#very stream of consciousness. i can't make more sense than this sorry. my thoughts are a conspiracy corkboard

[solidwater05]

That shiny duo post made me think. Pearl always carries the weight of her win and what people think of her. She'll always be scary and crazy and vicious to others, even if she doesn't want to be, even if she was never like that in the first place

And you have Gem. Her first episode in the entire series was titled 'I have a reputation' and she spent the entire season being feared as a fighter and treated as a leader. She never asked to be the leader of an army of death. It's all too much

But Gem learned to lean into these expectations. She threatens people all the time, she has honestly weird views on alliances and control (when she said Scott had to control Pearl because they were teammates??). And she wants to see Pearl do the same. Pearl is supposed to be scary, why isn't she killing anyone? That's not how you survive in this series. If you're red, you have to kill. If there's expectations for you, you have to meet them. That's how you survive.

Gem won't let go of Secret Life because that's what taught her to be like she's expected to be. She has a reputation. Everyone's doing the same, right?

And she expected Pearl to be loyal to her. Why would she betray Gem? That's not fair. That's not the game she learned to play

Gem knows what Pearl should be. Pearl has a reputation. And Pearl can never let go of Double Life for as long as people think Scarlet Pearl is the real her

[icefang111]

So, seeing Capella these last few episodes, I now have theories about how her authority works. Some contradictory but hey I'm mostly putting stuff on the board rn before I narrow it down. Sorry it's all a bit stream of consciousness.

She seems to have a hard limit on material, very alchemist equivalent exchange kinda situation but with flesh and blood. She pulls from those sacs she carries, she needs all the mice to rebuild her eyes, etc.

Likewise, she can inhabit and control each bit individually. She is no one rat, she is the rat swarm. This is why I don't think they'd pull another regulus here, there's no hidden bit of her that's the real weak point, she is all her flesh.

It may be a situation of destroying each individual cell, or as Al falsely threatens, destroying the soul rather than the flesh.

Though, if the first, I wonder if all those infected with her dragons blood count as like... lich philactaries.

However since she says her and her blood are separate I doubt it. She seems to imply the dragons blood is a curse for her too, one she also wishes to cure, perhaps her regeneration keeps her alive and safe from the way it's killing crusche.

In which case that there may be a part of her flesh kept separate and as yet un-cursed by dragons blood to keep herself alive is on the table. Still feels a bit too close to how we took down regulus, so i doubt it.

Though I do have to question what her base form is in order to have all this flesh, and if she is fully infected with the cursed blood, why it isn't killing her? It leads me to think her cells don't die at all, and the excess mass is her body generating more cells to replace old ones the way it normally would, but since the old cells dont die she just ends up with a surpluse.

Which leads me to "how was she cursed in the first place, and for what purpose?" Being the key to understanding her authority more deeply.

My first thought was her being cursed to limit her regenerative abilities, perhaps stopping or at least slowing the generation of new cells?

Though I also wonder if it was the result of gaining the authority in the first place, warping her existing blood (Should she truly be a member of the royal family, tho idk if they had blessed blood at all, they are deeply tied to the dragon and were gifted blood so maybe)? Or perhaps an affliction she had before gaining it, rejected by the dragon somehow or something, and that is what made her seek out the authority? The authority as close as she could get to a cure?

I'm more inclined to the later to be honest. That blackened flesh ever time Cappella transforms? I think thats what she truly looks like now, when she's not purposefully holding a different preferred form. I think it's rotted her to the core and her authority is the only thing holding her together. If the blood causes her pain she doesn't show it, but then again she seems to have a beyond human pain tolerance so it would track.

All this to say her cells are infected but incapable of death. If she was infected pre-authority and the authorities do in some way reflect a desire of the recipient, not wanting to die mixed with the level of control Cappella seems to crave makes sense. If the dragons blood can't overcome it, I doubt anything like fire could (though cremation seems a common trope for such things so could still be on the table). So Al's proposed soul death seems the most likely to have sticking power to me.

idk still mentally sorting it out thanks for reading my word vomit coming to my ted talk

[partmathpartmagic]

masterlist i guess?

i am working on getting these all on tumblr but it'll be a minute!

Give me six months (formerly Disarmed)

“I think, my love, that if we survive this, I have some work to do.”

Mina/Astarion | 11/11 chapters | Mature (I'll mark the smut chapters!)

This began from the idea that Astarion's friendship ending feels (to me) like his most happy and self-actualized ending, and maybe he needs those 6 months on his own before he can have a romantic happily-ever-after.

But it turns out she was used to being the one in the relationship with her shit together and when that's no longer the case she has some shit to figure out as well...

This is so fluffy, y'all.

Read on AO3: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 (very mild smut) | Chapter 10 (actual smut) | Chapter 11

Read on tumblr: only chapter 5 is posted here so far (because it's my fave and it stands alone decently) but i will update as that changes!

A flip of a switch (formerly At Your Mercy)

Being as beautiful as he was, people wanting him the way they certainly seemed to everywhere they went, it must be impossible for him to feel safe anywhere. To feel whole. To feel like a mind attached to a body rather than floating outside of it. Gods, but he had such a good mind. … Did he know that? What if he didn’t know that? What if he thought she only wanted his body? Surely he wasn’t that dense? Oh gods, she realized. He absolutely is.

Mina/Astarion | 6/6 chapters (for now) | Mature

A prequel to Disarmed, picking up a few nights after the tiefling party/the first time they sleep together. Focuses a lot on Astarion working through his shit, the two of them figuring out sexual and non-sexual intimacy, all that good stuff. Also very fluffy. I took destiny into my own hands and changed the title and I don’t hate it anymore!

Read on AO3: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 (smut) | chapter 6 (smutttttt)

Read on tumblr: only chapter 6 posted so far

The Gift

"I left you alone, and I’m sorry, and it kills me knowing I hurt you, but everyone is going to leave me alone in the end, even you.”

Rielle/Astarion | 4/? chapters | smut-free just sad as hell

Rielle hasn't seen Astarion for two centuries, and then he shows up at her art show (where several of the paintings are of him) for a painful reunion.

This is set 200 years after the events of the game, so the only surviving members of the core party are Rielle (tav), Astarion, Halsin, and Shadowheart, and Halsin and Shadowheart are near the ends of their lifespans. It's about Astarion wrestling with losing the first people he ever allowed himself to care about and the fact that he's an immortal spawn who's just going to keep losing people- is it even worth loving them in the first place?

If you can't tell this is just pure angst lol I am hurting my own feelings by writing this fic

Read on AO3: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6

Read on tumblr: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 6

And isn’t that just like a sister?

"She wants to destroy you—but with her, for the first time, you think you make sense."

Female Durge/Astarion | 2/2 chapters | smut-free

An exploration of Durge and Astarion's complicated relationships with their sisters. I edited these minimally so they're a little more stream-of-consciousness. Ch 1 is Durge pov (2nd person though, you are Durge and Durge is you) and ch 2 is Astarion pov.

Read on AO3: chapter 1 | chapter 2

Read on tumblr: chapter 1 | chapter 2

We Were

“If the timing had been different, do you think we ever could have been in love?” “We were, darling.”

Female Reader/Gale/Astarion | 2/2 chapters | smut-free

You and Gale are happily married, but an old friend's wedding gets you thinking about the past and how things might have been different. Bittersweet and sad in the way life is sad even when it's not.

Read on AO3: chapter 1 | chapter 2

Too Good (formerly Overlooked)

The hope makes you think ridiculous things, like how it would be the easiest thing in the world to just tell him how you feel. And maybe if you did, he’d be receptive. Maybe even tell you he feels the same. That’s completely ridiculous of course, absolutely unthinkable, but then he leans in so attentively and stares into your soul and it really, really starts to feel true. So the words rise in your throat and move to the tip of your tongue and—hells, it would be so easy to just say it. It would be such a relief. And then the fear claws at you, pulling the words back before they can escape.

Female Reader/Astarion | 26/26 chapters | explicittttt

You and Astarion are besties, but he's been really weird the past few weeks and you don't know why... friends to lovers and verrryyy slow burn, just yearning as far as the eye can see, will likely end with some smut

Read on AO3: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8 | chapter 9 | chapter 10 | chapter 11 | chapter 12 | chapter 13 | chapter 14 | chapter 15 | chapter 16 | chapter 17 | chapter 18 | chapter 19 | chapter 20 | chapter 21 | chapter 22 | chapter 23 | chapter 24 | chapter 25 | chapter 26

*fic playlist*

[mirrorbusterz]

No art today, but I've really been thinking about the rkn's characterization as of late.

They're honestly the antithesis of each other; their character traits clash and clash hard but I feel like that makes for a very nice sibling dynamic they have with each other. I also like to hc that their differing personalities was an intentional design choice by Wily.

I'll explain what I mean, just know that I'm not great at articulating my thoughts and this is more of a stream of consciousness than anything else. So! With that in mind:

Enker--Based on his CD data, we know that he's very dedicated to destroying Mega Man, and takes it very seriously; he's a hard-ass with a gloomy personality. Hell, if you know anything about Enka music in general you'd know he's pretty much a physical representation of the music's soulful but sad melodies.

He is so dedicated to his programming that he would rather put himself in harm's way (i.e. sustaining damage to use the Barrier Spear) if that meant he could destroy Mega Man. He is an agent of order dedicated solely to completing his tasks.

So, when said agent of order failed at his one and only task, it makes sense for Wily to overcorrect. Why not design a robot to be the complete opposite of Enker?

That's when Punk was created.

Punk--He's loud. He's brash. He's hates PTAs and the government. Ya gotta love him.

Anyways, he couldn't be farther removed from Enker. While Enker is stated not to stand out, Punk loves showing out, represented by his love of accessories. While Enker would prefer to uphold the status quo, Punk wants to shake it up and have fun doing it.

His personality is heavily based on his namesake, Punk music, which has its roots in anti-facism and rebellion against "the man." It fucking rocks. This is heavily contrasted by the melancholic, "refined," Enka music. Y'see where I'm getting at?

I find it interesting that Punk's entire existence is a paradox considering I'd imagine he has disdain for any kind of authority, Wily included, but must follow Wily's orders anyways. But that's a text post for another day.

Back to the main point, even his fighting style is contrasted by Enker's. Enker's has a level of elegance to it, while Punk just throws his entire body at you. However, this doesn't mean Punk is reckless. In fact, this attack is pretty safe considering he can't be damaged while in his ball form. This is contrasted by Enker's extremely unsafe, even reckless, method of attack, that requires him to sustain damage.

But even Punk, the agent of chaos, wasn't enough to stop Mega Man.

You probably noticed that I haven't touched on Ballade yet. And that's because he doesn't really have any contrasting traits compared to his brothers. Wily must've realized he swung too far in both directions with Enker and Punk, so he made Ballade as a nice middle ground between the two.

Ballade--doesn't really stand for much except fighting. He wants to fight a strong opponent, and views himself as the "strongest" robot, and because of this he can come across as single minded. He feels too standard, too plain.

But his complexities are revealed once he is beaten and realizes what he is fighting for is wrong. He respects Mega Man's power, something that neither Enker nor Punk did.

Maybe the reason why he was able to break Wily's programming was because he didn't stand for much, able to break his base instincts because of his "weak will."

Or maybe because his will was so strong was the reason he broke his programming. Was he, perhaps, tired of fighting for Wily, and saw self-destruction as the only way out? I haven't decided myself.

Whatever the case, in his dying moments he was able to stand for something: ending up on the right side of history by helping Mega Man.

So sorry if this was a rambling, confused read! I've got that RKN autism, lmao. Btw, I really wanted to dissect Quint some too since I consider him their adopted brother, but it was getting way too long. A text post for another time! :)

[husbandograveyard]

I thought my mind is angst free but le nope, here I am. Hazel, my precious ray of sunshine, may I ask for some angst torture with Sanji and Zoro (not poly, lmao) and fem s/o who hid severe medical condition from them. One day it suddenly gets much worse and Chopper is not available; boys can't do nothing much than watching her fading away in their arms and begging her to not go where they can't follow (ah yes, lotr reference). But happy ending plz, if possible T^T Thank you UwU

Some Angst for Bas! :Hellmo: I tried not to angst it up too much, and they ended up about double as long as I intended. I hope you like them and thank you for your insane patience! Sending you love! 

Having an S/O who hides a severe medical condition HC - Sanji, Zoro 

2nd person. Female reader. tw: illness, mentions of illness, light angst 

Sanji 

Sanji is quite observant. He keeps an eye on his lover, and he knows you better than you sometimes know yourself. So he definitely knows something is up: the visits to chopper, the sudden breaks you need to take in the middle of chores and training. But you never talk about it and he respects your privacy. 

No matter how much he wants to help you, no matter how much he really wishes you would open up to him about whatever is going on, he knows that you want to tackle this by yourself. 

That does not mean he lets you do everything by yourself all the time. He finds many ways to help you around, disguising it under his gentleman attitude. 

He cooks you special dishes that are filled to the brim with all kinds of vitamins and other nutritional elements that will help you keep healthy and strong, even though he has absolutely no idea what part of your health is the one that is stopping you. 

He carries everything that might be too heavy for you, not wanting to over stress you. Even if you’re plenty strong, he will just say that it’s a men’s duty to carry his lady’s stuff. 

Even when you're training, he will bring refreshments, make sure you take plenty of breaks, draw you a nice bath after and massage any aching muscles if you will allow him. 

Sanji is near you when you have the worst episode of your illness you’ve ever had. You feel weak, everything hurting, and you just collapse in the middle of the deck. Sanji would catch you right before you fall, worriedly asking you what you need, but he realizes you’re already unconscious and cannot reply. 

Chopper is out with some other crewmates to get supplies, so Sanji is immediately panicking, torn in between leaving you on the ship to go get Chopper as fast as possible and staying with you in hopes the others will return soon. He eventually settles for the first, deciding that your chances are best when Chopper is involved. 

He picks you up and carries you to your bed so at least you’re in a comfortable spot, but when he turns to leave, there’s a soft tug at his sleeve and he can hear you very faintly whispering to stay. Your eyes are barely open and you’re wincing with every little sound and movement around you. He kneels down next to the bed, tears now falling freely as he begs you to stay with him and not to give up. Chopper will be there soon. 

You have fallen unconscious again when Chopper returns. Sanji races outside the moment he hears them arrive and drags Chopper over to the room, explaining as quickly as he can. He insists on staying with you as Chopper looks after you. 

Luckily, Chopper is already aware of your situation, and he’s able to help you swiftly. 

You wake up not that much later, still in loads of pain, Sanji holding your hand as tight as he can without adding to the pain.

“Please y/n…. let me help next time”

Zoro

Zoro notices something is off rather fast… but much like Sanji, he is not one to pry. You tell him you’re fine, he will believe you.. up until a certain point that is. 

For the most time, you can just dismiss him by telling him there is nothing seriously wrong, trying not to worry him, and assure him that you can handle it. After all, Zoro won’t needlessly hurt your pride by being overbearing or smothering you when it’s unnecessary. 

He’s still picking up on some cues. Just because Zoro is pretty routine-oriënted, he will notice it when things are out of place or not going like they should. On days where he notices you’re struggling, he will pull you with him for an extra nap, bother Sanji for some extra healthy food… the small things that let you know that he cares, he just doesn’t want you to be bothered or feel bad that he’s helping.

He’s training when he hears a loud crash, and even though it’s not that rare for things to fall and break on the ship, he has to do a double take, seeing as the only ones on the ship are you, Usopp and him. The latter usually just spends time tinkering away, and wasn’t supposed to emerge from his room until an emergency happened or the others returned. Weights are swiftly dropped as he shouts down from the crow’s nest. 

“Y/n? Everything all right there?” 

When there is no response, he rushes to where you are supposed to be. He knows you’re not one to joke, especially since you very well know how overbearing he can get when there’s serious danger involved. 

He finds you on the floor, a little scrape bleeding from the fall, but otherwise you seem unharmed. 

He almost lets out a sigh in relief when he notices tears silently streaming over your face. Your expression is contorted, laced with pain and he feels his heart sink all the way into his shoes when he rushes over, easily picking you up and cradling you, his actions a little more rough than intended, only because he just wants to make sure you’re helped as soon as possible. 

You let out a yelp as he picks you up. It’s loud, but not as intense as he’s used to from you. You’re visibly weak and he curses himself mentally for not saying anything earlier today or staying with you when he noticed today was another one of your ‘off days’. 

“Y/n, what’s wrong? What can I do?” 

You open your mouth a couple of times, but find that even talking has become hard, if not excruciating, and you can barely choke out “Chopper”. 

Zoro holds you as close as he can without crushing you or causing you any more pain, and yells out to Usopp to hold the fort. He needs to get you to the doctor, ASAP.

His sense of direction is not really helping, but fortunately, the rest of the crew doesn’t take too long to hear of a ‘green haired man frantically looking for his crew while practically running in circles’. 

The rest of the crew finds you guys relatively fast, but by then you’re slipping in and out of consciousness. Zoro had been cursing about them getting away, and simultaneously kept talking to you, panic apparent in his voice as your answers are incoherent or altogether absent. 

Chopper, as the only one aware of you condition, manages to help you faster than any other doctor would be able to, but you’re going to need some extra medicine and rest for letting it come this far. 

Once he gets the ok, Zoro carries you back to the ship, ignoring all your protests. He will see it as his personal responsibility to make sure you rest and get your meds in time. 

He kisses your forehead as he puts you down on your bed to rest once you’re back at the ship.

“Sorry y/n, some burdens cannot be carried alone. I will help, even if you don’t want me to.”

[vivwrite]

With the Ghost of You(When the Sun Goes Down We All Get Lonely)

Maybe he’s just imagining, maybe its just another fantasy he pictures, but Luke seems semitransparent, a halo casting around his figure, holy, angelic.

“The night was very long but it didn’t seem long to the Snow Man; he stood lost in his own pleasant thoughts, and they froze until they crackled.”

or: Ashton meets Luke in a library, and the story tells itself. (AO3 link👇)

ooookay so my first fic for lashton and 5sos . Thanks for reading it. And tbh I'm extremely nervous because English's not my first language. So sorry for the mistakes lol.

One thing: I read Marquez's work in my first language, and I can't find the English version of it, so I translated the title and first sentence to English. There might be a mistake so sorry again lol

-

Ashton has always loved the library.

It isn't the school library, which is always so grand, demure, solemn, much like a robot- no, too cold and inhuman.

What he prefers, rather, is a smaller one run by a group of retired professors. It seems determined to hide itself in the northeastern corner of the campus, made up of three small but never crowded reading rooms. No matter when he walks through the doors be can find lamps shading yellowish circles on wooden tables, rows and rows of bookshelves up to the ceiling, and seats, beside small windows where the sunlight outside leaks in just perfectly on sunny afternoons.

To him it's always a getaway, a secret hiding place from the stressed and sometimes too fast school life, the only friend he can turn to when he isn't that enthusiastic about life, a comfort when facing another rock bottom. He's already studying a too rational subject; he'd love spending some time being just sensitive in here.

He'd spend hours and hours wandering among the bookshelves, picking one when he feels like it, skimming a few pages before deciding to read on or not. By doing this he feels just like a boy on the beach, amazed by an emerald or sapphire brought on shore by waves from time to time- what matters isn't just the book he gets. It's more of the communicating, the chore he gets to strike.

-

Unsatisfactory experiment result, loads of homework, a long and tiresome discussion with the professor about his research orientation- which he thinks is too early for him to consider, but she insists that as he has already got postgraduate recommendation he needs to consider it fully right now- and Ashton finds himself wandering in the library again, walking aimlessly, not for finding books, just to feel the connection.

It is a strange feeling, really, to be connected with books. Most of them on the shelves just seem to be books as they are, silent, quiet, lifeless. But, well, maybe it’s just his imagination- but some particular ones seem to be staring back- especially that one.

His hand automatically moves to pick that book out of the column.

It is quite delicate, a hard back small enough to be held on one hand, the title shimmering under the dim lights.

Ann’s Diary.

He remembers reading it in his teen years.

“Sorry, but that's mine.”

Ashton springs from the bookshelf. The book slips straight from his hand, hitting the wooden floor with a thud, as a boy rounds up from the other side.

He's tall- even taller than Ashton. And quite young, a freshman or sophomore, maybe. He is staring at Ashton from behind those strands of blonde, messy curls falling off to his face, piercing pale blue eyes met with his hazel ones, and that made his breath hitch for a second- although those eyes are definitely showing dismay.

"I... I don't really understand." He tries his best to cover all the confusion and fear- dealing with strangers always makes him uncomfortable (although he can manage it by acting cheerful and shit), especially with a pissed one.

But the boy seems determined to stay silent and on edge. He just flips the first page open, gesturing to a mark on it.

It's a two-word initial. Must have written quite a long time ago, as the lines are a bit blurry and the ink has faded into light gray. But he still recognizes the word, written in Italic, reading "L.H.".

Wait. The librarians never said that there is a place for personal collections.

Before he can ask about it the boy swirls around and walks off, leaving alone a dumbfounded Ashton.

-

He goes to ask the librarians, then the curator(because the librarians know nothing), about books with a L. H. written on it.

"This is a long story, darling, but it's late." Mrs. Hemmings' voice is collected and calm as always, but Ashton can tell that there is something as her eyes are a bit dull, "Maybe the other day."

-

His favorite spot in the library is a small table tucked behind seven rows of bookshelves of English literature(yes, he counts how many bookshelves are there), just besides a small window. Others rarely find it- unless they're crazy for novels by Adeline Virginia Woolf or they're just too bored to do anything else.

That's why he chooses here- There's no disruption, no noise, only the random shuffle for a person searching for books and pages being turned. Being alone.It suits him.

The sound of a chair pulling broke the silence,ripping him from the novel plot- someone has slipped into the chair opposite of him.

Well, fuck.

Ashton lifts his head from the pages, slight agitation rising from his chest, which shifted to utter surprise as his eyes meet a strangely familiar shade of blue.

Before he could say anything the boy blurts out , "Please... I want to explain."

For a moment Ashton just sits there, staring. Thoughts cloud his mind, tangling messily, laying conflicted- He was so senseless but now he seems so sincere! He won't trust his own voice right now, afraid that something stupid pops up all of a sudden. So he decides to just nod, a silent permit for the stranger to go on.

The boy clears his throat, looking a little nervous, "About the incident yesterday... I'm sorry. Got into something stupid and was shouted at all day long- but, I mean, fuck, even that isn't the reason I became such a jerk to you. I'm not trying to defend myself, but please don't be angry... Oh my fucking god, I don't know what I'm saying." He groans, pushing a hand through his curls, messing it up a bit.

Well, isn't that adorable.

Ashton hears himself chuckling, "I understand, no worries. Everyone has a bad day, don't we?"

He watches as the boy visibly relaxes with the reassuring words, a smile slipping on on his face, "Yeah, I guess. Thanks... Um, what's your name, by the way?"

Oh, right.

"Ashton."

"Thanks, Ashton." the boy's smile widens, "I'm Luke."

So the initial does belong to him. The L. H..

It's not until silence falls that Ashton realizes he may have stared at those sea- blue, sincere eyes for a bit too long. Hastily he ducked his head into his novel, flushed, trying to pick up the stream of Woolf's consciousness again.

"Virginia Woolf?" Luke's voice cuts in, and to Ashton's surprise- filled with pure interest.

Everyone else just thinks he's crazy and nerdy fancying Woolf's works.

"You like her?" He can't help but feel hope lighting up.

"One of my favorite!" Luke's literally buzzing with excitement, like a puppy finally getting some fresh air after a long lockdown in the house, "Never found another person to discuss, though. Everyone just say it's too hard to understand and shits."

And with that their conversation swiftly shifts into a heated discussion about stream of consciousness novels, to Woolf, then Proust, Faulkner, all way up the history, even to Freud- and Ashton finds, surprisingly, that they can strike a chord in every part of it- and the way Luke talks relentlessly, smiling so broad, eyes shining and hands waving- tells him he holds the same feelings, same thought, same passion.

His throat's sore- he hasn't talked that much in like, forever- but that doesn't stop him from being smug like an idiot when he leaves the library.

He's been alone for a long time, But it seems that he has finally found someone.

-

He starts to spend more time in the library- first just to do some more leisure reading and writing stuff there, then he starts bring his textbooks and laptop there to finish his homework, then even starts to stay there as long as he neither has classes nor needs to go back to the dorm. Yes, he admits it's kind of strange one's never tired of a library- especially that he has already ploughed through every part since he first stepped into it- but he knows why- a cute boy with ocean blue eyes and a smile is always there now.

It has become a routine. Luke accompanies him every day, sometimes already halfway through a novel when Ashton arrives, while other times Luke shows up merrily when he’s buried in the middle of projects and homework, bringing in a sense of cool breeze and fresh air before peeking over and ushering him to take a break(well sometimes the work has to be done, but Luke’s so sweet that he can’t refuse). Their time spent together is usually quiet, Ashton either typing away on his laptop or on a book, while Luke is immersed in his own novel, just piping up from time to time to discuss the plot or asking about the author. Topic wanders- books, school life, bands, music (seriously, how many same hobbies do they hold?).

They have went through so many fields- Stream of Consciousness to Science Fiction, Agatha Christie to Akudagawa, Shakespeare's Sonnet to Samuel Ullman's prose, but the list still seems far from ending. To Ashton's surprise Luke have read most of the writers not only by representative works but also less- famous chapters- many of which he only knows but has never read. He had thought he's an English Literature student, but Luke amazed him again by saying he studies Math actually- the same amazement occurred again when Luke discovered the chemistry paper Ashton's working on.

He can’t recall the last time he felt this content -Well, he can’t even remember when he has become so silent and depressed, on edge and under pressure.

But seems Luke has already become the solution.

-

Ashton sighs, recoils back in his chair, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes- He never learns the lesson of not leaving your homework to the deadline, fuck it.

Besides him Luke rises his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "You finally done?"

He just groaned, eyes shut."I wonder how the fuck you can even finish your homework. You never seem to be doing anything related to math."

"Maybe that's because all can be done quickly if I want."

Smug idiot.

"Wait till you're a post graduate and you'll know what's torture."

"Will quit right after four years, then."

Ashton scowls, cracks open one eye and spares a hand to flip Luke off, to which he ducks away (he always does) and giggles, "You're of no fucking help."

"What do you want me to do, then?"

"Don't know. Tell me a story. Or just read something. As long as I'm not thinking my head off about the synthesis route of some stupid fucking molecule I'll be fine."

He heard a light chuckle, "Aye- Aye, Captain, here we go."

The sound of pages turning, Luke clearing his throat, then,"'It's so bitterly cold that my whole body crackles!' Said the Snow Man."

Ashton lifts an eyebrow wearily,"Now you're telling me an Andersen's Fairy Tale?"

"Shh. Shut up and be a good boy. It's my favorite one." then, "This wind can really blow life into you! And how that glaring thing up there glares at me!" He meant the sun; it was just setting..."

Luke reads on, and Ashton finds himself relaxing, sinking into the familiar tale he’s read hundreds of times as a toddler, following the thread of the story, recalling the dialogue, how the Snow Man calls the Old Watchdog “my friend”.

Luke's voice fades for a brief second, then returns, slightly changed, softer, “Then the Snow Man looked, and he really saw a brightly polished thing with a brass stomach and fire glowing from the lower part of it. A very strange feeling swept over the Snow Man...”

Here comes the part- tracing the memory he can still feel it, the confusion when toddler him read to this part, then realization and excitement for no reason when he picked it up again, just for one time, before he come to this city.

He thought a new place brings a new life. That he would finally leave that old black and white town. He thought he knew what life was all about, what love was.

So ambitious, so young, so dumb.

Ashton blinks furiously, shaking the thoughts flooding up away from his mind. He’s here, in his favorite place, with an adorable boy who keeps his company, reading a tale to him. He’s fine, they’re fine, it’s fine.

His eyes lands on Luke.

The small lamp on the table is tilted slightly, soft golden light casting gently down on the boy’s right side, splitting a silhouette, leaving the left side of his face in the shadow. Curls falls off his face, dangling. His long, thick eyelashes turns to an almost-silver color under the light, trembling slightly, dancing altogether with the little particles floating in the air, as those blue eyes, clear as the sunny day but still deep as the sea, moves with each line, each word on the page. Maybe he’s just imagining, maybe its just another fantasy he pictures, but Luke seems semitransparent, a halo casting around his figure, holy, angelic.

“The night was very long but it didn’t seem long to the Snow Man; he stood lost in his own pleasant thoughts, and they froze until they crackled.”

The story’s still going, coming to an end, and Luke’s voice, a little raspy now, is merely above a whisper, like if he tells it any louder the fragile, beautiful tragedy will be destroyed.

“Come out, dear sun! Come often, skies of blue!

And nobody thought any more about the Snow Man.”

And with that Silence falls, a sad love story coming to its end.

For a while they just sits, looking into each others eyes.

The atmosphere’s changed, he knows it, can feel it. It’s a brand new feeling, one he has never felt, the rising urge, the need, the want, to get closer to the boy in front of him, to truly know him, to be with him, go through everything with him, feel the same with him, to like him, love him.

Hesitantly, he reaches out, slowly, hand trembling.

For a moment Luke seems to be on the same page with him, eyes fluttering shut and automatically leaning in, but suddenly he gasps, like being reminded of something he has long forgotten, and recoils back sharply, Ashton’s hand touches nothing but air.

Why.

“It’s late, Ash.” Luke whispered, not looking him in the face, “Maybe the other day.”

-

Something’s changed between them.

Not that the intimacy has changed- no. They still meets at the very table, reading and chatting, Luke still listens to his bickering about homework and fucking lab life- but something’s there, like The Sword of Damocles, hanging dangerously, but both just choose to ignore it.

Luke’s still Luke, sweet and gentle, cute and caring. But he’s somewhat quieter then before- he’s still chatting when it comes to their hobbies, but he always stops abruptly after the topic’s over, cutting the conversation.

It’s only that Ashton’s confused, confused about fucking all of it, confused about why Luke refused his invitation, why Luke takes a step back while he finally decides to step forward. It’s like an invisible barrier is built, all things suddenly turns indefinite without reason.

He hate it. He fucking hate all of it.

It’s only worse that he’s stuck in the library right now- it’s pouring outside, he’s left his umbrella at home, his jacket has no hat, and Luke’s oddly quiet.

He’s reading, more of scanning automatically, mind crowded with uncomfortable thoughts, screaming at him to at least find out what’s wrong with Luke(he don’t know how when they’re in this awkward state), to pluck up his courage and try again(well look what a coward he becomes when it comes to pining), to get this mess sorted (to which he has absolutely no fucking idea).

Fucking shitty day.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed- the sky is darkening, pure black seeping into pale gray, as the window starts to mirror the lighted lamp, making it unable to see the outside.

He hears a sigh, then the sound of book shut.

He can see those clear blue eyes from the corner of his eye, a little dim than usual, like the eyes of a sad puppy, and that almost break his heart. He wants to get close to the boy again, tell him it’s okay, he’s here, no need to keep those shit all alone and stuff- but instead he stares intently at the screen, so hard that his eyes starts to water, cursing himself inwardly.

A pause. Then, “Ash.”

Ashton gives himself a slap in the head, then puts on his most cheery face, “Yeah?”

Luke shakes his head furiously, “Don’t... Don’t act in front of me. I know you’re not well these days, and it’s all because of,” He waves his hand impatiently, then pulls his curls, casting out another deep sigh, “Yes, I... feel there is something I need to explain.”

And again he finds himself lost of words, exactly like the last time Luke made an explanation. But Luke’s acting different- strange. He’s frowning, shifting in his seat, hands tightly clasped together, teeth tugging at his lower lip, eyes filled with... fear.

Luke has never gone frightened in front of him.

“Hey, hey.” He reaches out, trying to grab Luke’s hand, but the boy squealed and pulls away abruptly again- so he just sighs, being as comforting as possible, “It’s okay, Luke. All okay.”

Finally the boy seems to have made the decision. He points to the book he just finished, which is lying on the table now, “The second short story.”

“You’re making me a puzzle through Marquez? Typical.” Ashton picks up the book, checking the writer. He’s trying to make a joke, but it came out weak and not funny at all, as Luke just sighs again and rests his head in his hands.

“I don’t know how to say it, so.” God, he hates how Luke’s voice sounds, all hurt and in pain.

“Luke, I mean, I’m not forcing you, but you know you can tell me everything-” panic’s rising, and he feels the urge, that they’re coming to the crossroads-

“Um, Ashton?”

He’s never hated life- the approaching librarian as well- more than now.

“Yes?”

She comes to stand beside him, a hand on his shoulder, “It’s ten now and we’re closing in five minutes. You need an umbrella?”

“Um, just a minute. We have something to discuss. I promise it’ll be quick.” He gestures to the seat across the table, where he knows Luke’s sitting.

He expects a nod, but her face is puzzled, coated with a layer he can’t read, “We? But Ashton, there’s no one across the table.”

“What?”

His head whips around, so quick that he thinks he must have strained his neck. He closes his eyes, then opens them again- yes, Luke is sitting right there, in the chair, totally frozen besides the nervous act just now- but he’s there.

“But...”

She only shakes her head, “You’re the only one here all day, Ashton. No one else feels like coming on such a stormy weather.”

With that she leaves.

Ashton turns back to Luke frantically, “What the hell-”

He’s met with a stony face and watery blue eyes. Luke seems defeated and in total grief.

“Tell me, Luke. Tell me!” Panic overcomes him, his voice three octaves higher than usual. It can’t be real, it’s just his fantasy, things like this can’t happen in real life...

Luke holds out his trembling hand, and very slowly, reaches over, linking it with Ashton’s.

A wave of icy cold rises up- from his feet up to his spine, overwhelming him, drowning him, making his head dizzy, the world turning, the sense-

The sense of not being touched.

Luke’s hands go straight through his.

“Because they can’t see me.” The silhouette figure whispers, voice barely audible.

“I’m not as real as you see me, Ash.”

-

The next three days come and go like a blurry scene.

Ashton remembers it just vaguely- he remembers fleeing out of the library, running alone the dark campus path till his chest burns and every breath becomes a burden. He remembers the rain, pouring down and hitting him relentlessly, flowing off his face, mixed with some warm fluid he didn’t dare to think about. He remembers walking back to the dorm, all worn out and broken down, throwing himself on his bed and crying till weariness finally came over. He slept, then woke, then ushered himself into sleep again, like only in dreamland he could forget all of it, until he was really not able to sleep anymore.

He pushes himself up from his bed and stumbles into the bathroom, eyeing himself in the mirror. He looks like shit, even worse than a hangover, purple bags hanging from his eyes and hair sticking in all directions. He sighs, turning to walk from the bathroom, cursing as he nearly trips over something on the ground- but the word died halfway in his throat.

It’s that book. The Collection of Marquez’s Short Stories. He must have thrown it on the floor that night.

Ashton swallows, hesitant- he’s not that sure if he’s ready to face it, that memory, that typical boy- but his hand does it for him, already flipping through the pages.

The second work, what is the second work......

He sees the title.

Someone Messed up the Roses.

He takes in a breath.

Today’s Sunday, the rain’s stopped, and I want to pick some red and white roses to my grave...

His eyes is welling up, but he reads on, about the story of a boy’s ghost and his sister, a wish never coming true, a story of love and regret.

There’s a note, written in Italic, at the corner of the page, end of the story, black ink suggesting it’s freshly written.

You have given me the happiest moments my whole life and beyond life, Ash. It might be like a cheesy novel, but I love you and I’m sorry.

Luke Hemmings

He’s crying before he knows it.

“Fuck, Luke.”

-

The scenery outside the window’s changing, fading from concrete jungle to fields and woods. On the end of the road, a hill’s approaching.

He’s sitting in the bus, hand clutching at Marquez’s Collection and a piece of paper- a piece of paper Mrs. Hemmings gave him, showing a route to the place he wants to go.

The vehicle stops and Ashton stands, hopping off the bus, going for the iron door just beside the muddy road.

He pushes it open, the rust on it sticking on his hands, the scent of soil coming up to greet him. As he keeps walking stones appears- delicately carved, yet lifeless.

An oak. That’s what she told him- an oak beside him.

He lifts his head, looking around, and found it- an oak, already tall, rising from the soil, pointing straight to the pale-gray sky.

Uncertainty and fear echoes in the back of his mind, trying to stop him, as he just goes on.

He’s already experienced lost once. He doesn’t want to lose it again.

He stops in front of the oak, hesitates before sitting down, cross- legged.

“I don’t know what to say, Luke.”

He stops, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“A part of me is telling me to forget all this, deny it, wave it off as a dream. It’s all just a fantasy, something I pictured, and I’m supposed to, I should...”

“But, Luke, every minute spent with you is so real.”

“They would say I’m crazy, everyone will; I mean, who would believe a person falling in love with someone already gone- and supposed to be in the state of nonexistence? But... you’re like someone I finally found, a person in this world who could understand me... Who I’ve searched for my whole life.”

He sniffs, blinking away the tears welling up, “You know, during my years alone I’ve learned about not to expect, not to hope; but you... you bring the difference, like a light suddenly cracking in. I mean... if you’re there, if you’re really there... please, just please, give me something to hope, to wish for, and don’t just go away like that.”

“Because I’m so lonely,” He finally let it slip, “So lonely, Luke.”

A soft wind picks up, leaves rustling, like an answer. But as he listens on everything just stays silent, like they’ve always been forever. No silhouette, no soft voice belonging to a boy.

The sky’s getting dark, so he just pushes himself up and leaves.

-

He continues with the life. Attending classes, finishing homework, finally deciding his research orientation. His professor says something about “A big step” and “I know you can do it”, which he just brushes it all off, not truly listen.

He continues to go to the library- but not sitting in that very table anymore, and just stays there for less then an hour each day. He’s read Someone Messed Up the Roses again and again, like all of the other works have suddenly lost their attraction to him.

The pages are all dog-eared and worn out, but he just goes on with it, flipping the pages, ready to read the short story for like the twentieth time.

“I wouldn’t treat a book like that, you know.”

He jumps from his seat, eyes widening, turning around.

Someone turns up from behind the bookshelf.

Messy curls, sea- blue eyes, the lips curling up in a slight smile.

It’s like a dream. He’s in a dream.

Like he can read Ashton’s mind, the blonde walks straight up to him and extends his arms, wrapping him into an embrace.

He feels warmth.

Still no feelings of being touched, the figure still semitransparent, but warmth.

“It’s real. Don’t doubt it.” Luke’s voice is soft, reassuring, barely above a whisper.

Just like he remembers.

The warmth doesn’t fade, like when he’s standing under the afternoon sun, closing his eyes, feeling the hope coming up.

He finally believes it- tears are sliding down his face before he knows it.

“Luke."

[dzpenumbra]

2/21/23

Yep. Well. Today was a bit tougher.

I caught up on sleep but had really intense dreams. Again, didn't record them. I guess because I don't really have a practical use for them. I would absolutely love to have an ongoing art project that is just... recording dreams and turning them into something. It's been a... dream... of mine for a long time. I love that part of the human experience, it's something that even with all the technology and shit we have, all the research we've done, all the human arrogance we've accumulated, we still can't really explain with any certainty. Sure, people can try, but I've been studying dreams off and on for over 15 years and I can say very confidently that those who claim to be approaching defining dreams from the most empirical "scientific" standpoint have presented the least scientific explanations.

The most common one is "random thought fragments" or something like "thought waste", as though dreaming is like... digestion... or something. Which really doesn't make any goddamn sense to me at all, I have no idea why anyone would assume the brain would work like that. Like... neurons are based entirely on logic pathways, and we want to assume - with zero evidence - that something that doesn't make sense at first glance must surely be random. As though "random" is like... a scientific term... There's no way it could just be something... we don't currently understand... Something that is connected, at a subconscious level, but we don't consciously understand that connection at that moment. Nope, let's just say with certainty that it's random sparks shooting through your brain at night, and that only happens when you dream, and it's the only time your brain works like this, with zero evidence to prove it, and refuse any other explanation and refuse to investigate it further. Science, folks! Sorry to the like 5 people who said that shit to me in my life, that is like... the exact opposite of the scientific method.

Anywho... I... doomscrolled in bed for 2.5 hours. Okay, more like 3-4 hours. The time just fucking disappeared. Reddit pulled me in. And I'll tell you what happens. Because I really need to take mental notes here of where I can get completely hyper-focused and then lose an entire day... I write a lot, right? I have a lot to say. I like to explain my thoughts completely and thoroughly, yet speak in a way that's conversational and approachable. But... it's usually no less than a couple paragraphs, regardless of what post I'm commenting on. And writing that takes a bit longer than writing this, because this is stream-of-consciousness. This has very minimal editing, if any at all. Rarely any at all, lately. But my edited writing, that takes a lot longer. Not just in the writing phase, but... I proofread it out loud... at least 3-4 times. And each time I go in and add edits, sometimes the edits can be up to a paragraph each. So a simple comment reply... can very quickly turn into an hour. Or two. And I'm so engrossed in it, that it feels like 15 minutes.

And then I don't even post it. I get worried that it's going to set someone off or something, or just tell myself to keep my nose out of other peoples' business... and I don't post. I really should, because it would do good things for my anxiety... but... I don't. And this morning, I did that like... 3 times. The whole process. Find a thread, write a comment, proof/edit like 3 times, then... delete. Then find another... repeat. Then I finally landed on the last one. Before I finally got up.

This person was in my state, they were looking for a coverup tattoo. They have some kind of cross tattoo in red, they wanted a pink triangle over it as a coverup, as a like... reclaiming queer rights or something gesture. I got what they were getting at, the symbolism, and that's cool and all. But they were... insisting on having a queer tattooist do it. And that is of course their right... no shit. But like... they were pretty cruel about why someone who is not queer couldn't... identify with it? or something? Or like... they couldn't do the job right? Like wouldn't even entertain the idea.

I wasn't even going to post anything, but they put up a follow up post with a picture that was like... people lined up in a concentration camp. And the title was... I'll just quote it "My last post was misunderstood and I cannot edit it. First, "wholesale" was a typo for "wholesome" and the only reason why I am ISO a queer artist is because I want someone who has been personally affected by the grave and systemic issues caused by the holocaust which are still affecting society now."

I commented. That I am a tattooist (former, but whatever, once a tattooist always a tattooist) whose grandfather was an intelligence officer who tracked down, discovered and liberated Birkenau. True story. And his parents were Jewish, or so the census said, and his were WWI refugees from Belarus/Russia. And a lot of my family's fuckeduppedness on my father's side I would attribute to trauma directly from that. And these issues directly caused by the holocaust are affecting my life every day, in very profound ways. My father is still very stunted because of how much it fucked up his dad, and he's in his 70's. And I didn't really get a dad because of that either. The domino effect is very real.

So... I commented because I absolutely have been personally affected by this. And said sorry, but pink will not cover up red, it's just how ink works, sorry to be the bearer of bad news. And then went on to send a bit of a message. Which scared me a bit, and fell on deaf ears, but I felt it was worth finally saying out loud.

I said, from one human to another, regardless of labels... maybe try to find a tattooist whose personality you click with, not one who ticks the correct political boxes. And it would mean a lot to them too, because tattooing is a very intimate thing, and it's always nicer to work with someone who values who you are as an individual, your personality, not what politics you subscribe to, or who you're attracted to, or your race or gender or religion. I said discriminating against people because of race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, political views, etc... regardless of narrative... is discrimination. Putting people in boxes, labeling them as "jew, gay, intellectual" strips them of their identity, their individuality. Which was... what the concentration camp picture they posted represented. It's dehumanizing. Those people with the pink patches on their chests were not a stock photo of "oppressed gays" to be used as political propaganda 80+ years later... those were individuals, with names and families, dreams, goals. They were people, just like us.

I wrapped up by saying that it takes some time and work and trust to really... reconcile all of that, and live by that. And that at the end of the day, we're all just mostly hairless apes trying to figure out where we fit on this chunk of rock hurling through space. And then I wished them well.

Their response? Just kinda garbled babbling about how they really felt they needed someone who was aligned with their political viewpoint. Basically... just repeating themselves as though I had said nothing. And, unfortunately, I'm getting a bit used to that feeling. Of speaking to no one, to say a page worth of sentiments and have it be treated as though I didn't even speak, just in one ear and out the other.

But that's how my morning started... afternoon I should say. I'm not proud of it, but I think I managed to turn it into something good.

The worst part of the message, that I didn't send... that I cut out... was that... putting people into boxes? Stripping people of their individual identities, labeling them as political tropes - gay, intellectual, "Gypsy", "Jew" - is exactly what the Nazis did. And it's how most political forces dehumanize their opponents. Like... it's right there in the verb. Dehumanize. Turn a person into a concept, then demonize the concept, then... no problem. And that shit is dangerous. So forgive me if I get upset, when you use a picture of people who have been dehumanized, branded with serial numbers, wearing identical uniforms and are "labeled" with symbols to tell what political category they fall into... forgive me if I'm a bit upset if you use that picture to... justify putting people into political boxes. Because... it just doesn't really make a lot of sense to me.

But... I'm guessing... we're just not really "there yet", for the most part. As a culture, as a species-wide culture. Hopefully we're getting better, but... we're not quite "there yet".

Anywho, I went straight from there to the yoga mat. It wasn't bad, just... the same frustration with my joints just... not moving or rotating the way I wish they would. But it was nice and a bit more relaxed than usual. Then I tried to meditate. And made it a few minutes. Then I heard, through my noise cancelling earbuds somehow, my phone vibrating on my desk.

It was my mom. And she was calling me with bad news. She called two car dealerships and there are no cars for several months that fit the bill. And she just... didn't contact the dealership she volunteered to. And I really tried to find out why she didn't text me immediately to let me know that she didn't call them. I was really upset. I wanted to know why she noticed something that made her go "I shouldn't call the dealership, I should check with him first" and then she... didn't immediately check with me. It confused me, and really upset me. And then she went and contacted other dealerships, which I don't remember asking her to do? Maybe I did, I don't know? It wasn't like... bad, it was just like... it kinda felt like taking over and not consulting with me... when it's super easy to consult with me. It was just... it was odd. And again, I didn't think it would be a fight, I just thought it would be... "oh yeah, just text me if something like that comes up." But it just turned into this whole thing, and it got dragged out for well over an hour again. And the whole conversation - which luckily wasn't all bad, it actually had a lot of good in it - ended up being like 4+ hours because of that. I think we came out of it with a solution. I just can't even tell if I was like... overreacting. I'm just trying really hard to not stuff my emotions down, especially while grieving, to work through them and express myself freely. It helps tremendously with my confidence. But it very often does not feel safe to express negative emotions. Especially around my family. Good lord. Yeah, like... it is super unsafe for me to express negative emotions around my family. Which is a shame, because that includes... sadness... and grief... and panic... stuff that family really is supposed to be there and support you with. Even anger is something it's really helpful to have someone support you in processing. But... I had to learn solo. And with therapists, they get credit too.

But that absolutely is a common thread, not just with my mom... but with both of my brothers and my father. My whole family. I have big emotions. Loud emotions, I guess. I'm sensitive. I feel a lot. And I've learned, trial by fire, that I need to express and process those emotions or else it can have some pretty bad physical effects on me. Like... it was having rough physical effects on me in my teens and 20's. In my physical prime. And I'm in my mid-30's now. I want to be fair to myself and give myself lots of room to get my body into good shape and all that, and I plan to. But... let's be honest. My body is not ever going to be as resilient, have as much endurance or bounce-back as it did in my late teens/early 20's. It just won't. And my repression of my emotions in that time was so bad that it had me in and out of hospitals with "mysterious illnesses" for years. And 1) I don't want to even imagine how those "illnesses" manifest now, in my 30's, and 2) I have developed the skills to manage and process those emotions worlds better than I ever have. Like leaps and bounds. It's absolutely insane. I still fuck up, and I still have lots and lots of work to do, the work never ends... but I really have to give myself credit.

I wish my family did too. But my guess is that... they don't really feel comfortable around emotions... in general. And that might be a bit foreign. And overwhelming. And unpredictable. And seem unsafe. And they are afraid they might... set off a powderkeg or something? I guess? Like emotions are... by default... unstable? And maybe, from the perspective of people who really didn't put a lot of (if any) time into emotional processing, learning about emotions, processing them, all that... that might just be their understanding and experience of what emotions are... just... in general?

And then I walk in. And I start asking questions to figure out what's going on in my mom's head... with a tone that sounds... frustrated? hurt? angry? Maybe a blend of them all? And it just sets off every damn alarm bell in existence, all hands to battle stations. And it creates an impossible situation, at least it did today. Because the focal point of why I'm upset (which a lot of people will vaguely allude to, or hint at, or not even mention at all and make you dig for...) I will state right off the bat the best I can and try to lead the conversation towards an understanding of not just what specific part I'm upset about, but show them where in the chain of events it happened. But it just gets deflected. Topics get changed. Questions go unanswered. Because they are perceived as tricks. Traps. And it sucks.

I'm compelled to go "maybe I need to work on emotional management right now, maybe I need to pump the breaks on that." And yeah, honestly, I don't need to get that upset. But it was a big deal to me, at very least conceptually. The concept was really important. Just like... keep me posted, and text me. Include me. Please. It doesn't bother me. It's not intrusive. People never text me. EVER. I live alone. I have no friends. I rarely even check my phone when I feel it vibrate anymore. I haven't been in a state where I'm checking my phone to see if it's vibrating from texts in... probably over 2 years? Maybe more? So... it doesn't bother me. It makes me feel included. In the recent past, I've regularly requested friends text me more. It makes me feel like someone is actually thinking of me. And the worst part? The rest of my family text each other all the time. So... yeah. It just stopped happening for me. And I'm sure it's because she thinks she's bothering or interrupting me, in which case I'll just... not respond or something. I feel rude doing that, and I want to start just saying "I'm busy" or "I'll get back to you". But like. Yeah. That's all. That's all it was. And it turned into an hour fight. And that shit takes a toll on both of us.

But she hit the jackpot on her furniture search, and I'm super grateful for her taking the time to head out on a second trip. This place that's a local woodshop that's been around since I was in highschool has some really cool pieces and they seem affordable too. I'm actually pretty excited. It's like things are starting to come together.

But the car situation. Not so much. And I'm okay with public transit and all that if I need to. Though... one of the reddit posts I was going to comment on and never posted... was a thread about someone writing racial slurs on a bus stop sign in my neighborhood. And they were losing their shit. And I actually took the "it's just kids being stupid, please don't make them famous" approach, and I genuinely do agree with that. But it also planted "you're in a city, this isn't safe" seeds in there too. Which sucks.

In stark contrast to this, I had a little nostalgic moment with my mom re-living my 5-day solo road trip. Where I had no real destination, just a physical map and a phone... a GPS (2012ish so pretty new at the time) my mom gave me that I used as a second speedometer... I wanted to use the map... XD Aaaaand my guitar, and maybe my skateboard? But maybe not. At that age, my self-preservation reflex was much more chill. Maybe a bit... too chill... but that's arguable. Now? Now I'm scared to get on a bus in a tiny city that literally any other city in the US would look at and go "bro, that's a town."

Trauma does that. I think a lot of people have learned that since the pandemic, those who were notably traumatized by the whole experience, and rightfully so. 9/11 did it too. It makes sense. Trauma very quickly turns into a need to keep things safe, because you know what happens if you're not. And the world looks much scarier, and more dangerous. And I'm definitely living that. It's such a weird effect. I will go out and get groceries and think "the world is so much less safe than it was in my 20's". But it was really pretty much the same then, I just didn't really care or notice. I just didn't think anything was going to happen to me. I was confident, and a bit more grounded, honestly? And then some shit struck close to home. A friend of a friend being murdered by his brother. One of my best friends' sister dying in a car accident like 50 yards from her family's house. A friend going into a coma and dying. A college buddy being murdered by his step mom. My own brushes with death in fluke accidents. Deaths of pets in the family. Yeah, I'm noticing a theme here. Hi Death, how's it going? Glad you could join the conversation. Kinda pissed you had to take my cat so early, I thought we had a bit more time together. But I'm sure you're just doing your job.

So... I'm guessing a lot of this inflation of my fear of consequences, fear of society and the world and the outside and all that... is just really processing at a very real level how fleeting and delicate life is. And the impulse is to be safe safe safe safe safe. But how satisfying of a life can you live from inside a fallout shelter? I mean... if you had to, like if there's an actual nuclear disaster and you're reading this Tumblr post for some reason - 1) I have no clue how you are doing this, but I guess your welcome for giving you something to read that isn't an advertisement. 2) please do stay inside, because a slow and agonizing death is very likely in your situation. 3) please try really hard to be a good, kind, loving, compassionate person when you restart civilization, and remember that those qualities are some of our most unique and best traits. Not just being really crafty and making complicated gadgets. We're one of the few species that will nurse another species back to health. That's a beautiful thing and it's worth keeping and celebrating.

But if you're not in a post-apocalyptic wasteland... (and I guess the jury's kinda still out on that one in some ways...) you have to go out on a limb to get the fruit in life. You have to take chances, push yourself. And how to balance that with being safe? That's a real art. One that I'm still working on, that I find exceedingly difficult to manage alone. I mean this sincerely, I think it's much easier to take risks if you have someone there to catch you, or at least pick you up when you fall and go "you did good, you just needed a little more speed, give it another try, you got this." Skating metaphors, man. Skating did so much good for me. For real, if you want to see healthy support and all this stuff I'm talking about, go watch pro skaters out on street skating trips together. I love watching those. Everyone is constantly cheering and encouraging and playing. They feed off each other, and everyone gets better for it. Everyone skates better when everyone's stoked, because you see your friend push a bit harder and actually land it, then it inspires you, then you do the same and it inspires others. It's a wonderful thing. I miss it greatly, and honestly... I really should do this...

I should get a board. There's a skate shop on that main car-less street I've been talking about. I should get a new complete. When it gets a bit warmer? Maybe even now. I should head to the concrete park by the lake. And I should make a video series documenting my improvement skating. I legit would give anything to have a friend to do this with, where I filmed them and they filmed me. But if I don't have that option, I'll just have to risk getting my phone stolen while I'm skating trying to film myself with a tripod. Or just... not film it. Like I unfortunately did with snowskating this year.

Either way. I should embrace not being very good. And set goals. And focus on the progress. I did that towards the end of fall. I had never learned truck grinds, any kind, ever. I've done boardslides and noseslides, but never truck grinds. So I decided to try, and I started to pick them up a bit within the first few tries. And the same with dropping in and rock to fakie, I always did manuals and curbs and low ledges and shit, never any transition. So... give it a shot. Then it's much easier to take risks within the style of skating you're already used to skating in.

No matter how I go about it, I think it'll do good things for me.

I've been writing way too long. I'm heading to bed.