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chichis-interlude · 5 months

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Yourself in the 3D is literally a customisable character, life is the game and your 4D is the controller 🧘🏾‍♀️

#law of assumption #affirmyourlife #desired reality #dream life #how to manifest #manifestation #subliminals #the void state #void success #void #extended metaphors

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aurae-rori · 1 month

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after pain : aventio fic

— #aventio #ratiorine fic

— poetic narrative

— relationship/character analysis

— fluffy and comfy :)

— technically wrote this awhile back lmao

— 2.3k words https://archiveofourown.org/works/54107008

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capricorn-0mnikorn · 8 months

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Fiber arts and narrative arts: the metaphorical connections:

I've been thinking about this ever since I posted about it here.

I just love the metaphor of "Spinning a yarn" for "telling a story."

Because whether you're doing it with a drop spindle, a spinning wheel, or in a big-ass factory with smoke stacks, what you're doing is taking shorter bits of fluff, drawing them out of a big bundle, and twisting them together (with just the right amount of tension -- which you have to keep consistent), until they stick together, and become so strong, they can't just be pulled apart again.

Your shorter bits of fluff might be flax fibers, or shed undercoat of a wild deer, or the sheered wool of a sheep, or the inner core of nettle stems....

Or a character here, a time of day there, a landscape, a question, a turn of phrase...

You get the idea.

And if you do it right, you can make something strong and soft enough to keep someone warm -- or to weave into a sail to catch the wind.

Here's a link to a YouTube video from three-ish years ago, about the archeological discovery of a piece of yarn made by Neanderthals, some 41,000 years ago.

I think maybe both kinds of yarn spinning are innate to humanity.

#fiber arts #narrative #extended metaphors #YouTube link #It's a human thing

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env0writes · 5 months

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Deciding Embers Vol.4, 12.10.23 “More Than A Shawl to Shrug"

Sadness is a shawl I wore in winter Through many wintry days I wore it in the autumn, with mornings with its’ greys I wore it in the springtime, before summer’s burning haze Through summer still I wore that shawl, when redwoods were just a splinter Ragged and ratholed it grew In the night it shown through and through like glittering night Wreathed in sweet starlight Wreathed in safe somber sight Sorrow was synonymous with sights where I’m seen and knew Throughout the year it mended or ripped Shining sweetly for hard work is best savored Even if long the enjoyment is not belabored Or seen or acknowledged by friend, family, neighbor My favorite shawl came in hoods or unzipped It hangs by the door now Well used, if not for many a day I keep it on hand for the times as it may Come need to be worn, I know where to find it that way As best with all loves, let them come; let them go. All this, I allow

@env0writes C.Buck Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist! Photo by @mynamemeanscloud

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callipraxia · 1 year

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Just spent about half an hour working out my answer to the question, "so, if I were to regard the plot of Gravity Falls as part of a chess game played to put Bill in check...who would fill all of the roles?" Because this is obviously a sensible use of my time after midnight...Plus, by sheer coincidence, I actually have sixteen characters who can logically compose Team Good Guys! To demonstrate, with explanations below the cut now that I know how those work on this site:

Pawns: Filbrick, Caryn, Shermie, Shermie's wife/girlfriend/whoever Shermie had a kid with, Dipper and Mabel's parents, Robbie, and Pacifica.

Knights: Dipper and Wendy

Bishops: Fiddleford and Gideon

Rooks: Stan and Soos

Queen: Mabel

King: Ford

Those last two should not be read as implying any weird ships, because...ew. Rather, it's all in how their actions correspond to the relevant pieces/the fact that they are in fact arguably both ex-royalty (Ford's the ex-king of the Finger Dimension, one could interpret Jeff the Gnome's comments as meaning that Mabel was, briefly and on a technicality, Queen of the Gnomes before she busted out the leaf blower). As for the more relevant bits:

The information in Ford's head makes him a vital piece for Team Good Guys: if Bill extracts said information, the game's over. Ford is also very limited in his options (the piece can move in any direction, but only one square at a time) and is just as easily trapped into check by his own pieces - it's his attachment to Dipper and Mabel which nearly allowed Bill to pull off a ‘smothered mate’-like situation.

Mabel is a strong piece with a very respectable track record of violence toward Bill. She can also move in any direction in a very literal way (grappling hook!) and this ability is what gives her uncles time to execute the twin switch which 'won the game.' On which note...

I think I read that it's different now (full disclosure, I'm a lousy chess player), but at one point in the history of the game, castling rules allowed an unmoved King to swap places with one of his unmoved Rooks. The Rooks, meanwhile, are moving buildings that flatten pretty much all in their path. Seemed like a description anyone Stan ever punched would agree with. Soos could go here or as Knight II; I stuck him here because he takes over the same role as Stan at the end of the series (plus, you know it would make him so happy).

If Soos is with the Rooks, then Dipper and Wendy become the Knights. Look at them in Weirdmageddon I! And in general (Dipper was pretty much born not moving the same way as anyone else in the game: ‘ladder shoes’, anyone?), but in that episode, when the two of them work together, they go from "surviving out here, which is already impressive and indicative of unusual skills" to "have decimated Bill's ground forces by flipping Gideon and are gearing up to take on a magic trap directly." Plus, Wendy customarily carries an axe; if she wanted to, she could go very medieval on folks.

Speaking of medieval (sort of) - our Bishops, Fiddleford and Gideon. Aside from both being at least religion-adjacent in supplementary materials (Gideon reads Preacher's Digest and behaves like a televangelist, Fiddleford is specifically stated to make the sign of the cross when he steps over a grave), they also fit well enough with the incomparable Terry Pratchett's description of the role in chess: "Bishops move diagonally. That's why they often turn up where the kings don't expect them to be." Certainly both Fiddleford and Gideon end up in places Bill didn't expect them to be, and they both go the long way about accomplishing their goals, too, preferring manipulation and ranged tech (robots, science guns, proxies, etc.) to direct confrontations, though they will if they must and may well show slightly disturbing glee while they’re about it - rather like the mace-wielding bishops of yore, no?

Which just leaves our eight pawns: Filbrick, Caryn, Dipper and Mabel's parents, one set of Dipper and Mabel's grandparents, Robbie, and Pacifica. The first six fit the role well: they are the 'front line' which made initial moves (had kids, raised kids, screwed said kids up something awful on occasion) and allowed the more powerful pieces to 'develop' long enough to get to Weirdmageddon/have the mental health issues that create their circumstances at that time. Pacifica's season two arc also makes her fit nicely into the role of Promoted Pawn: at first, she may compete for everything as the 'face' of the Northwest family, but she has so little real power of her own that she is cowered by a bell. Later, though, after fighting her way through Lilliputtians and aiding in the capture of a Category 10 ghost, she breaks the bell conditioning and saves the town. During the endgame, she is in the right place at the right time to first get the sweater Mabel made her and then to realize it meant she was part of the Destiny Circle. I'd say she made it to the other end of the board.

And then there's Robbie. Who I just stuck in here because he wasn't cool enough to be Knight II and nothing else fit at all. Sorry, Robbie.

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augustinapril · 5 months

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extended metaphor about my divorced parents??

#☆ — spencer talks #its bad i hate how like funky it sounds :((#it needs more i think but idk how to add more #writing #lit #literature #extended metaphors

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laelianas · 3 months

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The Lion and the Hawk (remastered)

A/N: I previously uploaded a version of this but I recently remastered it for an assessment so I'm gonna upload it again! --------------------------------------

The lion lay lazily upon the highest point of the large, jagged rock. Yawning, teeth wide, as he took his place as the king atop of the massive boulder. Any threats that came near the rock, be it a rooster, a wolf or a bull, were promptly swiped back down to the floor below from the advantageous position. The lion reflected upon how he gained the rock often, finding great pleasure in reminding himself of his outrageous victory.

The hawk, red-tailed and proud, had been a fool to trust the lion’s cunning sneer as he offered the proposition of protection in exchange for a part of the top of the rock. It had been the hawk’s home for as long as anyone could remember. It had always belonged to the hawk. Until the lion decided it belonged to him.

The highest peak of the area, a symbol of strength over the other animals that hid amongst the forest’s arching trees and olive leaves of brushes. A position that was once a respected one, when the hawk nested there, that had become tainted by the lion’s overwhelming desire for more power. He had outgrown the pride he travelled with; they became comfortable with half the forest. The lion wanted more. Needed more. So, the plan to take the proud rock from the hawk began. The hawk was fooled by the lion’s deceptive words. A lion’s words have always wavered in the truth.

However, the hawk didn’t know the lion. They had never met the lion. Lions were a foreign concept on this side of the forest. They didn’t usually venture so far away from home. Deceiving with tantalising words: strength, security and safety. However, said strength never applied to the hawk, for they could never compete with the power of a lion’s jaw nor the might of his paw. The hawk had been betrayed by one they never should have trusted. Day in and day out the hawk watched the lion sleep on the rock as if it had always belonged to him – it had never belonged to him.

The hawk felt betrayed, defeated. They had nothing and no one to turn to. After all, who could beat a lion atop a mountainous rock? Many had tried, many had failed. They had watched creatures climb and fall day after day and the pattern never seemed to change. The lion remained content and powerful whilst the hawk grew powerless and bitter. That was when the eagle knew it was best to make a move.

The eagle had once been an ally to the lion, many summers ago, until he had gotten sick of the ego and his never-ending need for self-actualisation that never came as the lion did not know what fulfilment even meant. He just wanted more. It bored the eagle. He had made a statement of leaving him, his screeches heard throughout the west side of the forest. Since then, he had been in hiding, watching and waiting for the perfect moment where the lion was at his most languorous. He came across the hawk, fuming and frustrated, and an idea came to his mind.

In the eyes of the eagle, the hawk was the perfect opportunity to strike hard at the lion. He would not expect his foe to return so soon, it would catch him off guard. He also would never expect his foes to appear from above, sawing and vicious. It was perfect.

The eagle approached the hawk, a fraudulent look in his eye.

"So, I see you've realised that a lion comes hand in hand with lies." He said gleefully.

The hawk would stare silently in response, a sad stoicism still present causing the eagle to laugh.

"The fact is," he continued. "You and I have been screwed over by the same so-called king of the jungle. A beast with a mane of lies. So, what do you say we help each other out? We take care of him together and then you get your place on top of the world again while I get my revenge. Honestly this is a deal you just can't refuse."

"You are as sly as the lion." The hawk scoffed.

"Yet I'm the one who has no interest in that pebble of yours. I only want revenge and you're my opening for it. The sky is my kingdom after all, I have no need for yours." The eagle offered.

This caused the hawk to pause, unsure how to reply, before relenting.

"What could you possibly have in mind?" They said causing a devious glint to emerge in the eyes of the eagle.

"The sky."

"The sky?"

"Lions can't fly, well unless we make a lion fly. We fly down and push him off the rock, what's he going to do? Use his wings to stick the landing? No. We push him down and then he doesn't get up. An easy win for us both, but we must work together. So, what do you say." An extended wing appeared in the hawk's eyeline as the eagle explained his plan. They swallowed before connecting their wing with the eagle's.

"Another bird is easier to trust in the end!" The eagle would laugh, a flicker of deception in his eyes causing a gut feeling of distrust in the hawk that they chose to ignore.

They flew high above the rock and the overconfident lion before shooting down, hard and fast, and attacking the lion from above. Claws and beaks scratched and bit at the overwhelmed lion as he tried to fend off his attackers to no avail. His paws swiped at air as the birds of prey flew in and out of proximity of the lion, forcing him back further and further until his back paws met the edge of the rock. One final push and the lion was sent into retreat down the rock, sprinting away as the two birds watched from above.

Victory had been grasped by the hawk and finally, their home was their own again. They moved over to their now broken nest and began to move sticks back into place in an attempt to fix the damages. It was the easiest time to strike, and the eagle had decided he liked the highest peak of the rock. It should belong to a proud bird like him, not a bird like the hawk. The hawk had their back turned anyways; everyone knows you should never turn your back on anything even if you think they’re an ally.

The eagle screeched and jumped up before flying at the hawk, fast. He slammed into the hawk, causing them to lose balance and fall down the side of the rock, landing on their wing. They looked up at the smug eagle, who was happy with the new dynamic between the two birds, and tried to flap their wings to fly back up and reclaim what was theirs. But their wing was broken. It flapped limply and gained no air traction, only pain. The eagle watched for a moment as the hawk began to lose hope all over again, stuck on the forest floor for the foreseeable future as the eagle turned away to make its nest.

#original story #oc #original character #writing prompt #creative writing #short story #writing practice #extended metaphors #my ocs

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pearlrose · 6 months

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When a Glass of Water is not Just a Glass of Water: My Brain, Explained.

Thoughts on My Particular Flavor of Nuerospicy (An Extended Metaphor)

For a neurotypical person, they might decide they want a glass of water. They go to the kitchen, get a glass from the cabinet, and pour water into it from the tap at the sink. Then they drink the water and go about their day. The end.

I also decide that I want a glass of water. Only, my brain is anything but neurotypical. So my story goes a bit more like this.

First off, I won't drink the tap water because it tastes too minerally. Bottled or at least filtered is necessary, too, to lessen that mineral flavor. It also has to be really cold water, so that means refrigerated at minimum, but ice water is best. With lots of ice. I have to use a specific glass, because the condensation makes the glass sweat and I hate having damp hands. Moist is dangerously close to sticky and sticky is the Worst.

All of that is the autism, the extreme preferences, to the point where my brain hard stops at any unacceptable sensations. It’s not that I don’t want to drink the tap water, I find myself physically unable to. I am so grossed out by all of the inappropriate sensations that my brain outright refuses.

Then, there's the other considerations, like if I go to the kitchen for water, I might decide I need to gather up all the laundry on the way. And then backtrack for a basket to put it in. While getting the basket, I rearrange the soaps in the bathroom. Then I drop all the dirty laundry because I never did get that basket.

When I finally make it to the kitchen, I make my way over to the washing machine and maybe start it because it's there and I have all this laundry in my hands! And soap. But no basket. (Still.)

Two hours later, I'm licking my lips and wondering why my throat hurts. Oh. I was thirsty. Right. (The laundry’s probably still damp in the machine, too.)

ADHD, my old frenemy. Have to take that into consideration as well.

So, instead of keeping water at the tap in the kitchen, I keep water bottles in my desk drawer, near a mini fridge in the living room, and I bought dozens of insulated cups with brightly colored straws and lids. I got a Britta filter in a bright color that makes it easy to see. The water is available in several forms that suit my texture preferences at the moment, and insulated bottles with lids and straws means the water can come along with me while I'm going about my day. It means I can drink it quickly, before it gets too tepid.

It wasn't the most straightforward path, but it was the path that got me to the desired outcome, which was HAVING MAGGIE DRINK WATER.

This is what I mean when I say that for me, sometimes the most obvious path isn't the best way for me. The obvious path contains laundry demons! Pretty gizmos, and other reminders. The obvious path takes three times as long and doesn't always result in the desired end goal.

The path that seemed more meandering and complicated on paper was the one that actually achieved the desired outcome. I found the way that got the desired goal, and it was more work maybe to get there, but it got me there. I can't say that for the regular way.

#audhd #audhd things #overanaylzing is fun #extended metaphors #adhd brain

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bookishjules · 8 months

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me and the extended metaphors that i can't help but pause and inspect as i pass them on the path, seeing where their leaves connect to the budding flowers connect to the bees buzzing to the berries five feet back to the bush and the path on which i stand. i'll move on eventually, but not until the metaphor's flowers bloom and become fruit i can harvest to fill and enrich and share with others i meet on the path

#hehe #extended metaphors

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bwsdragon · 11 days

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The Flame of the Soul

a creative writing piece I did for an English assignment a while ago. we had to compose a piece inspired by a childhood photo, i will not disclose the photo for privacy. Enjoy, I worked really hard on it.

Story below :))

All fires flicker out eventually, no flame burns forever, for there is nothing that can withstand its consuming heat. A fire can terrorise towns, decimate forests, slaughter thousands, but it will always flicker out eventually.

The human spirit is a similar thing, it doesn’t matter how long or harsh it dances. Whether plunged to death by water or merely consuming all to be consumed, it always burns out. A child’s spirit is fierce and brave, ready and rearing to face the world, a flame that is bright and hot, but contained. Mine was not. I was hot, hotter than any could handle, there was no wood that could withstand my flames, no person who could brave the wildfire… not even I could handle them back then. To burn oneself at such a young age is a terrible thing to witness. My flames were out of control, for I wasn’t taught how control. I was never taught the skills needed, never taught to only add the wood I needed, to keep myself contained and within distance to a well. No, it was expected. Expected that I should know how to douse myself in cold water, to know how many logs is the right amount.

Such things are supposed to be “common” knowledge, and as such I would be treated like an arsonist. I was purposefully letting my flames hurt others, I was choosing to not douse my flames when they got too hot, and if I let my flames flicker out? I was just seeking attention, and that it’s just because I wanted others to put logs in my fire for me.

There was a time I would try to match my flame to others, to only add as many logs as they did. But my logs aren’t as durable as theirs, and I flicker too easily. You’re not supposed to flicker, there is an expected level of heat that everyone must maintain, but mine just isn’t maintainable. I can adjust to reach such a level, but to hold it without fluctuations? It’s of such a difficulty that it feels an impossible task. My flames are fickle, but I am expected to maintain them anyway?

I cannot know when to add logs to my fire, or when my heat is too hot. It often takes until someone becomes distant that I am made aware. To me the heat is just me, my intense flames do not burn me as easily, it is what I understand to be a normal temperature. But others do not like my flames, I do not understand why.

There was one. A boy who did not mind my heat, who found my flames easy to withstand. His flames were weak however, and next to a blaze would douse himself to hide within such a flurry. For a while we hid together, until I began to struggle to keep my flames contained, until they started rebelling against my command. In one way it was a gift, to burn so brightly, to be unable to douse my flames. Our dictator was hotter, hotter than either of us could handle, but we stayed despite it, too loyal to our friend to seek shelter for our wounds. My heat wasn’t so adherent in the way the woman had wished. While in comparison it was small, it was still not enough, and the more she pushed the hotter I burned, until she left us, Maki and I, without a flicker of a reason. Soaked and charcoaled but at least we had each other to lean on.

We have healed now, although our logs still bare some scars, we have grown past it. Maki’s flames have grown strong to complement my own, but I am scared, scared he will run from my flames eventually, scared I will take the place of the woman before me.

Despite my fears, more have sought out the warmth of my flames, have set up a campfire to feed off my heat. They are all weak in comparison, yet they do not burn. They treat my flames like any other, occasionally seeking them in particular to warm their cold hands.

I have often wondered why the friends I keep never last long, I have blamed my fire, blamed my incapability of managing it. Missed their warmth so thoroughly I had questioned whether I should douse my flames as punishment. Had grown so angry towards myself I had manually removed logs in hope my flame would flicker out.

I have accepted my fate as of now, and acknowledged that my flames are just hotter, and while others may not bare it, may seek to douse them, it’s the ones who stay that matter. As it’s the ones who add logs on my behalf who are deserving of my flames.

The past is painful, lonely, harsh, but it doesn’t dictate the future. My flames will never be doused, for I will not let them. Until they naturally flicker, I will keep adding all the logs I need. I won’t let others tell me to take away some logs, but I will embrace the ones who add more to the fire. A fire should not be supported by one, but by a community of people who wish to find comfort in its warmth. If someone finds my heat too intense, they can merely join a camp with a softer flame. For it is not my responsibility to change myself for someone who may not enjoy my heat, for to douse my flame is to take away everything that makes me myself.

#creative writing #autism #asd #adhd #creative #writing #writeblr #young writer #tumblr writers #writers on tumblr #metaphor #extended metaphors

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helloitspriagain · 2 months

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old friend

no matter how much time has passed it returns just the same. like a lover, it slips through my unlocked door. slips under my covers next to my sleeping body. when i wake, i feel that weight on my chest, the familiar tightness with each breath. it rests its head there, against my beating and bleeding heart. it takes my hand and leads me through the day. practiced motions i perform with ease are made arduous in its presence.

to say we are tethered would be a gross understatement. we are intertwined in every sense of the word. this crushing weight that drags me endlessly down, is mine and mine alone. it is mine, yet i haven’t the power to vanquish it. it makes a home in my being, and i, in turn, in it. it is the blue that absorbs all the warmth in my light. it casts me in greyscale. it is the shadow that looms over me. it is the great wave that pulls me under, robs the air from my lungs and makes me ever so full. what does it want from me? i ask though i know it cannot answer. the weight pushes against my weathering walls. water rushing and surging behind them. i often feel like the town downstream. and my destruction is imminent, unbeknownst to me. in a much more meaningful way, i am the dam, finally breaking with a sickening crack. the waves are relentless. washing everything clean, washing everything away. the release doesn’t satisfy me. it is still here, no longer in my bed, but in my mirror.

#stream of consciousness #writing #idk how to tag this #writers and poets #sorry for being depressing #extended metaphors

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becausefuckyouthatswhy314 · 2 months

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My love is helplessly selfish

My love is not gentle

But it is kind

My love is not selfless

But it is loyal

my love is the kind that rips its way through my skin laying my soul bare to any who turn their gaze upon my shredded remains

My love is selfish and hungry, gnawing and tearing at any bit of kindness it receives, licking the marrow from the bones to greedily take the nourishment within, ever hungry, never sated

It is a lonely creature that yearns for any small kindness it receives and pitifully begs for more

It does not want to give but to receive and receive through the action of giving and being taken, tolerated, attended to

The acts of worship it would commit to its memory for the ones it’s sight befalls are greater than even my imagination

It would gladly direct my mouth to kiss the skin from any lips it was offered if it were allowed to linger for long enough

Any simple act of love that is true to the giver would be enough to give it some reprieve from its endless hunger, given or received, whether it be characterized by soft and gentle kisses in the evening light or the rough gnashing of teeth on skin, leaving purpled skin in their wake.

But that is yet to be given, and so it must be left hungry for the crime of giving greedily and receiving nothing in return, wanting nothing more than to gorge itself on the simple pleasures of being known.

But it will keep giving fruitlessly

And keep waiting for Love That Hasn’t Come

For a little while longer.

#bad poetry #freeform poetry #writing #love #heavy metaphors #extended metaphors #i don’t even know

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writer-thrax · 3 months

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The cage is unlocked.

It always has been. The lion trapped inside knows that.

Yet the lion does not leave.

Its fur is tattered. Ribs press against taut skin.

Outside is food. Outside is freedom.

The lion is dying.

The cage's door remains closed.

No one feeds the lion. Not anymore. There is no one left to feed it.

The lion is lost. The lion is starving. The lion is lonely.

The lion stays in the cage.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #spilled poem #short poem #original poem #poem #poetry #extended metaphors

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callipraxia · 1 year

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Continuing from the conversation in the reblogs of the link below the keep-reading, since while the broad subject of "let's ramble about mental illness and substance abuse metaphors in this kids' show!" is still the same, I'm on to talking about a different character (Specifically, Fiddleford)/realized belatedly that the OP might appreciate this.

So, Fiddleford and his memory gun.

It is, as usual, impossible to be 100% sure of much about the Portal era, considering that Ford's view of reality seems to have already started becoming distorted by the time he began writing Journal 3, and it is true that Fiddleford's signs of trauma after, say, the gremlobin incident, or his nerves when he realized what the probability of failure was, were actually pretty reasonable responses to the things that he was going through. However, Ford does act as though he's always been a bit concerned about Fiddleford's nerves, and when everything is taken into account, it seems more probable than not that the man does/did suffer from some form of anxiety disorder, probably in the OCD 'family.' Once I accept this premise, his story rapidly becomes a solid metaphor about the dangers of self-medicating.

Yes, yes, I know. The moral of the story is to deal with your problems...but nevertheless: the memory gun works as a metaphor for drugs and compulsions and how they don't really solve your problems, and it works especially well, I think, as a metaphor for alcohol and/or sedatives (Ativan, Valium, etc.). When used judiciously and with deliberate goals and limits, these things can be highly useful, or at least do more good than harm (alcohol is an antiseptic, for a lot of history it has been safer to drink than the average water supply, and it at least used to sometimes be 'prescribed' to people with certain heart problems who couldn't afford expensive medications, nerve pills are actual medicine, and as for the gun, we have the canon examples of the end of 'A Tale of Two Stans' and the finale). If you start to feel you need a drink after work every day to keep coping with your job, though, or needing a nightcap just to go to sleep...that can go real bad, and that's if you aren't developing this habit on top of OCD and/or one of its sister disorders. Fiddleford does appear to have such a disorder, and while he already had some ritualistic behavior (his Cubik's Cube, his alleged superstitions around graves, his tendency toward trichotillomania, the amount he checks and rechecks his work), he really loses control of himself when he gets access to the memory gun.

I suspect, between the temptation to instant relief it presented him every minute of every day and the secretive nature of it (no doctor supervising him, nobody frowning disapprovingly into his trash can, etc.) that memory gunning himself at the slightest inconvenience became both addictive drug and compulsion for him at some point, to the point that he was eventually frying his brain for even such a minor stressor as cutting himself shaving - or rather, for such seemingly minor stressors, since to him...who knows what that looked like? Anxiety Brain is wonderful at forming objectively sketchy connections that spiral into long chains of increasingly frantic 'reasoning.' From an outside viewer's perspective: it's a scratch, big deal. A path I could imagine Fiddleford's brain going along might run more like: "I cut myself shaving - why are my hands so shaky, why did that happen - were my hands even shaking, or was I just not paying attention? I can't do anything right! I can't even shave right, never mind raise a kid right! Which reminds me that I haven't seen my son in six months, I might as well have been cheating on my wife, I'm a terrible husband, a terrible father, just a terrible man, why didn't I do something before things got so out of control?? I could have stopped all of this, but now my Friend is out of his mind, he might end the world any day now, I don't know if my wife would have me back at this point if I even had the guts to go home and beg, and now I have this cult to run - but how can I run a cult when I can't even be man enough to face my own family? And it's slipping out of my control, I never meant things to go this far - They're all gonna turn on me, Stanford and Ivan and Emma-May are all gonna team up and murder me, oh God, it all makes sense now - !").

And then the gun made all that noise just...stop. He could sleep. He could run a cult. He could do things other than worry about Ford blowing up the planet any day now, or what was going on at home, or if the things he saw in the gremlobin's eyes could really happen. As soon as it started, he could just...make it all go away, as often as he wanted, at the click of a button. And by the time the side effects started becoming obvious, and he was losing his ability to speak properly and tearing his hair out without even remembering he'd done it and stealing clothes off scarecrows, well...thinking about those side effects, wondering if this thing he feels he cannot live without anymore could be responsible for them, was almost as distressing as thinking about all those motor accidents. Which, naturally, meant it was time for another mind wipe/drink....

So, there, started a couple of days ago and then delayed until I found this tab again though it is, you have it, @gravi-mania - the tale of how one could, if so inclined, warp the backstory of Gravity Falls into a story about bright young things whose lives fall apart courtesy of one of them getting too many uppers and the other getting too many downers. Make the framing device "Stan finally got out of prison after thirty years and went to visit his brother in the state hospital, where Ford laid eyes on him and immediately started yelling about portals and the end of the world and Stan doesn't even know what; as a result, Stan decides to stick around long enough to narrate the whole sorry tale, Prince of Tides-style, to the new doctor Ford seems to think is their nephew," and you could even get some super-depressing sober commentary on society and the justice system in there, too, along with at least very slightly lowering the research load, since sticking to that point of view would limit the scope of things to what he could see/what he knows about rather than going too deep into everyone else's heads and happenings. Though tbh, I suspect going with "yeah, let's just...not" is still the wisest possible course of action all around. really.

#gravity falls characters #things not to write #extended metaphors #what do you mean it's for kids #narrative of imaginary panic attack within #over-analysis

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piece-ofmindd · 4 months

Text

The Mannequin

He'll simply serve as a skeleton for the design

that I'll recklessly drape and pin to his form,

stitching my desires into the hem of his sleeve

and underneath the flap of his collar

with the idiomatic yarn I've spun myself.

The tag will bear only my name;

his identity can only be seen

in the faint whispers of inspiration

that have been pleated into the final garment.

Two guardian angles, Cedar and Lavender,

also known as Tacitness and Reticence,

are keeping watch from the corners of the closet.

They protect the threads of my fantasies,

keeping them safe from the moths of reality,

tirelessly chewing their plot holes into the fabric.

Delicately steamed and hung on velvet hangers,

I’ve saved it for a rainy day of the mind,

when sweet daydreams ask to be wrapped

in the soft caresses of cashmere and

in the delicate admirations of silk.

I’ve reserved it for when the imagination

has no inclination to be poisoned by the

acrylic admonishments or polyester pejoratives

that are so often worn.

Some men

simply fit better

as fiction.

#poetry #my poetry #my writing #fiber crafts #men #fabric #extended metaphors

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kinosternon · 4 months

Text

On estivation, brumation, and the moments in between

(Context: this is mostly a warmup-turned-experiment, because I haven't written in a bit and would like to get back into it a bit more. It's somewhere between diary, allegory, and fiction.)

What do you do, when you wake up from a long slumber?

In the stories, you slumber because you've been alone. No one to wake you, nothing to do. But the reality isn't like that. You wake up in your own life, and the dishes are piling up in the sink, and it's been six months since you even dusted, and there's a long, long list of priorities trailing out your door and down the street, branching out in a million directions to the people you've left hanging.

It's actually fairly easy to fall asleep like this in life and not be noticed. Or rather, it's easy for the things to pile up around you till no one can actually see you through the mound, and how are they to know if you're awake and working or if you're asleep in there? Surely there are just two, five, twenty tasks between you and reaching out. Surely you mean to talk to them, sooner or later.

Maybe you do. Or maybe you're asleep. Maybe you're even drowning. If you don't have the energy to know, why would anyone else expend the effort to know either?

But you're awake now, and you're alive, and for however long you've got control of your own limbs, your own faculties, and you can see the dust on the counter, the piles that have been piling. You remember, alongside the joy, the dozens of people and promises you've left behind as shed weight as you struggled to keep afloat. They would not drown; it was you that needed to disconnect. And now you're adrift and there's no anchor or rudder or let alone an engine that might help to propel you forward.

It's easy to want to just lie where you can taste the clean air of nothing hanging over your head, for as many clean breaths as you can manage, before you slip under again. Who would blame you? Besides yourself, of course, but once you have fallen back asleep and returned to suffocation there will not be the space to consider the path you are taking, the branches and weight and mistakes that you are leaving behind.

All you know is, you have been so tired, and the steps that you could take forward, just like the steps you will later be forced to take, mostly just threaten to make you tired again.

#experimental writing #second person pov #diary entry #extended metaphors #this might be a part of a semi-regular writing habit #but we'll see #my nonfiction

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