#personal diary entry

[mangle-my-mind]

feeling an intense urge to be dating and to meet cute people and to kiss someone. but also scared and lazy and don't actually want to go through the process

[poetrusically]

Unnecessary life update by a stranger you might want to befriend.

Sometimes I find it sad that there are so many things we end up overlooking as a result of desperation. Living in a society where perfection is the standard makes us see through the beauty of every step we take as we walk towards the path of betterment. Don’t get me wrong, it is absolutely beautiful to possess such determination. To people like me, betterment is the key factor to living a fulfilling life. But sometimes, we are just so blinded by pressure, and perhaps judgement, that we fail to see the other things that coexist alongside our frustrations of nowhere being the standards of society, of not being perfect.

I, for instance, am having a really hard time adjusting in my new school. It is as if I “fell off”, as I am used to being at the top back in my old school. Here in the university, it is as if my already fragile perception of myself shattered into pieces. Lesson learned, do not associate your self worth merely with academic accolades. As a result of my desperation for academic validity, I ended up pressuring myself to be the ideal, perfect student. I have never indulged myself towards my studies, ever. But to my utter shock, nothing worked out. I burnt myself out for nothing. My “hard work” did not pay off a single bit in my midterms, and to say that I underperformed would be an understatement. But as I’m writing this, you know what frustrates me the most? The realization that I have failed to see the beauty of every day I lived, because I was too busy frowning at my performances. I failed to see the value of the things happening right in front of my very eyes, whether they were beautiful or not, I am unable to tell already.

I hold a very high regard for every experience, bad or good. I think this is because the words of Rilke has been ingrained into my mind. As cheesy and common as it may sound, I deem experiences to be sources of wisdom. We learn from every experience the more we try to grasp its very core. Being blinded by the things heavily influenced by societal ideals makes me feel as if I am going to lose a piece of myself if prolonged.

But perhaps the experience of being devoured by my desperation to be as good as the smart ones is also an experience to reflect upon. It may not be the best experience, as losing my mind would be an understatement, but at the end of the day, it is still a case for reflection.

Ah, don’t you think it’s astonishing? How the human mind works. How we start from detesting an idea, the idea of your trials not having the best outcomes, to acknowledging it and deeming it as a thing that was unarguably a beautiful experience that was once part of you. I guess my toxic trait is my romanticization of things that aren’t necessarily supposed to be romanticized. But it works for me. Oh how beautiful the flow of thinking is. It is such a shame that not everyone thinks these days.

[tear-stained-lenses]

*No reply*

Oh so you want me to kill myself?

[julykings]

by candlelight

[elfyprincess]

“I’m voting for Trump-” BLOCKED

“I’m voting for Jill Stein-” BLOCKED

“I’m not voting-” BLOCKED

My account is a safe space for Harris supporters ONLY tyvm

[belovedapollo]

suddenly I’m 7 again with the way I write about the things in this journal. As if I’m trying to sooth my inner child and his heart. I can be both, 30 and 7 at the same time. Being kind to yourself doesn’t go away when you grow up. That’s something I need to remind myself often too. ✍🏼

reblog is ok, don’t repost/use

[vulcanette]

[ghost-proofbaby]

if it were anyone else (e.m.)

warnings: strong allusions to depression, disordered eating/rough relationship with food, mentions of smoking, description of a sort of panic attack. very sad. hurt/comfort? not edited.

wc: 1.6k+

a/n: this is literally entirely self indulgent and written entirely after i sat and cried and thought "i wish i had eddie here right now to hold me". maybe in like thirty minutes tops. this is for me and only me. go figure lol. sorry. yeah. anyways.

if you relate, my askbox is always open, and i'm very sorry you've felt this way as well. i hope you all take care of yourselves. drink some water, call a friend. be kind to yourself.

“I’m worried about you.” 

Four words that always manage to strike a certain type of fear in your gut. You don’t know how to react as he says it, how he wants you to react. You can only stare blankly, you can only wish harder for the earth to swallow you whole.

“What do you mean?” you laugh nervously, following it with a hard swallow.

You’re playing dumb. You know it, he knows it. The tremor in your bones and your numb appendages know it, too. 

“You’re…” Eddie stalls, licking his lips, letting his eyes rake over you, “You’re getting bad again.” 

You’re quick to shake your head, forcing another hollow chuckle from your chest, “It’s not that bad. I’m fin-”

“You’re not fine.”

The look in his eyes could crack your spine if you stare too long. Wet eyes, a trembling bottom lip, worry lines etched into his forehead that you realize might be caused by you.

You’re causing him worry. The last thing you want to do, you’ve accomplished. You’re on a fast-track to becoming a burden – the first step is always acceptance. 

You’re still unsure of how he wants – no, needs you to react right now. This conversation is a landmine for both of you, and you hold every breath with every step as you try to navigate it. If you make one wrong step, it could cause an explosion that spares no survivors.

You don’t mind if it tears you apart limb by limb. You do mind if it hurts him. 

“How… How do you know that?” 

It’s not a sarcastic snipping or defensive deterrence. It’s an unfiltered response of genuineness – you want to know the signs, you want to know what has exposed the rot this time.

And then, maybe next time, you’ll be able to better shield it from him with this knowledge. 

“How could I not?” he takes a deep breath in through his nose, and you focus on the flare of his nostrils rather than any of the tears beginning to gather at his waterlines, “It’s been happening for a while now, though, hasn’t it?” 

Your throat is a cage, tight and restrictive and ringing with a bitter metallic taste in its tenseness. You can’t respond with words. You can only nod. 

He chooses to answer your question more properly now that you’ve admitted it, “You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground. Picking up distractions like they’re going out of style.”

“Hey, they might be. We never know-” you cut yourself off when your eyes meet his. Now’s not the time for jokes, “Sorry. I… I know. I’m sorry.” 

He’s right. Fuck, he’s right. 

“I want to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly,” his own steps across these landmines are just as delicate, just as feathery light, as your own. You hear it in his tone, see it in his body language. You wish your body could sink into the mattress you’re sitting on the edge of as he crouches in front of you, warm palms connecting with your knees. Grounding you. Tethering you. Holding you back from that sinking you crave. “Are you… Sweetheart, are you okay?”

If anybody else had built up to such a stupid question, you would have laughed in their face. You would have shoved those warm palms right off of your skin and you would have thrown up those ice cold hands of your own, shouted obviously not. 

Obviously not. I’m not okay. I’m so far from okay, it’s a bit comical. I am drowning. I am treading in freezing cold waters and I am barely capable of keeping my head above the waves. My engine is fucked, my tank is empty. I don’t think I’d even know how to be ‘okay’ again if you did manage to pull this mangled body of mine from these depths and sat me down on safe, solid ground again. 

You can’t say any of this, though. Not because you don’t trust him, not because he would judge you. But because the moment he asks the question that should make you scoff, you let out a sob instead. Something like a muffled, broken wail that tears from deep within you. It had already been ready and poised, laying in wait for a perfect moment like this one to escape. 

His eyes aren’t the only glossy ones anymore. 

“I-” you start, breathing already stuttering and chest already constricting, “I- I-”

“Hey,” he palms smooth up your thighs, carrying their warmth with them, as if he were trying to spread it across you. As if he had heard your thoughts. As if he already knew all about those dark, treacherous, freezing waters you were stranded in. All you can do is spew out another cry, strangled as you tried to swallow it down before it entered the atmosphere between you two, “Hey.” 

You only notice the tears when you crumple forward and he meets you halfway. Those warm palms, those hands so capable of safety and promise, cup your cheeks and his thumbs make quick work of swiping away the salty streams. 

“Hey, baby, breathe for me,” his voice is tragically gentle, “Just one deep breath, okay?” 

To demonstrate, you watch his chest expand dramatically, his hands forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

You can’t see through the bleariness. 

“C’mon, sweetness,” he encourages again, “One breath. Just one.” 

If it were anyone else, you’d turn into a fit of rage at the coddling. You’d break everything in sight. You’d scream until your already burning lungs finally collapsed as they’d been yearning to for so long. 

But it’s him. It’s just him, it’s just Eddie. 

His chest rises dramatically again, and this time, yours does as well, albeit through stifling hiccups. You’re dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the flood of emotion that was wrecking you. 

“There you go!” his voice rises ever so slightly, and when you flinch a bit at the sudden volume, he retracts, “Sorry, sorry. But that’s it, sweetheart. Another one, okay?” 

Another breath. Another sob. Another wave of all the pain you’ve been battling off. 

You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground.

He was right and it fucking killed you. None of those are things you could ever shield him from. You didn’t have the heart to pull away those numb and icey fingertips every time he’d reach out for your hand, or try to cover the shivers that managed to rack your bones even in the middle of summer. The sleeping situation had been spiraling, a pendulum of sleepless nights that would end in a sleep so deep that you could have been mistaken for resting with the dead. Maybe the smoking you could have hid, especially when you’d been so boastful about quitting. 

You weren’t running yourself into the ground. You had already collapsed into the dirt, you had already joined the worms. You’d buried yourself alive, six feet under, and nothing could have stopped him from sniffing out that scent of decay on you. 

The death of a soul and mind. The death of the thing that had propelled you forward for so long. No amount of sweet perfume, or hour long scalding showers, or minty gum to occupy your mind rather than a proper meal, can erase that stench. 

You never could have shielded him. He always saw right through you. Always had, always would. 

“I’m sorry,” you end up crying out. 

You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you echo the words again. Over and over, on repeat, until he’s rising from the ground. Until he’s sat beside you. Until his arms are suddenly encasing you and you’re awarded a warmth you didn’t feel deserving of. 

He doesn’t smell like the decay you’d surrounded yourself with. He smells like slow waking in the morning, dreary and calm and at a reasonable time. He smells like warm baths that only relax your bones, and don’t have to blister your skin in the process. He smells like three meals a day, all comforting and all effortless and that never linger with a sense of regret.

He’s not decay, never even treading close to death. He’s home. He’s the promise that you could be okay. Even if it isn’t right now. 

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs into the crown of your head, squeezing you tighter into his chest, not even blinking an eye at the patch of wetness you leave behind from where your cheeks bury against him, “Never apologize. Ever. Not with me, sweetheart. Keep the sorries. I don’t need them.” 

If it were anyone else, the holding would have suffocated you. But it’s him. It’s Eddie.

You don’t fight him when he pulls you fully into his lap, situating the two of you comfortably on that mattress. 

You don’t know how long you let him cradle you like that. How much of that time is spent filled with your cries, or how many breaths he gently urges you to take with him. He never once has to verbally say what you already know; he never once promises aloud that it’ll be okay. He doesn’t put that pressure on you, not yet. Not today. Not when he knows the journey to okay is still such a long one. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers to you instead, “I’ve got you, now, sweetheart.” 

If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t believe them. 

But it’s him. It’s Eddie. 

And he’s got you, for now and for as long as you need.

[booksapphic]

[snailfen]

got distracted and made an ii gjinka for the first time in years when i shouldve been taking notes. she can be intimidating as much as she wants but her ass is NOT beating the cutie patootie allegations

[mangle-my-mind]

what should I be for Halloween? I need ideas please!

Some costumes I've done in the past are a vampire (ofc), Hedwig Schmidt, Freddie Mercury in the I Want to Break Free video, Alex from A Clockwork Orange, and Beatrix Kiddo

[bykremi]

just a few shots from the new vlog (watch here)

[tear-stained-lenses]

“I love you.”

No you don't.

[heertohbadisadhai]

if i ever write about you in my diary and you accidentally get to read it, just know that i’m actually an excellent writer, don’t flatter yourself over how beautifully i’ve described you thank you so much

(only applies to all the crushes i’ve had so far)

[luvo27]

i have thought a LOT about how i like to write cass in my fics so here's one of the thoughts:

one thing that i do on purpose when writing from cass's pov is not use the babs or steph nicknames in the narration and this is something that i thought about because if i'm writing in steph's pov, i'll use the steph nickname from time to time but i don't use it for cass. i love love love love the scott puckett batgirl run, and one thing that really makes it unique to me is the lack of cass's narration and yes this is because she doesn't know english for a bit but even afterwards it's still fairly minimal, and there's very much the question of like, how on earth do you translate this very visual character into a written medium? the idea is like, trying to distance the narrator's voice from cass's voice. it's fun in a sense of like, i cant draw and use art to show how cass's thoughts work and how she connects things in her mind, but i can get the narrator to describe her thoughts even if in words not her own so cass might call stephanie by the nickname steph, but the narrator wouldn't, and all of the narration is like a second hand translation of what's actually happening in cass's head and sometimes it's more connected to cass's voice and sometimes it's less connected and i don't know if this is making any sense at all. basically if i were ever going to write a cass comic i think i'd write the narration in 3rd person most of the time

[galstelperion]

Conflicted fandom feelings...

So, I don't really have a lot of confidence in JD and Patrick's writing capabilities.

In private circles, I've even been saying that I would be completely fine if they hardly touched the dynamic on screen again. Before you burn me at the stake, I will admit that I don't think this is going to happen, as we've seen through the marketing of the show, they seem to be aware that Sauron and Galadriel is still such a huge selling point. They've said repeatedly in many interviews that the relationship between these two will be a central driving point throughout all five seasons.

All of this to say, the value of the ship should not be completely tied up in whatever ends up happening in the show. The value of the ship should come from the community we've cultivated, as cheesy as that might sound. After season one aired, we had such a huge burst of creativity and I made so many friends just simply through discussing headcanons and building off of each other's ideas.

The second season was not what many of us expected, but that doesn't have to get in the way of our love for this pairing. Fanon is good, actually. Fanon is oftentimes way more gratifying than what the canon provides. The greatest transformative works are often born out of extreme dissatisfaction with the source material. It's just that it takes a lot more work to cultivate. No amount of infighting or begging on your hands and knees is going to change whatever the corporate overlords at amazon have already decided will be the most profitable avenue to take. It's a shame that these are the metrics by which art is being created, but instead of stressing over it and speculating endlessly, I've personally decided to just let whatever happens happen. If I continue to be dissatisfied, well... I will always have my own fanon and community of people here to fall back on.

Rather than worrying about things we can't control, we could instead turn our focus on creating a more creative and fruitful space. Just some food for thought...