#stranger things poetry

[graysonnightwing]

Please be honest in all of your answers.

1. Will you ever be free from your guilt? Circle your answer. a) Yes b) No c) I have traveled to other dimensions trying to rid myself of this weight upon my chest. Nothing has ever worked.

2. How else could this have ended? a) I only wanted to spend a night with a boy. b) I never expected to be left behind. c) No one does.

3. Barbara is 15 years, 10 months, and 4 days old. You are 15 years, 7 months, and 3 days old. If she dies on a Tuesday, and you stop looking for her on a Saturday, how old will you be when you let her go? Please answer clearly, in full sentences.

(Not a correct answer: There will never come a time when I don't pick up the phone hoping to hear her voice on the other end.)

4. Define two (2): BFFs | The feeling of a revolver heavy in your hand and the ringing in your ears from firing it | Demogorgon | The way the world collapsed when Hopper and Joyce did not bring her back

5. True or False: i. You heard something that night. ___ ii. The monster's claws and teeth were the last thing she ever felt, while you were upstairs being held with gentle hands. ___ iii. You wish it had been you. ___ iv. You lie to her grieving parents every week. ___ v. They believe you. ___ i. You hunt the one that killed her, but you'll never bring her back from the dead. ___ vii. You told her to go home. ___

-nancy this isn't you (format inspired by x)

[gayofthefae]

Will has always sacrificed himself it just escalated to self-sabotage. In the first episode, Mike reasons going after him because of his self sacrifice in DnD. In season 2 when they're in the shed, he tells another DnD story of sacrifice or risk of sacrifice. Joyce tells the story of him giving up his tonka truck. In season 3, after their fight, he steps back, tried not to take up as much space so he doesn't interfere with Mike's happiness, if that's with someone other than him now. In season 4, he gives up his own chance at sharing something that's been killing him so that Mike feels loved by El. It was always coming and it was always there. When he speaks his mind he takes up too much space and people tell him so, even if they don't mean it, even if it's just unrelated bad timing, and he listens and steps back. "I deserved it".

"I have never understood where the line is drawn between self-sacrifice and self-slaughter"

Once, it was acts of selflessness. He risked himself when there was a threat to save the party in DnD. But in life, it was always more like the tonka truck. Which was selfless, yes, but he never really learned to prioritize. "She's sad mommy" and in that case, he decided that that's what he could do to help. But as he got older, he never asked himself if there were other ways he could help, ways without self sacrifice. He never weighed the options. He never asked himself if it would make him sadder to give things up than it would make them if he didn't. He just decided "if they're a little bit sad and I could fix completely by ripping out my own heart and never putting it back in, I'll do it".

[prettyboy-like-you]

There weren't moments. It wasn't like that. There was no shifting of grey clouds. No first blush. Nothing like waiting for the sun to come up in the sky as it does the morning after the night before. None of that creeping, hazy first light growing steadily brighter, bit by infinitesimal bit. No slow breach of my dark horizon. No sneaking up on me in my dimmed down little world.

There was no dawn. 

Because it wasn't a thing that grew, it was a Quickening.

It was daytime unleashed, the flicking on of a switch I couldn't turn off again because the stupid mechanism broke off in my stupid hand. I was bleached. Aglow. All ablaze, all at once, drenched in the brightest of lights and soaked in a fluorescence there was no escaping from. No shade. No shadow. Only forever burning, now, beneath your God-like rays, alight with all of you.

Luminous, radiant fucking you.

.

[cheekios]

Please Bring Kaiser Home.

I have been having complications with managing my diabetes that have led me to be hospitalized twice. I live alone. Kaiser is a precious pup that specializes in detecting when blood sugar is too high or too low before it leads to complications. Something I have been struggling with. Kaiser would not only improve my quality of life but also be my companion and friend

I’m asking for community support get a Medical Alert Dog. It is a huge ask but any support is appreciated 💗

CA: $HushEmu

PP: emuslayter@gmail.com

[bebx]

Henry Creel | One | Vecna

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot by Stephen Adly Guirgis † Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

[asoftepiloguemylove]

IF YOU GO, I'M GOING TOO 'CAUSE IT WAS ALWAYS YOU // LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

Hanya Yanagihara A Little Life // Stranger Things (2016-) dir. Matt Duffer & Ross Duffer // Anne Carson Euripides // Lorde A World Alone // Ryan O'Connell // The Hunger Games (2012) dir. Gary Ross // Ross Gay Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude // The Neighbourhood You Get Me So High // 劇場版 呪術廻戦 Jujutsu Kaisen 0 dir. Sunghoo Park // Lorde Ribs // ATEEZ Friend (Thank U) // Billie Eilish BIRDS OF A FEATHER // 今際の国のアリス Alice in Borderland (2020-) dir. Shinsuke Sato // Conan Gray Best Friend // spira me You Changed Me For The Better // ZEROBASEONE for DICON // unknown

[claraoswalds]

STOBIN APPRECIATION WEEK ↳ Day 1: Favorite Scene

Steve, did you OD over there? No, I just, uh... just thinking. Okay.

[http-byler]

richard siken, anyway // stranger things 04x08

[trensu]

Heyyy, long time no post, huh? I'm dropping another chunk of stasis in darkness for you guys! And I wanted to remind people that these posts are basically rough drafts. The final product will hopefully be more polished but in the meantime please enjoy!

--

After Steve convinced the old man he meant no harm, he’d been allowed into the home. The Lord of Night hadn’t been super specific about the purpose of his quest, only that Steve had to bring him to Wayne Munson. Steve discreetly looked around the home as he entered it. The old man was obviously unwell and had been for a while, given the state of the house. Steve had the creeping suspicion that the time limit the Lord of Night mentioned was linked to the man’s health.

“What are you doing?” Wayne Munson asked suspiciously once he had returned to the kitchen with Steve in tow. He had sat heavily in one of the old worn chairs at the table but Steve, instead of joining him, began to clear the table on impulse. Steve halted awkwardly.

“This ain’t your house, boy,” Wayne said with a scowl. “I can take care of myself.”

Steve did his very best not to look at the scattered mess in the kitchen or living room. It was not the mess of a dirty, careless person. It was the mess of someone tired and overwhelmed. It was the mess of someone in pain who was too proud to ask for help. Steve took in Wayne Munson’s watery eyes, wan skin, and the clothes that were plain things, tattered from use, but mostly stain-free. Steve quickly added all these details and came up with a plan of attack. He set the plate back down.

“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed easily. “I’m aware, but I serve the Lord of Night and he sent me to you specifically. In our god’s name, I must assist you in any way I can.” 

Wayne’s expression wavered. Steve pushed again. He lowered his gaze in a slightly embarrassed manner, letting a note of uncertainty color his words.

“I don’t know what else to do until nightfall,” Steve said. He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “I don’t want him to think I’ve neglected you.”

“What happens at nightfall?” Wayne asked.

“It’s when the Lord of Night wants to see you,” Steve said. Wayne blinked.

“Me? He wants to see me?”

“Yeah! So, if you could please let me,” Steve said, putting on his most endearing smile, “I’d like to take care of you until then. You know, make sure you’re comfortable and get the place ready for a divine visit. If it’s not too much trouble, sir?”

“Uh, no, that should be fine. Is…is there anything I should do?” Wayne asked dazedly.

“Not really. All I know is he really wants to see you tonight. Oh, maybe you’d like to rest until then? A nap, so you’re not drowsy when he arrives.”

Wayne nods, still in shock at the news. He didn’t protest when Steve helped him out of the chair and let him lean his weight on him as they navigated to the bedroom. Wayne sat on the bed as Steve drew curtains closed over the room’s single window. The curtains were thick enough to dim the sun to a pale yellow glow.

“I didn’t know there was anyone else who followed him,” Wayne said as he lay himself down over the covers.

"He told me you’re the only one left, besides me,” Steve told him. “And I only discovered him a month ago by accident.”

“By accident?” Wayne asked with a wry grin.

“My friends found a holy text when we were researching other gods. It was the only one of his in the city's whole library. Then we had a hell of a time trying to find his last shrine. When I finally found it, it was falling apart. He’s been forgotten,” Steve said. At Wayne’s troubled expression, he hurriedly added, “But now that I’ve pledged myself to him, I’m going to make sure people know him again.”

Wayne did not appear convinced, but he finally settled to rest after Steve promised to wake him before sunset. Steve took the opportunity to clean. He hadn’t been lying to Wayne when he said he wasn’t sure what to do until nightfall. It didn’t help that Steve also liked to keep himself busy. Being idle made him itch.

The house was small. Aside from Wayne's bedroom, there was only a cramped kitchen and a modest living room. From the small window of the backdoor, Steve could see a short, worn path to an outhouse. 

Given the size of the house, though there was a mess everywhere, it didn’t take Steve very long to clean it all. When it was done to his satisfaction, there were still a few hours left until sunset so he wandered outside. The porch railing was covered with broad green leaves from intertwining vines but Steve left that alone when he saw the small garden nearby. It was full of ripe vegetables that Steve assumed Wayne had been unable to pick himself given his condition. 

By the time Steve had picked the vegetables, pulled the weeds, and watered the garden, the sun hung low in the horizon. He cleaned himself up the best he could in the kitchen sink and took one of the chairs from the table to the bedroom before waking Wayne.

He told Wayne what he accomplished during Wayne’s repose. While Wayne expressed his gratitude politely enough, it was still apparent to Steve that the old man was irritated at having needed the assistance at all. To keep Wayne from dwelling on that, as well as to satisfy his own curiosity, he coaxed Wayne into conversation.

“Can I ask, uh, how you–I mean, how did you know? How did you know the Lord of Night existed?"

Wayne laughed at Steve’s befuddled tone. The laugh turned into a coughing fit. Steve quickly fetched him a glass of water and put it on the bedside table after Wayne had a drink.

“My family’s a bunch of no-good criminals,” Wayne croaked. “Were. It’s only me now. But before, each generation of Munsons took it up. Like a family tradition.”

“Criminals?” asked Steve cautiously. 

“Thieves and con men. Some ladies of the night, if you catch my meaning. They knew of our Lord of Night and passed the knowledge down,” Wayne sighed sadly. “The life of a criminal ain’t what you call stable. We lost bits and pieces of him with every generation. Like his name. No one’s known his name for a very long time. Is that why he wants to see me? Did I fail him?”

There was genuine distress in Wayne’s question so Steve hid his disappointment. He had hoped the Lord of Night’s last worshiper would at least have a clue about where to start the search for the lost name. He focused, instead, on reassuring the old man.

“I don’t know why he wants to see you, but he wasn’t angry when he sent me. He sounded excited.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Wayne said uncertainly.

“Definitely,” Steve assured. Before Wayne could sink into his gloom again, Steve said, “I know you said you’ve lost some knowledge, but do you know if the Lord of Night has any prayers? I haven’t…I mean, I’ve tried to worship him but I don’t think I can do it right without a prayer. I’m kind of new at all this.”

“My ma used to say our Lord didn’t have patience for formalities,” Wayne said, brow furrowed. “They bored him so he only had a few official prayers. There was one where we’d thank him for any dreams he gave us. I think there was another one that asked for dreams to bring inspiration or something of that sort. I don’t really remember those–ma would be boxing my ears for that if she was still around. I remember the one for protection, since we used that one a lot. It goes: 

Lord of Night,  Guide us through all phases Of the moon; May the dark be free of All dangers, While your many stars burn.

Wayne’s voice cracked into a coughing fit near the end. Steve hurriedly offered him water again once Wayne had caught it again. Wayne took a few mouthfuls and repeated the prayer again so Steve could learn it. It took a few tries, but Wayne was patient and by the end of it, Steve had it memorized.

“Is that the only one?” Steve asked, hoping to learn more. Wayne grimaced.

“It’s the only one I really remember. The Lord of Night prefers stories. My ma would tell us the best bedtime stories. Said they were for our god as much as for me and my brother. I was never good at coming up with new stories, so I retell my favorites or tell our Lord about my days and give him a little offering.”

Steve wasn't much of a story teller. He supposed he could do as Wayne did until he met up with Robin and Dustin again. They constantly chatted about books they’d read. Steve couldn’t help but notice how, once again, his friends seemed a better fit for his god than he was; all Steve could give his god was his shield and sword. It was discouraging. He had to figure out a way to make up for it somehow.

“What kind of offerings?” Steve asked. 

He wanted to give his god more; he wanted to give the Lord of Night something he’d actually like. It wasn’t lost on him that the Lord of Night took him under duress. Who else would’ve been able to complete this quest? 

“When I was young, it was horse shoes,” Wayne chuckled at Steve’s confusion. “Thieves are supposed to give him a part of their loot but my ma and pa were horse thieves. They got horseshoes and would leave one for each horse they stole, tied with a braid made of the stolen horse’s mane.”

“You stole horses?” Steve said, unable to fight off a grin as he remembered the conversation he had with the Lord of Night about it.

“Me and my brother, before he passed,” Wayne said with a weak nod. 

The sky had darkened by now. Steve pulled the stone out of his satchel. He carefully unwrapped it from the cloth and set it gently on the bedside table next to the glass of water. Wayne eyed it quizzically.

“It’s from his shrine,” Steve explained. Without any further fussing, Steve stood up and went to the door.

“Don’t leave,” the Lord of Night said. 

Steve turned to see the god, hooded in his cloak of constellations, sitting in the chair Steve had vacated. The Lord of Night had not even glanced Steve's way when he spoke to him. The god’s attention rested solely on Wayne.

Steve hadn’t seen or spoken to the Lord of Night since he’d been accepted as his holy warrior. The god had needed to conserve his energy, he explained to Steve, so that Steve could complete his quest. The god’s cloak was as mesmerizing as the first time. However, this far from the shrine, the god did not look as solid as he had during the nights he spent with Steve. 

“I wanted to give you two some privacy,” Steve said softly. 

“I think Wayne would appreciate not being alone,” the Lord of Night said. 

The old man stared at the god unblinkingly. Wayne’s expression was one of awe and fear, so Steve did as he was told and stayed in the room though he chose to lean on the wall furthest from the pair. He was still close to them in the tiny bedroom, but it provided the pretense of privacy.

“My Lord?” Wayne’s voice was barely audible.

“Hello. I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” the god said.

[tellthatbrokebitch]

guys, i lied. i’ve been able to count this entire time. st text posts v

[gayofthefae]

Thinking about El and Will and the quote

“A child abused doesn’t stop loving its parent. It stops loving itself.”

[flowercrowngods]

The Last Day.

Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.

So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.

The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.

But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.

Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.

It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.

The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.

Or maybe they’re the same feeling.

Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.

He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.

Michael Bruce

He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.

He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.

Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm. I walked, attendant on the funeral Of an old swain : around, the village crowd Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house, For all that live, appointed. To the dust We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.

Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.

To the dust We gave the dead.

The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.

Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just���

A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale, And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood : While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd, And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore. All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.

Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.

“Steve?”

“Robbie?”

“You… You better come see this.”

He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.

He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.

Terror in every look, and pale affright Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past, And for the future trembling.

Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.

Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.

[srisrisriddd]

True Life Integral

Life = ∫ [(conscious x bliss) ÷ time] Δtime

- Dr Devang H Dattani / Infinite SriSriSri DDD

Good Morning

Equation / Quote / Poem / Poetry / Quotes Of 

Bhagwan Sri Sri Sri

Doctor Devang H Dattani

Infinite SriSriSri DDD

Mathematical equation of True Life

Posted By TheBlissCity DDD Team

See The Media Photo Video For

Quoteoftheday

God Morning

#Integral , #life , #bliss , #conscious , #time  , #birth , #death , #TheBlissCity , #philosophy , #mindfulness , #DrDevangHDattani , #nature , #awareness , #InfiniteSriSriSriDDD , #quotes , #life , #art , #zen , #awakening , #quote , #spiritual , #photography , #Video , #meditation , #psychology , #poem , #poetry , #motivation , #inspiration , #quoteoftheday , #love , #words , #thoughts , #joy , #pun , #enlightenment , #health , #mental health , #consciousness , #good , #god , #landscape , #life , #nirvana , #tantra , #yoga , #experience , #photooftheday , #panorama , #lake , #underwater , #fishes , #mathematics , #equation 

[bebx]

Heaven in Your Eyes — by Jamie Campbell Bower

[runraerun]

**this is my second attempt uploading this because it glitched out the first time.

Behold: my submission for @harringrovemicroficandart’s November challenge: Moon!🌙

[milk-or-vodka]

I loved my friend.

-Langston Hughes