#twdyoat

[spottedenchants]

attempt 3: a hope

friend, companion, the bird in your hand, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… futile, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that confusingly frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the spindle housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? you simmer. you bite your tongue before you tear your hair- how many times have you turned this frustration over, cycled through the same questions, ruminated yourself bleak and sick?

solution elusive, why not passion, then; you have plenty to spare in spades, may as well carve keenness into confidence: a scalpel. the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s fine; you can scrutinize and stake that claim. but, your thready pulse stalked for examination, it flutters, flaps to a roar, cagey, flighty, fleeing- catch it- pin it still because the difference between vivisection and autopsy lies in the beat of your coward’s heart-

your surety shakes; your forte never quite fell with a blade. so you lay it down. reclaim your trowel. take a step back, towards the garden.

[spottedenchants]

conclusion the last: a home

asked once:

do you love him?

friend, companion, the answer to your question, you… love him.

you love him, dear Caleb Widogast, and what’s best is, he understands.

it would be… silly, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that wondrously frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is but a part in the expansive tapestry housed by your ribs.

he is not your everything, but you love him. so then, you ask yourself, why?

why must this all be so hard? well, it doesn’t have to be.

for the time being, the garden in your chest no longer flowers, instead teeming with tender green fruit.

free birdsong serenades you, celebrating your cultivation.

familiar steps sound just past the garden wall; so very glad, you dare a peek.

you do care, dearly, both for and about him, so you do let him love you.

you bask in his touch. you no longer shy from his stare.

sky-wide and welcoming, shining in kind crescents, an outstretched hand cleaned of rich earth…

he tips your hat for a kiss over the fence, fresh citrus in his teasing smile; a sunrise, he cannot stay, not forever.

through garden gate, through cottage threshold, he passes on by and takes your heart with him, inside to where your gathered friends now await.

even with all this, still you wonder:

are you in love with him? are you in love with him?

perhaps you can’t know for certain.

but this unsated curiosity is not an admittance of defeat, rather, an acceptance that some things won’t make clear sense- at least, when seen under scrutiny.

thus, you stand back, breathe in, and there it is: the whole picture; your weaving, your beans, your place of belonging- all framed precious in just the right light.

so who knows. maybe the future holds further answers, new satisfactions and new views and new truths. now though, you dust yourself and step forth into your shared chosen present; grasping your friends’ hands, you settle right to embrace whatever’s next.

should you feel need or doubt, the door is forever open; you can always restart, replant, pick your words different, weave a new tale all your own.

through it all, one thought’s assured:

with your reasons to begin again cherished close, you won’t wade your bleak mires alone.

-

Happy Valentine’s and Arospec Awareness Week 💚🤍🖤

[spottedenchants]

attempt 4: a feast

friend, companion, honey to your veins, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… ridiculous, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that curiously frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? you’ve simmered. you bite your tongue before you can tear your hair- how many times have you turned this frustration over, cycled through the same questions, ruminated yourself bleak and sick?

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s fine; you can stake that claim. 

you leave it be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in the pains of flesh and heart and mind. in the joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice, by choice, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be so sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, but now you’ve gained it anew.

[spottedenchants]

attempt 9: a curiosity

friend, companion, apple to your orange, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… simplistic, at this point, to ignore the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that bafflingly frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard?

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s nice; you can stake that claim. 

several many leaved vines climb the post, curl, further readying themselves to bloom.

pleased, you leave them be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden, weeding and pruning with gifted gloves and a sunhat.

somewhere, a flock of birds sing.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in similar pains of flesh and heart and mind. in differing joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice. as always, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, but now you’re entrenched in one anew.

you are ready for any surprise.

so you do let him love you.

it’s a lovely thing, to trust so deep, a willingness that catches in your bared teeth like greens. unbecoming, evidence of preference. something you can readily, excitedly laugh through with the ease of sincerity.

you’ve watched; you’ve learned; and my, how your face can ache; sweet-orange tang attacks the hinge of your jaw, a fair price to pay for making many smiles from a lone rind. a delicious grin bitter only in literal flavor, their potluck love quite suits your acquired tastes.

what is it that sets him apart?

you bask in his touch. indulgent, heat. thrilling, pressure. together, honey, metamorphic in your veins your nerves your lungs; you’ve never known a warmth quite like this- but so it goes in all instances; so it goes for all else. nothing but everything is new, amusing, enthralling, so what distinguishes one known novelty from the next? each heartcount tick, each stutter of air… once again you’ve passed a desperate second; you’ve come to learn how to breathe.

you lie in your truth, floating for a quiet moment, before cracking a new joke, oh so silly.

and he holds your heart with a laugh, sweet as a siren song. 

success.

still, your mind swims.

you no longer shy from his stare. bright, ever so clever, he knew too much to stay, too little to flee, and what did that say about you? why would a backturned mirror care for another’s face once it chips, spiders, shatters against the seams of its own razor-veined web of damned lies?

dawn golden low in the sky, a spring-soaked harvest of hope once pled; fragments, too, can catch light.

in over your head and drowning, before, you thought no. no, never- never.

but now…

sky-wide and welcoming, shining in kind crescents, an outstretched hand smeared with rich earth…

yes.

now you can brave the sun’s gaze-

a sunrise, he cannot stay, not forever.

neither can you, nor the rest.

this is how the story goes; you have both set aside your glue-tack bones, your signatures left with half-folds; you’ve set alight your twine and spines, all in favor of sharing quills and the same metered pool of life’s ink. covers discarded, unbound sheaves await, your stack assumed higher than all- a generous supposition.

tabled and unnamed together, hands indivisible alive, you both write each, new, page.

fond days, long nights; sun and shadow stretch in cat tallies and clockwork candles, accompaniment to the dancing beats of your hearts.

contentment glows, bringing unaddressed concepts to light; you face a dog-eared inquiry head-on:

are you in love with him? are you in love with him?

‘you just know’, so they say. then- you aren’t if you don’t? just as you’ve opened your eyes to the spectrum of hues this wide world can offer, this is where black and white still rule? strange to say, but how much simpler this all was in your only birthland. bonds may last lifetimes, beyond; states of being weigh different from actions, the deepest stitches all threaded with choice.

maybe you’ve just missed a punchline. some grand cosmic joke. you’ve always had a particular sense of humor.

this answer is not satisfying.

[spottedenchants]

attempt 7: a chance 

friend, companion, sunlight to your skin, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… counterproductive, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that earnestly frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? but- actually… does it have to be?

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s nice; you can stake that claim. 

several many leaved vines climb the post, curl, further readying themselves to bloom.

pleased, you leave them be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden, weeding and pruning with gifted gloves and a sunhat.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in the same pains of flesh and heart and mind. in different joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice, always, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, but now you’re entrenched in one anew.

you are ready for any surprise.

so you do let him love you.

it’s a far thing, to trust instead of resign, a willingness that catches in your bared teeth like greens. unbecoming, evidence of preference. something you can readily laugh through with the ease of sincerity.

you’ve watched; you’ve learned; and my, how your face can ache; sweet-orange tang attacks the hinge of your jaw, a fair price to pay for making many smiles from a lone rind. a delicious grin bitter only in literal flavor, their potluck love quite suits your acquired tastes.

what is it that sets him apart?

you bask in his touch. indulgent, heat. thrilling, pressure. together, honey, metamorphic in your veins your nerves your lungs; you’ve never known a warmth quite like this- but so it goes in all instances; so it goes for all else. nothing but everything is new, amusing, exciting, so what distinguishes one known novelty from the next? each heartcount tick, each stutter of air… you’ve passed another desperate second; you’ve come to learn how to breathe.

you lie in your truth, floating for a quiet moment, before cracking a joke, oh so silly.

and he sweeps your heart with a laugh, sweet as a siren song. 

success.

still, your mind swims.

you no longer shy from his stare. bright, so clever, he knew too much to stay, too little to flee, and what did that say about you? why should a backturned mirror care for another’s face once it chips, spiders, shatters against the seams of its own razor-veined web of damned lies?

dawn golden low in the sky, a spring-soaked harvest of hope once pled; fragments, too, can catch light.

in over your head and drowning, before, you thought no. no, never- never.

but now…

sky-wide and welcoming, shining in kind crescents…

yes.

[spottedenchants]

attempt 6: a game

friend, companion, hearth to your heart, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… humorous, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that achingly frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? but- actually… does it have to be?

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s nice; you can stake that claim. 

a leaved vine climbs the post, curls, readies to bloom.

pleased, you leave it be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in the pains of flesh and heart and mind. in the joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice, by choice, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, but now you’ve gained it anew.

you are ready for any surprise.

so you do let him love you.

it’s a far thing, to trust instead of resign, a willingness that catches in your bared teeth like greens. unbecoming, evidence of preference. something you can, now, laugh through with the ease of sincerity.

you’ve watched; you’ve learned; and my, how your face can ache; sweet-orange tang attacks the hinge of your jaw, a fair price to pay for making many smiles from a lone rind. a delicious grin bitter only in literal flavor, their potluck love quite suits your acquired tastes.

what is it that sets him apart?

you bask in his touch. inadvisable, heat. thrilling, pressure. together, honey, metamorphic in your veins your nerves your lungs; you’ve never quite known a warmth like this- but so it goes in all instances; so it goes for all else. nothing but everything is new, embarrassing, exciting, so what distinguishes one known novelty from the next? each heartcount tick, each stutter of air… you’ve passed a desperate second; you’ve come to learn how to breathe.

you lie in your truth, floating for a quiet moment, before grasping at straws and gasping a joke, oh so silly.

and he laughs your heart into a weep, sweet as a siren song. 

success.

[spottedenchants]

attempt 5: a get together

friend, companion, beloved to your chosen, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… nonsensical, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that preciously frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? but- actually, does it have to be?

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s nice; you can stake that claim. 

you leave it be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in the pains of flesh and heart and mind. in the joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice, by choice, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, but now you’ve gained it anew.

you are ready for any surprise.

so you do let him love you.

it’s a near thing, to allow instead of resign, a willingness that catches in your smiling teeth like greens. unbecoming, evidence of preference. something you can, now, laugh through with the ease of sincerity.

you’ve watched; you’ve learned; and my, how your face can ache; sweet-orange tang attacks the hinge of your jaw, and it’s the price you pay for making many smiles from a lone rind. a delicious grin bitter only in literal flavor, their potluck love quite suits your picky tastes.

[spottedenchants]

attempt 8: an agreement

friend, companion, rabbit-paced to your tortoiseshell, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… unkind, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that quietly frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? but- actually… does it have to be?

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s nice; you can stake that claim. 

several many leaved vines climb the post, curl, further readying themselves to bloom.

pleased, you leave them be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden, weeding and pruning with gifted gloves and a sunhat.

somewhere, a bird sings.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in different pains of flesh and heart and mind. in the same joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice. always, always, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, but now you’re entrenched in one anew.

you are ready for any surprise.

so you do let him love you.

it’s a lovely thing, to trust so deep, a willingness that catches in your bared teeth like greens. unbecoming, evidence of preference. something you can readily, excitedly laugh through with the ease of sincerity.

you’ve watched; you’ve learned; and my, how your face can ache; sweet-orange tang attacks the hinge of your jaw, a fair price to pay for making many smiles from a lone rind. a delicious grin bitter only in literal flavor, their potluck love quite suits your acquired tastes.

what is it that sets him apart?

you bask in his touch. indulgent, heat. thrilling, pressure. together, honey, metamorphic in your veins your nerves your lungs; you’ve never known a warmth quite like this- but so it goes in all instances; so it goes for all else. nothing but everything is new, amusing, enthralling, so what distinguishes one known novelty from the next? each heartcount tick, each stutter of air… you’ve passed yet another desperate second; you’ve come to learn how to breathe.

you lie in your truth, floating for a quiet moment, before cracking a yet-unused joke, oh so silly.

and he keeps your heart with a laugh, sweet as a siren song. 

success.

still, your mind swims.

you no longer shy from his stare. bright, ever so clever, he knew too much to stay, too little to flee, and what did that say about you? why would a backturned mirror care for another’s face once it chips, spiders, shatters against the seams of its own razor-veined web of damned lies?

dawn golden low in the sky, a spring-soaked harvest of hope once pled; fragments, too, can catch light.

in over your head and drowning, before, you thought no. no, never- never.

but now…

sky-wide and welcoming, shining in kind crescents, an outstretched hand smeared with rich earth…

yes.

now you can brave the sun’s gaze-

a sunrise, he cannot stay, not forever.

neither can you, nor the rest.

this is how the story goes; you have both set aside your glue-tack bones, your signatures left with half-folds; you’ve set alight your twine and spines, all in favor of sharing quills and the same metered pool of life’s ink. covers discarded, unbound sheaves await, your stack assumed higher than all- a generous supposition.

tabled and unnamed together, hands indivisible alive, you both write each, new, page.

fond days, long nights; sun and shadow stretch in cat tallies and clockwork candles, accompaniment to the dancing beats of your hearts.

[spottedenchants]

conclusion the first: a foundation

friend, companion, beacon to your very soul, you…

love him. you love him. it would be… foolish, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that soothingly frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is not alone on the loom housed in your ribs.

so, then. one thing at a time.

why must this all be so hard? it doesn’t have to be.

the feeling in your chest is called ‘love’, so you think. that’s nice; you can stake that claim. 

several many leaved vines climb the post, curl, flower bold, and vibrant, and sweet.

proud, you leave them be.

keeping your trowel, you stay working your garden, weeding and pruning with gifted gloves and a sunhat, a watering can set by your hip.

nearby, a flock of birds sing.

through which plot of thought do you dig?

you do care, dearly, both for and about him.

in sickness, in heath. in familiar pains of flesh and heart and mind. in welcome joys spun by memory and present time. in presence. in absence.

by choice. as always, by choice.

and he cares for you- about you, too. so do they all and you them. what a delight it is, to miss and be sorely missed in return. it’s a rich life that they’ve offered, that you’ve accepted; succulent, well-prepared, modest yet fulfilling. you have a family, no had to be had, and now you’re thoroughly entrenched.

you are ready for any surprise.

so you do let him love you.

it’s such a lovely thing, to trust so deep, a willingness that catches in your bared teeth like greens. unbecoming, evidence of preference. something you can readily, excitedly laugh through with the ease of sincerity.

you’ve watched; you’ve learned; and my, how your face can ache; sweet-orange tang attacks the hinge of your jaw, a fair price to pay for making many smiles from a lone rind. a delicious grin bitter only in literal flavor, their potluck love quite suits your acquired tastes.

what is it that sets him apart?

you bask in his touch. indulgent, heat. thrilling, pressure. together, honey, metamorphic in your veins your nerves your lungs; you’ve never known a warmth quite like this- but so it goes in all instances; so it goes for all else. nothing but everything is new, amusing, enthralling, so what distinguishes one known novelty from the next? each heartcount tick, each stutter of air… quite practiced, you’ve passed a desperate second; you’ve come to learn how to breathe.

you lie in your truth, floating for a quiet moment, before cracking another new joke, oh so silly.

and he cradles your heart with a laugh, sweet as a siren song. 

success.

still, your mind swims.

you no longer shy from his stare. bright, ever so clever, he knew too much to stay, too little to flee, and what did that say about you? why would a backturned mirror care for another’s face once it chips, spiders, shatters against the seams of its own razor-veined web of damned lies?

dawn golden low in the sky, a spring-soaked harvest of hope once pled; fragments, too, can catch light.

in over your head and drowning, before, you thought no. no, never- never.

but now…

sky-wide and welcoming, shining in kind crescents, an outstretched hand cleaned of rich earth…

yes.

now you can brave the sun’s gaze-

a sunrise, he cannot stay, not forever.

neither can you, nor the rest.

this is how the story goes; you have both set aside your glue-tack bones, your signatures left with half-folds; you’ve set alight your twine and spines, all in favor of sharing quills and the same metered pool of life’s ink. covers discarded, unbound sheaves await, your stack assumed higher than all- still, a generous supposition.

tabled and unnamed together, hands indivisible alive, you both write each, new, page.

fond days, long nights; sun and shadow stretch in cat tallies and clockwork candles, accompaniment to the dancing beats of your hearts.

contentment glows, bringing unaddressed concepts to light; you face a dog-eared inquiry head-on:

are you in love with him? are you in love with him?

‘you just know’, so they say. then- you aren’t if you don’t? just as you’ve opened your eyes to the spectrum of hues this wide world can offer, this is where black and white still rule? strange to say, but how much simpler this all was in your only birthland. bonds may last lifetimes, beyond; states of being weigh different from actions, the deepest stitches all threaded with choice.

maybe you’ve just missed a punchline. some grand cosmic joke. you’ve always had a particular sense of humor.

this answer is not satisfying.

but, all options exhausted, how can you become sure?

perhaps you can’t know for certain. do you need to? you’d like to. 

you’d like to, so very much.

all your life, you’ve sustained yourself on hows and whys and while you’re aware there’s always depths nigh undiveable, you were once a prodigy at holding your breath; unknowns, an itch so violently unscratched. but how far can you dig—to nailbed? to bone?—before lifeblood runs free and you, land-dweller, shrivel weak. must you pick at yourself, fray cloth to neat atoms, to prove the truth of your being? diluting your desires by watering fruitless grounds… you once spent your time far wiser than this, didn’t you? though… perhaps not. you merely treaded a different course.

you have long since surfaced; you can stand, face the sun.

never stepping in the same place twice, you pace a new winding path every day.

you can try yet another.

[spottedenchants]

heyo i’ve stuck the first five parts of twdyoat up on AO3 if you want to keep tabs on tags and read it all in one place, though i’ll still be updating on tumblr first and foremost, as polls are here :D

[spottedenchants]

I cannot quite put to words how pleased I am with twdyoat- and the polls specifically

I've been imagining each individual vote (in-universe) as an instance of consideration/calculation, so as the vote count goes down with each next section, it's as if essek has an easier time thinking about stuff!! and that's not a layer I could have predicted! I had no clue how this might work :0

And idk- it's neat and I'm very glad and grateful y'all have been playing along with me on this :'3