#this author is depressed

[reasonsforhope]

People ask me sometimes how I'm so confident that we can beat climate change.

There are a lot of reasons, but here's a major one: it would take a really, really long time for Earth to genuinely become uninhabitable for humans.

Humans have, throughout history, carved out a living for themselves in some of the most harsh, uninhabitable corners of the world. The Arctic Circle. The Sahara. The peaks of the Himalayas. The densest, most tropical regions of the Amazon Rainforest. The Australian Outback. etc. etc.

Frankly, if there had been a land bridge to Antarctica, I'm pretty sure we would have been living there for thousands of years, too. And in fact, there are humans living in Antarctica now, albeit not permanently.

And now, we're not even facing down apocalypse, anymore. Here's a 2022 quote from the author of The Uninhabitable Earth, David Wallace-Wells, a leader on climate change and the furthest thing from a climate optimist:

"The most terrifying predictions [have been] made improbable by decarbonization and the most hopeful ones practically foreclosed by tragic delay. The window of possible climate futures is narrowing, and as a result, we are getting a clearer sense of what’s to come: a new world, full of disruption but also billions of people, well past climate normal and yet mercifully short of true climate apocalypse. Over the last several months, I’ve had dozens of conversations — with climate scientists and economists and policymakers, advocates and activists and novelists and philosophers — about that new world and the ways we might conceptualize it. Perhaps the most capacious and galvanizing account is one I heard from Kate Marvel of NASA, a lead chapter author on the fifth National Climate Assessment: “The world will be what we make it.”" -David Wallace-Wells for the New York Times, October 26, 2022

If we can adapt to some of the harshest climates on the planet - if we could adapt to them thousands of years ago, without any hint of modern technology - then I have every faith that we can adjust to the world that is coming.

What matters now is how fast we can change, because there is a wide, wide gap between "climate apocalypse" and "no harm done." We've already passed no harm done; the climate disasters are here, and they've been here. People have died from climate disasters already, especially in the Global South, and that will keep happening.

But as long as we stay alive - as long as we keep each other alive - we will have centuries to fix the effects of climate change, as much as we possibly can.

And looking at how far we've come in the past two decades alone - in the past five years alone - I genuinely think it is inevitable that we will overcome climate change.

So, we're going to survive climate change, as a species.

What matters now is making sure that every possible individual human survives climate change as well.

What matters now is cutting emissions and reinventing the world as quickly as we possibly can.

What matters now is saving every life and livelihood and way of life that we possibly can.

[tea-cat-arts]

Shen Yuan getting transported into pidw isn't "the system punishing him for being a lazy internet hater," but instead representative of "step 1 of the creative process: getting so mad at something you decide to go write your own fucking book" in this essay I will

[thatsbelievable]

[kafkasapartment]

"Throw everything out of your mind. Read a little, sleep. The world will still be here when you wake up, and there'll still be everything left to do."

- James Baldwin

[eccentricsworld]

"There are times, dearest, when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

[myokk]

[wilmaocean]

I know i need to let it go … but it’s hard ..

[phoenixcatch7]

Loz fandom stop being angsty and give the daydreaming kids on big fun adventures with a cool glowing sword some actual whimsy and joy challenge

[thebibliosphere]

So, I've been getting a few "hey, so now you're fixed, you're going to write books faster now, right?" type messages, and hmmm. That's a loaded word right there. "Fixed."

Yeah, not too keen on that word.

What I assume these people mean to do is congratulate me on finding out a major cause of distress and illness in my life and offer well wishes for my continued relief and recovery. I assume that's what was really meant. But just to entertain the first part of that ask, no, I am not "fixed."

There is no "fixing" the kind of chronic illness or disabilities I have. My ailments are genetic and lifelong, and if you're new here, newly diagnosed at the start of the pandemic, so my treatment thus far has been limited. Most of it is things I have pieced together myself.

That I've been able to do anything over the last year when I suffered 215+ migraine days on top of the connective tissue disorder I have, and the other condition that causes spontaneous anaphylaxis--not to mention the unmedicated ADHD I cannot treat with meds (yet)--is nothing short of miraculous.

So, now that my migraines are improving thanks to finding out I have binocular vision disorder on top of all the other stuff, will I be writing books faster?

I can only hope so.

But I also cannot say, "yes, absolutely, one book a year from here on out," because I just do not have the physical and mental capacity to guarantee that. Nor am I going to inflict that kind of mental and physical torture on myself (again) because it's the exact kind of thing that causes my health to crash and burn. And here's the thing:

Every time I burn myself out. Every time I push myself too far to keep up, it takes longer and longer to recover. The harder I push myself, the fewer books I will produce. That's the truth of it.

So I get it, it's frustrating. You want more of the fun thing (and thank you so much for loving what I do!), but you'll have to bear with me a little bit longer.

I am finding my stride as a multiply disabled creator, and I've spent the last two years untangling the guilt and imposter syndrome I experience over being "popular" but not being well enough to produce work at the same pace as everyone else around me.

I have worked out a system that I hope will be sustainable instead of leading to the continuous cycle of burnout I was trapped in for 10+ years as an editor. I have safety nets and supports in place that I didn't have before, and hopefully, those will help too. Time will tell.

Am I excited to get back to work? Absolutely. I'm ecstatic at the prospect of having fewer migraine days and more coherent brain days. But I'm also going to take my time to enjoy the process as well. I'd like to enjoy the things I write too. And I hope you can appreciate that.

So thank you for understanding, and for your patience. If you decide you can't wait, I'll understand. But please don't send authors, even able-bodied, neurotypical ones, messages like that. It's unkind. And I don't think any of you mean to be unkind.

[cherri-ying]

Sing for me, little Nightingale (Yan! Scaramouche x Reader)

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56024689

Felines are deserving of their accolades. Merit embodies their nimble spines and ductile limbs; bodies like pliable sand, threading their way through knots, twists, cavities and labyrinths. The prince of the hunt flexes and swipes his talons and his victims are swift to falter, their necks wringed and their spines contorted in ways that are unnatural to their physicality.

“I’ve got you now.”

At times, though, even a cat doesn't remain undefeated.

“How stupid are you to think that a cheap disguise would work against me?” He almost sounds amused, his words an arctic hiss against your ear. Reaching up, Scaramouche claws at the thick cloak that veils your face and tears it to your shoulders. Your hair is quick to mime the departed elements, hanging in disarray across your face. A mantilla of unkempt tresses, veiling whatever thoughts sketch your visage.

The Balladeer regards the sight of your person with a sort of contemptuous delight. Forcefully knelt at his feet with your wrists bound behind you and your head drooped in defeat—or in pensiveness. It's a shame Zapolyarny is so devoid of windows. What light finds it's way into these all-too familiar stone chambers is too sparse to see what expression you're making.

“Well? Say something. Or have I rendered you incapable of speech?”

Tentatively—begrudgingly—you tip your head back, back, back until your irises lock with the hypnotic indigo tinctures belonging to the puppet who leers dauntingly above you. Locks of such a hue that only you could wear part like the red sea, revealing a thin, perhaps solemn, ambiguous smile—the last expression the harbinger could anticipate. Or desire.

“Thwarted again, hm?” You chuckle and it sounds like frost, “and I even took extensive measures to conceal my tracks. No good?”

“Failures are bound to repeat themselves.” Scaramouche doesn't nuisance himself with that syrupy facade he wears to rope his targets right between his molars. Malice is a noisome stench in the air as he adds, “This is the seventh time I’ve had to retrieve you. I'd figure you’d have learned your lesson by now, but time after time you insist on making yourself a burden to fetch.”

“There's no harm in trying, is there?” You maintain that strange curve on your plush lips. It’s difficult to tell what you're thinking, or feeling.

“‘No harm’, yet you delude yourself into believing that a time would come when you could successfully evade me. I wonder how long it’ll take until those dreams of yours crumble and die.”

“You know, there’s a word for what you are,” you state after a thoughtful pause. “I think it’s called: overbearing.”

What a strange person, with a strange smile. Normally, Scaramouche would meet such defiance by smiting his poor victim to dust within the blink of an eye. In your displays of resolve, though, the invincible harbinger finds himself crouching to your level, trailing a slender hand against your windpipe. How easily he could squeeze the life from your throat until you begs for reprieve; choke you of your indignation. Instead, he allows it to linger there without purpose, applying no pressure, grasping nothing.

“And there’s a word for what you are.” He nearly whispers. Difficult. Stubborn. Irrevocably his. “Irrational, when I only want what’s best for you. And what’s best for you, is to offer me your complete submission.”

“Even though I’d sooner offer my life than yield to you?” A new tone makes itself heard in your cadence. Such words, such simple, few words, reveal what lingers beneath your otherwise indifferent facade.

Sagacious. Provocative. Challenging.

Of course, you're testing the boundaries of Scaramouche's resolve, as he does with yours. Suddenly, the atmosphere is taut and palpable with tension for what may become of the future.

Sly, sly little songbird.

Something most unanticipated happens, and you reveal your hands, which you freed from their binds. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise Scaramouche, what with your prowess in the art of escape, but regardless your smile stretches in the presence of the astonishment that lifts his eyebrows and makes his eyes flash white, if only briefly. You take your time observing such a paltry display of rare, raw, emotion, how it shapes the contours of his features at the command of your actions. And gently, you take his hand that graces your throat and tenderly place it on your cheek.

"Ah... You've always been this way, haven't you, Kunikuzushi? Since the very day fate first connected your eyes to mine? " You slant your head into his cold hand with all the fragility of a shedding lotus petal descending into a reservoir, resting your cheek against his cold, liquid touch. Although, the action is far from affectionate. Rather, it's reminiscent of a sort of obstinacy, wearing the facade of love.

"You pine for my heart like you're starved for my flesh.” You take his hand and pass it through your cloak, poising it on your chest, right above your pumping heart.

"But... Perhaps I have no heart to offer you. What then? What will you do when you realize, there is no flesh to pick from my bones? No heart beneath my ribs?"

Scaramouche trudges through your words, running them across his mind. No plausible answer makes itself seen. He relinquishes his hand from your chest.

A cat may not have wings, but it is unrelenting.

“If you have no heart…” He murmurs, before smiling a bitter smile, “Then I’ll make you learn how to love.” how to love him. “I’ll create a heart in the shape of my love, and then I’ll take it. By force if I must.”

"You're willing to create something, just to seize and destroy it..." His words taste like blood upon your tongue. Strange. Carrying pleasantry and uncanniness in a sordid congruence. your lips falter from their smile.

"What a rotten soul you have... When will you realize that your avarice will be your demise?"

A wry, perhaps relenting chuckle emerges from your throat. Then you sigh.

"Perhaps we were made for each other." “

Then why do you run from me? Why do you fight, when you’re meant to be mine?” He asks, vehement, pertinacious.

"But that is where you're mistaken, Scaramouche. You see—” You direct your pointer finger to his chest, resting it in the junction between his collarbones.

“—You're tenacious in pursuing me. But I'm," You points at herself, "Tenacious in avoiding you. We are made for each other like the same ends of two magnets. The same, yet destined to be apart."

There it is, another one of your challenging remarks. The chirping nightingale wriggles free and unfurls it's wings, just as the cat thinks the bird is trapped beneath its paws. And oh, how infuriating, how exhilarating you are. Hatred is a simmering tempest that ignites the harbinger's temper. He despises how affixed he is to you, to the thought of trapping you beneath his claws, only for you to fly free and rejoice your liberation in song. It's petty. It's pathetic. It's irresistible. The Balladeer scoffs.

“Is this all just a game of push and pull to you? Just how long are you willing to avoid me?”

 “How long are you willing to pursue me?”

“Until you submit to me.”

“Then, until you set me free.”

Scaramouche can only watch as you put on your hideous, inhuman, anomalistic smile. Fine, then. If nothing else, he’ll build you a gilded cage to lure you into a golden prison disguised as a paradise. He’ll rip your wings from your body, flesh and bone marrow hanging in loose tendrils, so to erase all notions of flying free from your unreadable mind that he tends to make his possession, until you’re bleeding so sweetly beneath his claws. His beautiful songbird, who sings in the shape of his love.

Because you were made for him. He, the heartless one, who wishes for a heart. For your heart, which you are't willing to offer. Which you wish you never had.

You’re the only one who believes he still has a soul; that he ever had one, rotten as it may be.

Scaramouche cannot let that go. Regardless of how many times you flee from his talons, he will find you and chase you to the very ends of this earth.

Fly away, little singing nightingale.

[inthecarpets]

Shuro/Toshiro is just some guy and i love how he represents different worldview, culture and perspectives.

It might look silly from outside but he's quite a romanticisation of a warrior. The one he loves is dead -> He can't eat nor sleep nor think about anything else. It's the "it's romantic-tragic to suffer". "It's romantic and honorable to do only rightful things and show self restraint". And it's a cultural must for him to be polite and speak in most nonforward way.

It gives an interesting contrast to most of people around Laios, who don't care as much about what's honorable, rightful or polite.

[thatsbelievable]

[thepersonalwords]

You get depressed because you know that you're not what you should be.

Marilyn Manson

[geck-motj]

im in the gravity falls fandom solely for the angst, whump, hurt/comfort etc — specifically the fics where bill is forced to go to therapy after weirdmageddon and has to come to terms with everything he’s done and who he’s hurt and try to change for the better, but no one believes he’s actually trying to change and it tears him apart until it feels like the only thing he can do is hurt himself, either because he feels like he deserves it or because maybe if someone sees him cutting himself on purpose theyll finally believe him, as well as find a place in the world that hates him all while feeling like he’s in the wrong body— and also the toxic old men ships

[sing-me-under]

I have a lot of opinions on fanon Tim. I am a fanon!Tim Drake anti. I’ve never been an anti of anything before, but I am very anti fanon!Tim Drake. He’s basically just a Mary Sue, but it’s worse because Tim Drake is a real canon character who is SO MUCH MORE INTERESTING. What the fuck did y’all do to him. Why can’t you just project your childhood trauma on a self insert like the rest of the internet. Look at him! You could replace him with a single packing peanut, and I couldn’t even tell the difference!

[twidiarie]

losing a hyper fixation is worse than a breakup, I think

Not that I've ever experienced a breakup, but I imagine it is

It's like having a piece of your soul being ripped out. 

Something you considered another piece of glass making up a mosaic

Unceremoniously chipped off with a palette knife

And it leaves behind a hollow, pore

And if the soul  is anything like rock,  more pores result in

More erosion

You desperately search for that spark again

Wait for someone else

You might try going back to your ex to make things work

But it's never a good idea because it'll never be the same

You might get lucky, but you'll most likely have to move onto

A new passion

A new lover

Unfamiliar 

Sometimes you fall fast and it's exhilarating and a rush of endorphins and dopamine and all the happy chemicals bounce around in your cranium like arcade pinball game

it's all encompassing, sustaining

but inevitably as everything,

it will perish 

because that is a truth of the universe 

all creations must die, and so will all thoughts and ideas birthed by those creations, some day

being hollow is agonizing 

it is painful, a deep ache that will persist

no matter how many times you try a slap a bandaid on,

like by temporarily pleasuring the taste buds and your olfactory systems with the delicacy that is strawberries and sharp cheddar. colors and explosions of flavor coat the expanse of your tongue and your throat. scents swirl, perfumes diffuse into the enclave of your mind,

or by temporarily pleasuring the eardrums with mind numbing, upbeat, soulless pop songs. dancing and prancing about in your pajamas, staging silent concerts with empty, invisible seats with empty, invisible people,

or by temporarily pleasuring the hands with making crafts, hastily slapping colors onto paper to try and create something, anything,

or by temporarily pleasuring the eyes with the art that exists already, outside, inside, in existing.

the fleeting desires of the mind cannot satisfy the needs of the soul.

the grief of passion. 

going through all five stages accompanies alongside it exhaustion.

and hope

hope that you'll stumble upon yet another lover

to bring back the colors in life

to revive feelings of whimsy and fantasy

to replace that piece of glass chipped off the mosaic

to slow down erosion once again

to keep the soul whole.