I really love how you can add a negative connotation to the word ‘spider’ by using creepy descriptions or special photography techniques. Let’s do another example just for the fun of it.

Imagine seeing this shadow casted on your wall while being home alone. I would s**t my pants too. If only I had pants… Human stores don’t sell 7-legged pants.

Ok, now it’s time to show the real me. Ready for it? Here I am:

Am I still creepy without special effects and terrifying shadows? I can hear you thinking: “UGH, SO MANY HAIRY LEGS!!!! Ö”

Let’s zoom in on that.

Hmm, let’s zoom in a bit more:

Better. Or not really, this is quite messy. I should really see a hair dresser.

Can I ask you, my dear reader, why are you so afraid of this? You to have hair all over your body. It just happens that I have 7 limbs instead of 4. Is that such a big deal? Now you think about it, you shouldn’t be scared of my legs.

So, let’s move on to the next part: My body.

There isn’t much to say about my body. Just like my other roomie, Louis (a dwarf poodle), it’s hairy. Most people would stroke him, but kill me. Can you tell me why? No? Ok, good. That means you’re changing your perception of me. One last thing that might freak you out is my head. Let’s zoom in on that:

As I told you before, I have 8 eyes. It would be cool if humans also had them. This way, they could see the world in a broader perspective (just like I do). Just below my eyes, I have 2 chelicera. Let’s call them teeth. I use them to catch small insects. I don’t use them to bite you. Even if I would want to, I wouldn’t be able to penetrate your skin.

And last but not least, you see these two body parts that are out of focus. They’re called palps and can be used to sense my immediate environment, hold on to my prey and mate. You see: all my body parts have a meaningful function and are not meant to hurt or scare humans.

Oh yeah, one thing I still don’t get is how people can be afraid of me and my homies. We’re soooo small compared to you! I’m the biggest species living in Belgium and I’m still smaller than a pingpong ball. I’m not afraid of an ant, so why would you be afraid of me?

I think it’s time to drop some words from the Quora definition of a spider: “They’re silently creepy, wall-crawling, web-spinning, abundant egg-laying, hell-spawn creatures on Earth.”

I hope our (one sided, as we can’t do much) war can end here. May we live in harmony from now on. To thank you, I will keep your nights mosquito-free, your food fly-free and your sangria wasp-free.

To conclude my manifesto, I would like to show my favourite photo of the shoot with Maxim. I think it truly shows my beauty and elegance.

About the author: Charlie is a house spider. The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author. The photos of Charlie are by Maxim Piessen, a self taught macro- and travel photographer and founder of the new photography platform Photrea. Maxim started keeping exotic insects at the age of 10. You can find mor eof his work on his website and Instagram. This article was also published here.

source https://petapixel.com/2018/10/12/a-message-from-a-spider-to-arachnophobes/