#it’s a siken reference

[idealismsprisonsentence]

i changed my url btw so

underthenarniansun -> andsuddenlyflameseverywhere

[zomerszee]

on the end of the boeing 747 and the humanity of innovation

ornithopter, richard siken / the first roll out (1968), boeing / youtube user bob devreeze / boeing 747 begins flight testing phase, the aviation week archives / youtube user blue sky country / i have seen the tops of clouds, quinn norton / the final roll out (2022), paul weatherman / ornithopter, richard siken

[geryone]

Reading a novel & thinking yeah we all took the same theory courses in college huh

[lilbirdblu]

exam: sapnap, on quackity + karl

you have 90 minutes to complete (art: knp | poem inspo: r.a)

[hannibalismos-jaaneman]

remember the time when hannibal and will "cooked" freddie together and "ate" her with mahler playing in the background? yeah.

[ro-sham-no]

lines from "chemical kids and mechanical brides" - pierce the veil

I’m a chemical kid, you’re a mechanical bride

Sam about Dean, whom John treats like his obligatory bride, like Mary, raising his son for him, cleaning up his messes.

“Chemical kid,” the perfect term for how Sam sees himself compared to Dean, the mechanical bride, the perfect soldier. Dean, who effortlessly falls in line with their father’s orders, tends to his wants and needs as part of the harmony of a nuclear marriage. All the while Sam stumbles along, never quite understanding the mission, the goal. Always a half-step out of place, always questioning things in a way he can’t help, left at a disadvantage without the coercive devotion of a father-husband to guide his hand. 

Just a chemical kid left in the back seat, left in the dark; a rough acid mixture scrambled together from a vat of molecules, all collectively disjointed and not quite right. Sam, the chemical kid who has a brother and a drill sergeant posing as his mother and father together in the front seat. 

I held a diamond to the sun, to count the moments on account of the way you smile for me.

Oh, we’re in slow motion when you smile, for me.

As a kid, Sam falls in puppy love with Dean, not yet disillusioned to big brother’s imperfections. As far as Sam is concerned, Dean is the perfect, all-American boy next door. Sam doesn’t see him smoking, doesn’t see big brother make pretty, too-young girls squirm from his attention, at their father’s behest. Can’t yet recognize the smell of spirits on his breath, doesn’t know what that means.

I still hold your breath so you won’t leave

Then comes the break, the beginning of the end. Sam starts to make the connection between the smell on Dean’s breath and the sloppy way he talks when that smell is around. Connecting it to the same smell that’s sometimes on John’s breath - usually better hidden, he learns - and to the always too-quickly diminishing supply of “disinfectant” in the med kit.

He makes those connections and he panics and starts to grip tighter to his brother-boyfriend, not realizing that his devotion, that his cloying behavior is what’s breaking Dean’s heart in the first place. Doesn’t realize it’s driving him to desperately try and snap Sam out of that puppy-love, entirely sickening in the way it makes Dean feel far too much like their father, like Dean’s husband.

Dean tries wretchedly to keep Sam from the fate of becoming a mechanical bride to his brother, one that Dean never asked for but one that he knows he would selfishly never be able to let go, once it happened, once the marriage vows solidified.

Pastel red and pornstar white,

Ghost on the altar.

We breathe, don’t leave.

The eternal chorus of their combined lives. Breathing to each other in the dark, unacknowledged, “Don’t leave.”

If there’s a God then I’m letting Him go, all for you, you alone.

Raise my hands at the thought of you leaving me alone,

What if I… What if I… What if I, I still care?

All too soon, Sam grows up and realizes that Dean knows, at least a little bit. Realizes that it’s killing him. So Sam tries, for Dean’s sake, to move on, to stop breaking his brother’s heart with the curse of his little brother’s horrific love and affection. 

But it doesn’t work.

Sam knows it’s wrong, to love Dean, to love his mother, this way. To crave the taste of his breath in the morning. To yearn for the knowledge of what his name sounds like leaving his brother’s breathless lips in the dark. He knows he needs to let go. He tries praying, tries distancing himself in the exact opposite way to how Dean does it, so they don’t run into each other. He throws himself into a private, secret faith, into schoolwork, into bettering himself - trying to purify his body, trying to cleanse it.

But it doesn’t work, of course. It doesn’t work. 

And his efforts make his heart break so violently he’s ill with it, entirely sure in the knowledge that it’s killing him. And he knows that, beyond anything, that would kill Dean, for good, so he knows he has to avoid it at all costs. He tells himself that he’s not biased in that decision.

He keeps up his new habits - because it seems to make Dean secretly happy to see his rebellious normality, and that’s the goal, after all. But privately, in the dark, away from the prying eyes of the divine fraternal, he admits that he’s giving up on stifling his devotion. He stops pretending he doesn’t feel that arm-raising panic every time Dean walks out the door to go to the bar, leaving him all alone, and he stops pretending he doesn’t still care. 

And he stops pretending that it doesn’t feel like infidelity when Dean comes home with the drugstore lipstick stains of some two-bit whore all over him. Finally stops pretending that Dean coming home, drunkenly (and mistakenly, surely) falling asleep in Sam’s bed while smelling like whiskey, sweat, and sex doesn’t have Sam jacking off furiously at every opportunity for days afterward.

As you fall fast asleep, it reminds me of the slow symphonies behind me, all the nightmares you’ll see, tomorrow.

Through the trees, I’ll blow.

But then it’s noon, and that means Sam’s inconsolable. It’s noon at midnight, with a Greyhound bus hurtling towards the no-name town they currently reside in, 4 hours out. Sam already bought a ticket.

It’s noon at midnight, and Sam watches as Dean falls fast asleep, reminding Sam of the slow symphonies of love, far behind him now. He thinks of the nightmares he knows Dean will see tomorrow after he wakes up to find all of Sam and all of his stuff missing. He thinks of how Dean will frantically search for him, of how he’ll find the note Sam’s gonna leave on the bathroom mirror. 

Thinks of how Dean’s gonna find out about the ultimatum John gave Sam in a fight they had all too recently, on one of the rare afternoons they were both in the motel and Dean wasn’t. Thinks of how John will tell him, once Dean cries hard enough; always a big, tough marine until he sees the teary-eyed likeness of his dead wife pasted onto the face of his eldest son. Crumpling fiercely, fervently in the face of Mary-Dean’s grief, betraying the vow of silence Sam had twisted out of him that afternoon in an instant. 

But that’s okay, Sam thinks as Dean’s breaths gently even out. That’s okay because, by the time that coerced vow is broken, Sam will be long gone, less tangible than a wisp of wind blowing through the trees.

[tryingtogetaway]

love vs. a lack of understanding

i./iii./v. jojo’s bizarre adventure: stone ocean part 3, ep. 7

ii. richard siken, “wishbone”

iv. anne carson, “plainwater: essays and poetry”

[hppymnday]

I couldn’t sleep so I was scrolling around and found this…

and wrote this… (very rushed, once again not proofread, very messy blurb)

In the dead of night, when Gotham was the quietest it could be, and if he was lucky enough to slip into a nightmare-less sleep, his fantasies would take hold. Silly little moments his mind conjured, most if not all of them about you. Perusing a corner store for snacks with you, on the bus whispering to each other about something. He could never quite remember the entirety of the illusion when he awoke. Only a brief clip of it and the fading feeling of safety would stay with him.

Safety, the thought always made him scoff. There was no such thing as safe in Gotham, he knew that. The familiar sound of punches being thrown in a dark alley and gory news stories taught him better. An almost constant sense of discomfort had a funny way of crawling into his life.

Was it so wrong for these dreams to give him a brief moment of peace? A break from the endless sounds of the city and his own smothering thoughts. A gift he would’ve prayed for at an earlier point in his life. Why was it that after every time he opened his eyes in the morning and savored the remnants of you, he would feel guilty? Perverted almost, as if he’d been dreaming more.. vulgar senecios with you.

Yet these moments were perhaps even more unobtainable than those. They were sweet, sickly sweet, and offered a kinder version of his life he knew he didn’t deserve. Warm skin, gentle smiles, he wouldn’t flinch when you touched him in these dreams. He could hold your hand, you’d let him, slightly swinging them as you walk along. Or at least that’s what he thinks he’d do, his own imagination filling in the blanks of what he doesn’t remember.

He has a favorite. One where he stayed in bed for hours after waking up, desperately clawing at the sheets and his hair, trying to go back to that perfect mirage.

You two were in his apartment only cleaner, lighter in every sense of the words. There were no ledgers left on the floor or scratch of rats in the walls. And he felt as if he could finally breathe, there was no yelling, no one telling him what to do.

He was reading something, you were too. Sitting side by side, backs against the wall, legs touching under the covers. Something happens and the books disappear and the rest of the room dissolves into nothing as you settle your head in his lap. And he brushes the hair out of your face, you smile.

Then he wakes up.

Whenever he thinks about these fantasies during the day he gets nauseous. Heavy breathing accompanied by the repeated phrase of “I shouldn’t” makes him spiral.

“You should be ashamed,”

“Why? For wanting to feel safe?”

And because he knows that yes, he should be, he swallows and forgets about the weight of you resting on him.

[milesfan472]

[castielstwigandberries]

you're in the woods with a beautiful man (and a car)

[s0litaire-y]

currently sleeping alone for a while

[antibayern]

[richardsikens-secretlovechild]

girl help! i’m feeling things i’m no longer in touch with

[injacksoncage]

new url who cheered

[cupidsmatch]

WISHBONE

sadie in her breakout role!! it's cowboy james bond

[dont-die-dia]

A Bad Paint Job

Standing in the cold,

Tears spill

People try and help

I don’t want your help

You can’t help me

Go away

It’s all going to shit

Can’t believe I forgot

Back to pass my sister in the halls

I walk out

Sobbing in the basement toilets

I realise what I’m doing

There’s toilet paper and water on the floor

I remember

I think it was a poem,

Quoted by someone else

A man in full breakdown

And all he thinks

Is the how shit he painted the walls

I’m ridiculous

I go back to class

3 questions answered on the paper

I really will fail

More ways than one

Teacher watched my cry for an hour