the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
i can't explain the way this feels i feel electrocuted i feel zapped by lightning i feel like i could run into a brick wall and punch my outline in it i could crush concrete blocks etc
So I romanced Astarion and let him ascend and I'm not going to lie, I always had a bit of a hate towards people who look down on me and call me or well, my characters, pet and such. And Astarion didn't change that, especially with the degradation part
But
Imagining the future where my character slowly becomes miserable with Astarion because while he does love her, he doesn't see her as his equal. And I mean even if you want to break up with him after the ascension and defeated brain he just doesn'tlet you (though im not there yet, i just read it somewhere). Imagining him slowly becoming furious, compelling my character to do things, to love him and then anger turns into desperation and hell, he just wants her, what can he do to make her love him again, what does she want, he will give it to her
Anyway I just want them to be happy, then miserable, then to slowly learn to love each other again with Astarion begrudgingly being a tiny bit nicer to others (cause my character mostly likes being nice but also she was an urchin, she's not above blackmail and deception and such. Ohh plus she's a bard, imagine Astarion wanting her to sing again but she doesn't so he makes her and it just breaks the trust again and again
And a scene where she escapes and then Astarion finds her and brings hell with him and kills whoever decided to help her and he's slowly breaking her spirit from the strong and defying woman she was, not realising at first that it's breaking him too.
(I especially like that little movement, swinging himself a bit when you ask if you can talk about your relationship with him and he responds "yes, my treasure?" *happy swingies, he's so happy and cute* and then cuts to him being angry and desperate and sad that his love doesn't look at him with adoration anymore, that the look he receives is not even angry but empty)
And the realization that oh no, did he became another Cazador? But no, he is better than him, he doesn't treat you like he was treated! ...does he?
forgive the frame rate this was a netflix screen recording but i love her so much shes SO funny. she's so funny in such a unique way. this guy tortures and dehumanizes her for 40+ fucking episodes, he's trying to kill the only people she's cared about since his dad killed her mom, he tells her over and over again that she doesnt deserve to live and the SECOND she's free and gets the power to fight back she just does some fucking looney tunes shit at him
The fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. There was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. I did. And i also outgrew them. I continue to age, but they don't; never will. The immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel......
keeping up with awards season has truly turned me into such a vitriolic and bitter person i think the academy should explode and there should be no survivors
“‘beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ – that is all / ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
everytime i remember this poem by john keats called 'ode on a grecian urn' from 1819, i remember the last lines above and i think of how every time crowley looks at aziraphale, its so genuinely pure. his expression is just an unadulterated warmth. and i keep thinking ever since crowley fell, how he had everything taken from him by heaven.
but when he came to eden and he looks at this angel, who had just given a sword up for good and who had sheltered from him from a storm — when all that is beautiful and truthful had disappeared from post-fall crowley, aziraphale was there to pick up the pieces. each and everytime, no matter the dancing around what they truly are, crowley looks at aziraphale and sees beauty. he sees all that is true.
he sees all that is there to know, all that he ever needs down here on earth. its always been aziraphale. in a way, aziraphale had become all that is stemmed to devotion for crowley. and he wouldnt have it any other way.
some may be aware of the medallion tree from the witcher, on which the medallions of fallen witchers are put
now imagine a tree, many trees, in a grove, filled with leather cord necklaces and brightly coloured beads gently swaying in the breeze and the sunlight
the oldest trees have faded beads, artwork and carvings lost to time, whilst the newer ones are bright and vibrant
some branches have many necklaces, some only a few; some necklaces have so many beads, some have too little (some have none at all)
A very happy vide noir birthday to you!! thanks for doing your part as usual. I think often about the apple music blurb for vide noir which ends with ‘a happy ending depends upon what you’re searching for’ and i feel that this is an idea present in so much of lord huron’s work… love letters to commonplace grit and in-betweens and half-satisfaction… cheers to six years x
HI HI HI I LOVE YOU THANK YOU FOR BRINGING YHIS TO MY ATTENTION IM GONNA EXPLODE WHAT THE HELL