#if you've never had an infestation and been forced to live with one you don't realize how bad it gets sorry

[gingaswag]

i agree that people shouldn't aspire to make entire species of insects extinct but holy shit some of yall have 0 compassion or empathy for people who've directly had to live with infestations

[mariademetal]

౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆ competition itadori yuuji / fem!reader ©mariademetal 2024

cw ... yuuji calls reader babe, everyone is a little stupid, idk what else, lmk if i should add anything note ... this was actually sooooo much fun to write, i luv yuuji so much and this idea came to me like a vision from jesus himself, i hope u all enjoy too (❁´◡`❁) word count ... 1.1k

You've always liked Jennifer Lawrence.

You liked the Hunger Games growing up, but never bothered to read the books. When you turned a little older, you liked Silver Linings too. Maybe you didn't like her as much as some of your peers, maybe you never dressed up as Katniss for Halloween, but you certainly never hated her. She's pretty, she's a good actress, and although you wouldn't necessarily call yourself her fan, you can see why, hypothetically, someone might. You've always liked Jennifer Lawrence.

You've always liked Yuuji, too. He's always been a good friend to you, but now that your relationship with him is blossoming into something bigger, more important than friendship, you can't quite jump over the hurdle that is Jennifer Lawrence. Despite the fact that you have, as a matter of fact, always liked her, you feel nothing but mild discomfort and irritation as you make unrequited eye contact with the poster of her hung on Yuuji's wall.

What else are you meant to look at?

At first, it was easy enough to ignore her. Whenever you came to Yuuji's room you'd make a point to sit on his bed, back against the wall, safe from any unwanted eye contact with Jennifer's boobs. But the talking stage is weird like that— if Yuuji's already sitting on his bed, you certainly can't, and then you're forced back into a standstill, an ugly competition with a poster that cannot fight back.

So, the two of you start hanging out in your dorm. You would be lying if you said you hadn't considered getting some sweat mag poster of some ludicrously built American actor yourself, just to see Yuuji's reaction. You, thankfully, came to your senses and acknowledged that Yuuji would more likely ask to take it to hang on his own wall than ask you to take it down for the sake of his ego before you spent any money on your silly idea.

Unfortunately, when Nobara leaves her window open after a particularly humid day and finds that she's invited a mildew infestation into her dorm, she asks to shack up with you until her new room is set up, and thus you and Yuuji are forced back to his room.

Still, it was easy enough to ignore Jennifer. She was an unwelcome, near-overbearing presence in your relationship with Yuuji, but it wasn't like he mentioned her in your conversations, nor did he ever compare the two of you— it was just that stupid poster hanging above his bed and the knowledge that he has called her his type, whatever that really means. So, it was survivable.

And there are so many other things you adore about Yuuji, too— like how he gives you his jacket when he feels even a draft, or how he takes pictures of things he knows you'll think are cute or pretty, or how he lets you prop your legs over his thighs whenever you watch movies together. You like what you have with him— you don't like that fucking Jennifer Lawrence poster. Unfortunately for you, they seem like a package deal.

It was easy enough to ignore Jennifer— emphasis on was. You could ignore Jennifer as long as he never mentioned her to you. For a long time, he didn't— no one's ever called Yuuji a genius, but he's always had the good sense to avoid the topic of a certain blonde actress with you. He had a spotless track record, apart from the existence of the poster itself— he was doing so well that you started to think you really could live with Jennifer— then, he had the bright idea of asking you on a date to see her new movie.

The two of you were walking together when he asked— the sun was setting, he'd just bought you a drink from the vending machine, your shoulders were touching— then, he just had to ask that wretched question. You don't think you've recoiled from another person's touch so fast before in your life. You also don't think you'll ever forget the look on his face after you replied to his question with, "Are you fucking with me?"

He asked if that meant the answer was no. (Again, no one ever called Yuuji a genius.)

So, after that display, why are you here, in his room, making the same awkward eye contact with Jennifer Lawrence's cold, dead, photographed eyes that you've been avoiding so fervently these past couple of months? Because you're making your final stand against Jennifer. She's got to go if Yuuji wants your relationship to go anywhere. You refuse to look at her bikini any longer than you've already been forced to.

That said, you can't exactly make your final stand against Jennifer until Yuuji is back from... wherever he is, so you are, unfortunately, stuck looking at Jennifer Lawrence's bikini for even longer than you've already been forced to.

It's only when Yuuji does come back that you realize how weird of a position he's caught you in— just standing in the middle of his room, bag discarded on the floor next to you, staring at his damn poster like you're admiring a piece of art in a gallery.

He looks excited, at first, to see you, then excitement turns into confusion, probably at the fact that you're just... standing there, then concern. "What're you doin', babe?"

"We need to talk," is the first thing that comes out of your mouth, deathly serious.

Yuuji gulps. Literally gulps. "About what?"

"Jennifer."

You can see the relief painting his face when he realizes that you are not, as a matter of fact, breaking up with him. "What about Jennifer?"

"She needs to leave," You emphasize the last word in a way that makes your request sound less like a request and more like a plead. "I feel like the other woman."

"Okay, don't be dramatic—"

"Don't call me dramatic!"

"I'm sorry!"

Yuuji purses his lips and brings his hand to the back of his head, as if he's weighing to pros and cons to standing his ground and keeping the poster. Just when you think you've finally won, that the cons outweigh the pros, he says, "Aren't relationships about compromise?"

"Yuuji, I swear—"

"See the movie with me, and I'll take the poster down."

"Deal."

Maybe you should've thought about it longer. Maybe you should've weighed the pros and cons of this date, too— then, you see Yuuji sulking, watching from the corner of his room as you gleefully climb onto his bed to peel off the tape that attaches the poster to his wall, and it makes it all worth it.

You kiss him on the way out, and the goofy smile on his face tells you he feels the same way.

It'd better be a good movie.

[jewelpit]

"So, do you think you'll be able to do it? Your order said that you were the best, but I've been living on this farm for thirty winters, and I've never seen a canalfish infestation this bad before. My irrigation channels are so full of them that damn near half my crops are dead, and the other half aren't long to follow." The farmer crossed her arms and frowned.

The agrimancer placed a comforting hand on the farmer's shoulder. "Don't you worry," she said. "I've never met a canalfish infestation I couldn't handle, and I'm sure that once they're gone, all of your crops are gonna spring back up like the day they first broke soil. Now, where are these canals?"

The farmer took the agrimancer out to the back field, and after several minutes hiking through the parched fields in the summer heat, they were there. The agrimancer took one look into the irrigation canals, so full of writhing fish that it looked like there was more fish there than water, and gave an impressed whistle. "You sure weren't kidding, huh? This has gotta be one of the worst I've ever seen."

The farmer covered her face with her hands. "Damn, I knew it was bad. We've had a bad few years here, and if I lose this crop I could lose the entire farm." A few tears rolled down her face, carving clean lines in the dust that covered it before falling to the ground and disappearing into the dry earth.

"Hey, it's okay," the agrimancer said as she set down her duffel bag on the bank of the canal and began to take out her ceremonial garb. She pulled the oilskin boots on, all the way up to just above her knees, before putting on an ancient vest, made in the style of those-who-lived-before-the-bombs, and finished the outfit with a curiously-shaped hat, whose brim covered only the front of her face, leaving the parts of her neck not covered by her ponytail fully exposed to the sun. "I wasn't kidding when I said that I've never met a canalfish infestation I couldn't handle. This one will be no different."

The agrimancer waded into the water, enjoying the contrast of the cool water on this hot day, silently thankful that she had her oilskin boots to keep her legs and feet dry. She let the magic of the earth and growing things seep into her, and she directed it back out into the water. The canalfish barely noticed at first, but the agrimancer pulled more and more energy into herself and pumped more and more into the water, in pulses that could almost be seen by the naked eye as ever widening circles of canalfish gave in to panic and tried to flee from her as quickly as their slippery bodies would allow.

Over the next few hours the agrimancer walked up and down the canals, using regular pulses of magic to send the fish into a blind panic. Little by little she forced the fish back into the stream from which they had arrived, until each of the irrigation channels that the farmer depended on were clear and flowing with water again. The agrimancer put her hand on the grate separating the canals from the stream, and forced as much magic into it as it could take. "That oughta keep those fish away," she said out loud to nobody in particular. "At least for a few years."

The day was hot, and the agrimancer was thankful to see the farmer waiting for her on the back porch with a cold jug of lemonade. "Fish problem's sorted," the agrimancer said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb. "I enchanted your grate too, so you shouldn't have to worry about any more of them for at least a few more years."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" The farmer leaned forward and gave the agrimancer a crushing hug. "You've saved me. Please, join me for some lemonade." The farmer pulled out two chairs at the small table on the porch. When they were both seated, she poured two glasses of lemonade, and the two of them drank, cooled off, and chatted. It turned out that they both had many shared interests beyond just agriculture, and as the afternoon turned into evening, both of them couldn't help but feel like they must have known each other for more than just one day.

When the sun was finally setting the agrimancer realized she'd have to get going right now if she wanted to be home before dark. "Well, I should probably get going," she said, feeling more than a little crestfallen that she had to leave her new friend so quickly. By the looks of it, the farmer shared her feelings on this matter. "I'll go ahead and pack up if you want to write the check." The farmer nodded and walked back into the house to grab her checkbook.

The agrimancer pulled off her oilskin boots and placed them at the bottom of her open duffel bag. Then came the vest, folded neatly on top of the boots. Just as the agrimancer was about to take off the ceremonial hat, the farmer came back with the check. She handed it to the agrimancer, who verified that the amount was good, but couldn't help but notice that there was an unfamiliar number in the memo section. She held up the check and pointed to it. "What's this?"

The farmer blushed. "That's my telegraph number. I had a lot of fun today, and I was wondering if you wanted to go to the summer's end festival next week, as a… as a, um… as a date?" The farmer's face turned bright red under its usual light brown.

"I'd love nothing more," the agrimancer said, gently folding the check and putting it into her pocket. She smiled. "It's a date." She took off her ceremonial hat and placed it on top of the folded up vest inside her duffel bag. As she zipped up the duffel bag, the last thing visible in the bag was the incantation embroidered on the front of the hat, written in the ancient language spoken by people long ago, back before a crashing, searing wave of nuclear fire rebuilt the world:

"Women want me. Fish fear me."

[your-pal-crow]

One cold afternoon, a rich man was walking through the forest for he was terribly lost. A foggy mist clouded around him, anything past 20 feet or so was completely white.. The branches of the trees shook with an eerie howl of wind, and a new presence made itself known with a small cough. A witch disguised as an older woman shuffled over to the rich man.

"Why hello dear, are you lost?" She asked curiously, her head cocking to the side.

"Yes miss.. I believe I am... By any chance would you know how to get out of the woods? My maid is cooking dinner at home, and if I don't get back in time it will be cold, and she knows how much I despise eating cold food."

Well this man didn't seem very nice at all, so the playful witch decided to play a little trick on him.

"Yes yes of course I do, I'll lead you out of the foggy forest on one condition."

"Anything! I have gold and riches, servants in The finest clothing you've ever seen! You will be paid well for your kindness."

She shook her head, having a different idea in mind.

"I'm quite old you see, I have no use for money and silk. My only condition is that you take my four daughters with you, and fed them well. So if they're too much of a hassle for you then you can simply sell them off to be married."

Although a bit perplexed, the man shook her hand and the deal was made. After all, how much of a ruckus could a few young girls make? She led the rich man back to her small cottage, surrounded by mushrooms and wildflowers. Having him wait by the door, she went inside and came out with a lantern and four beautiful women. They were quite similar to one another, each had striking green eyes just like their mother.

"The lantern will illuminate your path, follow the trail of moss and you'll find your way out rather quickly." The rich man did his she said, the quadrant of maidens following behind him whilst giggling and chatting amongst themselves.

The old woman (or rather the clever witch) was right, the green path led them out safely and he was quite relieved.

Back to his luxurious home they went, though the girls didn't seem as surprised or awestruck as he had hoped.. He would pride himself on showing off his riches to others, and was not used to them being brushed off like this.

"The four of you will share a room, right next to mine." The man declared and the girls simply nodded in agreement and walked into their new bedroom. It was late, so the man did the same, walking into his bedroom and lying down on his comfortable bedding.

"what a poor old woman..." He thought, though his mind was slowly drifting into sleep. "..That she is forced to give away her daughters to a strange man for she can not feed them." That is what he thought at least, for the girls were rather skinny for their age. He descended into his slumber with a smile, happy with his deal.

The next morning the fog seems to have disappeared from the landscape, sunlight peeking through the drapes like a playful child asking to play. He awoke, got dressed, and descended down the stairs into the dining hall where the four beauties were waiting for him.

"Thank you for having us sir." One politely spoke.

"Terribly kind of you sir." Another smiled.

"I hope you won't mind us around." The third laughed nervously.

"Terribly kind indeed." The youngest giggled to herself quietly.

Breakfast arrived and the room nearly lit up with the joy on their faces, causing a grin to spread across the rich man's face.

"You've lived a life of poverty, eat as much as you'd like!" He laughed, digging into his food right away. The beautiful women relished their meal, afterwards each asking for a second helping.

The rich man was never very good with love, so having four happy and beautiful women sleeping rather close to you does help quite a bit doesn't it? He bought each of them expensive golden jewelry, and beautiful dresses made out of the finest silk, woven with emeralds and rubies. His attempts at courting went seemingly unnoticed however, each girl peppering him with compliments but never kisses, or giving him only a glance in the hallways.

There was only one thing that bothered him though, despite being quite skinny the girls ate an awful lot of food. Two servings turned into four servings, then to five then to seven and so on. So much food and so much cooking cost the rich man quite a bit of money, until he wasn't nearly as rich anymore. Of course he loved the women, but they were sucking every penny he had with grand feasts just about every meal and he could not stand the thought of being without a roof over his head or a loaf of bread on his table.

Finally, after about a month of these antics he realized that these girls were not as they seemed, and it finally got through that thick skull of his that he had been tricked. Night after night he tossed and turned, trying to think of how he could rid himself of these ravenous maidens before he was as poor as the old woman in the woods.

"What did the woman say that night? There must be something I can do.." he muttered anxiously, looking out his window at the glowing moon. The moon almost looked like a large silver coin, round and bright and beautiful. That's when it hit him like a stone, the woman had said that he could sell them off to be married if they were too much of a hassle. And at this point, they were definitely a hassle.

The very next morning the not-so-rich man took his harem into a nearby village that had been weakened by an infestation of wolves and looked for somebody who could take care of them for him. He felt sure that they could use a bit of help around since their numbers were dwindling. The townspeople however, were very cautious about this sudden deal. They've heard tales of the girls who could eat twice their weight in beef, and knew none of them could afford such a cost.

He asked the baker "Please, these beautiful girls will help you make your bread and your cakes, as long as you feed them well." The baker declined, for he could not feed them.

Next he asked the medicine maker "Please, these beautiful girls will help you grind your herbs and stir your pots, as long as you feed them well." the medicine maker declined, for he could not feed them.

Running out of options, he came to the final house with the four girls' giggles seeming more devious than before...

In that house lived the weaver, a kind young lady with a nack for sewing, and a gray cat that followed her around. "Please, these beautiful girls will assist you in whatever you need, as long as you feed them well."

The weaver saw the mischievous gleam and the girl's eyes and simply smiled and nodded. "They'll be a great help around the house, I don't have much money but I'd like to pay you back even a little for such a generous gesture.."

Though his money was dwindling, he was desperate to rid themselves of these gorgeous menaces. "I ask for only a single bronze coin in exchange for my harem!"

Although a bit surprised, she hurried inside the house and came back with a small pouch. "Here you go sir, have a lovely day" The weaver smiled as she pressed the coin into his hand and the girls walked in.

The not-so-rich man went home feeling relieved, and had learned a lesson about making deals with strangers in the woods...

Meanwhile the weaver took care of the girls rather easily, after a few trips to the huntsman's cabin they learned how to hunt for themselves. The wolves no longer terrorized the village, for any that got too close were gobbled up by the beautiful yet gluttonous women, who had found great joy in running through the woods and shooting arrows.

And the weaver grew rather attached to them over time, and they to her, until one day te weaver and the eldest sister were happily wed. Over time the other three sisters went their separate ways, yet remained in the village hunting and dancing together every other night.

A good life they all lived, and thankfully the children were not nearly as hungry as their mothers.

What a good deal I'd say, and as the old saying goes.

"A penny for your thots"

[theferalscion]

Used as an experiment

Used as an Experiment

The Warrior of Darkness would not be the first sin eater that Emet-Selch has used as a tool for his own ends. Vauthyr and Mitron were the first notable examples of the Ascian using light itself as a weapon to be wielded against Hydaelyn.

However, in spite of being sundered, and in spite of being...himself... Emmanellain's final form was something even Emet-Selch couldn't anticipate. It would be powerful, yes, but more importantly... unpredictable.

An experiment, if you would.

And any day now, the results would be clear.

Every now and then, the Warrior of Darkness would find the strength to walk again, and he'd nervously stammer out a request to see more of the city. More of Amaurot.

It was perhaps one of the few requests that Emet-Selch could never bring himself to deny. After all, why else did he recreate his beloved city, if not to show the Elezen the former glory he was trying to restore?

"Only for as long as you can keep up. I'm not-"

"-'going to be lugging my sorry Light-infested body around the streets like a damn toddler', yes, I know. I'm decaying, not deaf."

Emet-Selch purses his lips and scowls, turning away from Emmanellain and walking slowly from the building they've shacked up in. Supposedly the Ascian's former apartment. Emmanellain's first comment on it had been that it could use more pictures.

The same thing Azem used to say, every damn time he visited.

It made Emet-Selch's skin crawl, the similarities that would crop up between his former friend and this... abomination. Truly sickening.

Not at all anything that tore at his cold, nearly dead heart, leaking the last few drops of blood that remained.

"...no tailors?"

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes slowly as he leads Emmanellain through what qualifies as a market district of sorts. "No. Again, displays of individuality were highly discouraged."

"...rather boring, that...and don't think to argue. If you truly agreed with such a thing I doubt you'd be wearing..." Emmanellain gestures at him. "That, when you no longer need to play the role of the Emperor."

"Why don't you take it to the debate hall."

"I tried! Everyone I spoke to devolved into repetitive nonsense after the first few minutes of conversation!"

Emet-Selch stops walking. "You what."

Emmanellain feels his blood run cold. "I...I mean to say that-"

"You've been wandering around without me." Emet-Selch looks over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes has Emmanellain taking a step back. "Without my permission. You're a guest in my home, and this is how you respond to my generosity?"

The Elezen swallows. "It's not as though I tried to escape... I'm-" He seizes up suddenly, holding his head and staggering before crumpling to his knees, coughing up more white fluid onto the ground between his hands.

"-a danger to every living creature on this shard." Emet-Selch finishes for him, walking up to him slowly as Emmanellain struggles in vain to pull himself together. "It's only a matter of time before you succumb, and turn into a mindless creature bent on the destruction of every living thing in this place. And you thought it would be perfectly fine if you went wandering off where I couldn't find you?"

"You...always find me..." Emmanellain rasps. "Don't pretend as though this is..a matter of practicality! I know full well this is about...keeping me under your control...getting me to behave the way you want...as though it's not enough to see me like this! To...to watch me... turn-" He screams and curls over his middle, his vision turning blindingly white as he thrashes in agony for what feels like hours, but is likely only a few seconds.

Normally the brightness goes away after the pain stops, but not this time. Emmanellain tears up when his vision doesn't return, leaving him more helpless than before.

"Are you quite finished?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Emmanellain nods, letting his head rest against the cold floor for a moment before forcing himself to his feet.

Emet-Selch tilts his head when Emmanellain fails to make eye contact.

"I...I can't see."

"...oh... it's even closer than I thought."

There's a snap and Emmanellain flinches, feeling a weight around his neck followed by a gentle tug. His white eyes go round. "Y-you can't be serious..."

"Were you expecting me to guide you gently by the hand? Don't put up a fuss. In a matter of hours you won't even know the concept of dignity."

Emmanellain just quivers in fear at that thought, this time stepping forward when the collar is tugged on again, hugging himself as he follows Emet-Selch home.

Only a matter of time...until he loses everything.

[slingsendarrows]

My First Drake Album

Nicholas Rodney Drake was born June 19, 1948, and died 26 years later after ingesting approximately 30 amitriptyline pills. It was ruled a suicide. Nick Drake was an English singer-songwriter whose acoustic guitar songs navigated the tumultuous and oft-misunderstood travails of living with depression. His music was not popular while he lived but has since garnered worldwide recognition and critical acclaim in the years since. 

I discovered Nick Drake and his music after a traumatic experience. Those around me, charged with my care, my built-in support system (or so I thought), did not see it that way, so I was forced to seek other ways to trek along this new, unfamiliar, and terrifying path. 

Music allows me to understand complicated things, and in turn, I recognize myself. It has been that way for as long as I can remember. It was the same the instant I discovered Nick Drake, Cat Power, and the Elliot Smith types of the world, delving into and exploring the deep well of my sorrow. There is something incredibly self-indulgent about pain and suffering. It is fundamentally personal, subjective, and selfish, but surrounded by an entitled sense of affecting a world larger than ourselves; it embodies all our pain, even if that particular experience is uniquely our own. And so it is with Nick. He gave my experience words I could not articulate to myself, let alone others.

I was recently having coffee with a friend and at one point explained how living with depression has required I disengage with some people in my life. His first question, "What are you depressed about?" I hate this question. I hate it because it requires a definite answer as if I can carefully and comprehensively explain what it means to live with depression in a few short sentences encompassing the reality of it, all while holding my breath hoping what I say is clearly understood. I hate it because it is all too common. I know why it is common--because depression is difficult to explain; it is personal and universal. Personal because it happens to the individual; universal in that it happens to many individuals, more than 300 million of us according to the World Health Organization. So, is it naive to desire a succinct, identifiable, and generalizable reason? Maybe not. But I don't have one.

All I can do is borrow the words of a poet whose art helps me understand my depression, at least in part. 

Nick Drake was signed to a record deal at 20 and released three albums, Five Leaves Left (1969), Byter Layter and Pink Moon (1972), and the posthumous box-set Fruit Tree (1979).  While living, Nick did not promote his music and was reluctant to give interviews. Neither of his albums sold more than 5,000 copies upon initial release, and all we have of the artist are his music and still photographs. These sparse facts make me both sad and content. Part of me feels he never wanted to give us more than his music, and for me, it's enough. It has to be enough. It is more than enough. 

So much can be said about the artist and his art. Five Leaves Later is a deeply personal and raw poetic exercise of a man wrestling with his creation and what it means to hold oneself sacred when the world requires you expose more than you're willing for global recognition of said art. 

Beginning with "Time Has Told Me," he laments, Time has told me/ You're a rare, rare find/ A troubled cure/ For a troubled mind/ And time has told me/ Not to ask for more/ Someday our ocean will find its shore. Drake is deeply self-aware of the struggles within his mind. He succumbs to the reality that while his troubled mind is a gift, it is a "troubled cure." It allows him to see clearly with no indication as to how it can be any different. Depression feels much the same. In the darkest moments, you achieve hopeless clarity. You know what is happening to you. You're viscerally aware of how your mind is attacking the rest of your being and understand the physiological effects manifesting, but you don't stop it, you can't, your mind won't let you. A "troubled cure" indeed! 

Without a definitive answer to proffer, Drake merely suggests we learn to cope in this new reality instead: So leave the ways that are making you be/ What you don't want to be/ Leave the ways that are making you love/ What you really don't want to love. It is unfair to ask more of yourself than that, especially in the midst of a depressive episode (a singular beast unto itself). Talking it out with someone helps, but therapy is a privilege not all of us can afford. The best you can do is decipher how depression ails you in real tangible ways and work towards subverting actions that turn the picnic into a never-ending feast of abundance. 

My depression revels and thrives in isolation and despair. I have lived with it long enough to identify the stages of my Dementor infestation. First I had to give it an identity that is not me. I had to separate Nyasha from what J.K. Rowling describes as "the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places. They glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope and happiness out of the air around them[...]Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself--soul-less and evil. You'll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life."

My descent begins with isolation. I cut myself off from everyone and anything capable of giving me hope. My perfectionist-in-recovery leanings make it challenging to let people close to me know I am struggling so I deflect, I lie, or just disappear. I genuflect to my tormentors, and with that surrender, they infiltrate with the intensity of quelling a resistance that simply doesn't exist. They are here for everything; they will take everything, whether you give in willingly or put up a fight. Before naming my tormentor, throwing in the towel was just part of the deal. Why bother, right Eeyore? 

Next comes, avoidance. I call in sick to work more often than I should and with no strength to do anything about it, I let things fall apart. My apartment looks like a hoarders fantasy, dishes stacked in the sink become science experiments and I grow comfortable with the increasingly pungent reek of my body odour. I take Netflix bingeing to Olympic levels. I eat and eat and eat, to suppress the pain of my trauma, burying myself in pizza boxes, cinnamon rolls, potato chips and pot until all I can feel is my bloated and overly extended stomach. I berate myself for not having self-control, smoke more weed to induce indifference, wake up in regret, promise to do better, rinse and repeat. 

Over time I realized this was a roommate I would have to drag along to all the parties in spite of her feelings. So I made a plan to help me "leave the ways that are making me be who I really don't want to be": a miserable, fat, unhappy, sad person trying and failing to reverse-engineer their past. I cut certain people out of my life, read several self-help and psychology books (with care), started treating my body as if I gave a shit, even when I didn't, stopped chain-smoking pot, and most importantly, discovered CrossFit and the power of endorphins. CrossFit saved my life. At first, it was to quell the hunger to be loved and accepted by a man who did not see past my fatness, but now it is to survive and live to fight another day, hoping "someday our ocean will find its shore." Expecto Patronum!!

Two songs from Five Leaves Later have been constant companions on this journey, "Saturday Sun" and "Fruit Tree.” The oddity of living with my Dementor is how surprised we both are when confronted with a genuinely beautiful day. I mean a gorgeous, sun's bright, trees rustling to the soft breeze, blue skies kind of day. Depending on how long we've been companioning in our misery, we are more likely to close the curtains even harder and shut out the realness of life outside our wretchedness. How dare it shine so unabashedly and affront us with its glory? Doesn't our pain matter? Of course not, you self-indulgent sad person. It's the sun. It rises and sets. Sometimes the days are cloudy, bitter cold with rain and snow, but the sun still rises, as it as done since the dawn of time. It doesn't consider my individual circumstances. For it will be what the sun has always been: burning and shining, bright and perpetual. 

That is the sentiment of "Saturday Sun." Suddenly you're not feeling so bad. There is momentary reprieve; momentary because you've learned it is only a matter of time. You're confused when the Saturday sun [comes] early one morning/ In a sky so clear and blue/ Saturday sun came without warning/ So no-one knew what to do.  After living in the depths of despair for so long, you forget what it feels like to feel good. You are anxious when suddenly your ever-present roommate takes a day, or week, or a month off. She didn't leave a note, but you know she'll be back. Maybe it's when the meds finally kick in and/or your lifestyle changes are starting to take effect, and you can cope with some semblance of normalcy. 

In the light of day you remember the things you have neglected: the two Chopin concerts you paid for but didn't attend although you were dying to see Lang Lang, the numerous friend engagements you bailed on at the last minute, the phone calls that went unanswered, the dreams and goals deferred, and the countless failures to rally yourself. This sun has brought people and faces/ That didn't seem much in their day/ But when I remember those people and places/ They were really too good in their way/ In their way/ In their way/ Saturday won't come to see me today. You despair at all the time lost and wonder if you are meant to feel bad always, even on the seemingly good days when the rays of clarity reach your soul to remind you things are not all bad. 

I often gaze at reality through a veneer of misery. Realizing how things weren't as bad as I thought makes me feel sorry for having considered them that bad, to begin with. Am I making up my depression? Am I decadent in my despair? Is this just an act? What is wrong with me? That is the consuming aspect of depression. Reprieve is more work. Trying to hold on to it, knowing its a losing battle, and wondering if your defeatist attitude is the reason it is a losing battle. Maybe you're not trying hard enough. You think about stories with reason and rhyme/ Circling through your brain/ And think about people in their season and time/ Returning again and again/ And again/ And again/ but Saturday sun has turned to Sunday's rain. It is fucking relentless. 

"Fruit Tree" reads like a self-fulfilling prophecy. It is an artist's individual understanding of fame and legacy. It is incredibly forward-thinking because Nick Drake died, I believe, understanding the value of his art yet somewhat resigned to the world not catching on until long after he was gone. Fame is but a fruit tree/ So very unsound/ It can never flourish/ 'Till its stock is in the ground/ So men of fame/ Can never find a way/ 'Til time has flown far from their dying day/ Forgotten while you're here/ Remembered for a while/ A much-updated ruin/ From a much-outdated style. Whether we yearn for conventional fame or to simply make our mark upon this world, legacy is a unique desire of the mortal. It is our final stand against death and lets the world know we were here, we mattered, we connected. I once read that immortality is achieved in the memories of those who remember us after we're gone. We are not truly dead until the last person who carries our memory dies with it. There is something both comforting and terrifying about that. We are remembered by our loved ones and the lives we've affected, knowingly and otherwise. But memory is fragile, subjective, and prone to manipulation. So how well is our legacy maintained? Does the remembrance bear a resemblance to who we really were? How we lived, loved, failed, triumphed, survived, endured, or were defeated? How can we ask so much when we begin to understand that to “err is human,” and we are all selective in what we remember, let alone how we remember it. 

"Fruit Tree" is a remarkably well-penned bookend to "Time Has Told Me." We shouldn't ask for more but live in gratitude of what has been given to us, and maybe that will lead us where all our struggling and fighting against the tide has been guiding us--to a place were" our ocean finds its shore." But still, we can't help but wonder what we leave behind, the parts of us that remain beyond the veil and our ability to curate and frame ourselves. When all that is left is what is remembered, how can we not worry about that too? 

Drake's response exposes the futility of these obsessive musings: Life is but a memory/ Happened long ago/ Theatre full of sadness/ For a long forgotten show/ Seems so easy/ Just to let it go on by/ 'Till you stop and wonder/ Why you never wondered why. Will the rooms of despair carry the memory of your trauma the way your body has? Probably not. Another soul will take residence there to tell their own story, cement their own legacy. I'm reminded of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade," Not though the soldier knew/ Someone had blundered/ Theirs not to make reply/ Theirs not to reason why/ Theirs but to do and die/ Into the valley of Death/ Rode the six hundred. Theirs but to do and die.

Worrying about legacy after death seems futile when all we can do is live out our days, and hopefully, past the reeds of selfish thoughts, needs, and desires, we do some good that is not "interred with our bones." Maybe in death, we find an understanding of ourselves, our place, and our experiences. But there is no knowing until we go through it: Safe in the womb of an everlasting night/ You find the darkness can give the brightest light/ Safe in your place deep in the earth/ That's when they'll know what you were really worth. Or not, but what does it matter? You've done your part. You lived. You experienced things that made you, and for better or worse, you were here. 

Fruit tree, fruit tree/ No one knows you but the rain and the air/ Don't you worry/ They'll stand and stare when you're gone

Fruit tree, fruit tree/ Open your eyes to another year/ They'll all know/ That you were here when you're gone

I know you were here Nicholas Rodney Drake. Long before I was born, your ocean was making its way to my shore. I understand my depression better through your music and the intense vulnerability you bared. You bore fruit within my soul and allowed me to realize that while my struggles with mental health aren't unique, it does not make them irrelevant. I remember you. I see you, Fruit Tree. Keep blossoming!