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where-fantasy-meets-reality · 3 years

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A Twist of Fate

(GIF not mine)

W/C: 2.1K

Warnings: Fluffy overload

A/N: So, this is my first ever posting any kind of writing. I have written before but I have never had the courage to post anything. But, @mrskenobi19 and some other friends gave me the courage to put this out there. I own nothing, I was just having fun. Hope you all enjoy 😃

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“....Ugh, crap….”

The rain was now coming down in a heavy downpour, like someone had turned on a shower head with you standing under it, as you made your way through the slightly crowded city sidewalk. The dark sky rumbled as you noticed the clouds roll across it.

Most people had taken cover once the storm had started, but not you. Seeing as you had your umbrella with you, you decided to plow through it.

At the time that had seemed like a good idea, after all, that is why you took the umbrella with you when you looked at the forecast this morning; that is until the wind picked up.

Now the rain was actually flying at you. The bottom of your pants were soaking wet and the water dripped off your umbrella onto your hands, soaking the cuffs of your rain jacket. Your shoes were starting to make that squishy sound from trudging through the puddles on the sidewalk as you maneuvered your way through the crowd of people who had decided to brave the storm like you.

Why hadn’t you worn your rain boots again?

“...Because it wasn’t supposed to be this bad…..just a light rain the weatherman had said...”

You huffed frustratedly under your breath, answering your own question.

The wind was blowing your now damp hair across your face, making it even more challenging to see.

Trying to secure your umbrella tightly to you in a one handed grip, you used your other hand to now brush the hair that the wind kept blowing out of your face.

But just as you let go, a surge of wind came rolling behind you, threatening to knock you off your feet.

While you had managed to catch your balance, your umbrella had not fared so well. The strong gust of wind had blown it inside out.

“Prefect!” You hissed as you stood in the middle of the now empty sidewalk, fighting with the broken umbrella.

Whatever little part of you had been dry was now absolutely soaked. The rain was falling down through your hair, down your face, to your eyes, blurring your vision.

The faster you tried to fix the umbrella and be on your way, the more it seemed to jam.

And all of this for a cup of coffee.

You were so focused on your umbrella that you didn’t notice when the rain seemed to stop falling on you. Looking up, you realized there was a large umbrella covering you.

“Hello there.”

You looked up to notice that a man was now standing over you, as you were slightly crouched down, still trying to fix your umbrella.

His voice had a wonderful accent to it. English? Or was it Scottish? His thick auburn hair seemed to be blowing in the wind as much as yours had been despite its short length. His beard was neatly groomed. But his eyes, his eyes were really what caught your attention. They were the prettiest blue you had ever seen, almost like the blue of the ocean on a summer's day. They really stood out against the dark gray sky that framed him. His navy sweater and grey peacoat certainly helped enhance his looks.

You regretted wearing your sweatpants.

“I’m sorry, but I saw you struggling and I was wondering if I might be able to help?”

How long had you been staring at him? His soft smile and his head nod as he gestured toward your broken umbrella snapped you back to reality.

“Ah….Yeah….I think it’s broken, a huge gust of wind knocked it back and I can’t seem to fix it.”

His expression turned to a slight frown as his brows furrowed.

“...Oh dear….Well, that's dreadful...I’m terribly sorry…..”

Was he staring at you too? Your eyes had locked with his for a brief second and it seemed as if the whole world had stopped spinning. It didn’t matter that you were both standing in the middle of the city sidewalk in the pouring rain; there was only him.

“....Well, are you going somewhere close by? I’d be happy to escort you. I had originally approached, hoping I could be of service. But, if not then the least I could do is see that you get to your destination as dry as possible.”

“Who was this man?” You thought to yourself. How lucky could you be that not only was this stranger good looking, but that he was also kind and helpful.

For the first time, you smiled. “Are you sure, you don’t have to, I don’t want to impose on you.”

You really didn’t. Plus, you were only going three doors down from where you stood and it’s not like it would matter if you got any more wet than you already were.

His smile was warm and genuine. “It’s no trouble at all. In fact, I offered.” Extending his arm out toward you, his eyes seemed to speak more words to you than he did. “Where can I take you too?”

Sheepishly, you took his arm. “...It’s just a few doors down, I was originally heading to that cafe over there.” You point to the building with a red door.

His eyes closed momentarily as his mouth curled into a side smile. “Well….what a coincidence, I am too.”

Sticking his umbrella into his elbow, he now held his free hand out toward you. “I’m Ben by the way.”

Chuckling, you shook his hand. “Y/N”

Starting the walk toward the cafe, you noticed that he made it a point to keep pace with you and make sure that you both were actually able to share the umbrella. Clearly your escort was a gentleman.

Approaching the red door, he unlinked arms with you, moved to the side and held it open. “After you my dear.”

Blushing with a smile, you didn’t say anything as you stepped over the threshold.

Why couldn’t you stop smiling?

As you heard the door close behind you, you turned to find him shaking his umbrella off on the carpet.

As the two of you approached the counter, you turned to him. “Allow me to buy you a coffee, as a thank you.”

He shook his head as he shrugged his shoulders. “No, that’s not necessary, I was glad to be a help.”

“I know, but I insist. It’s the least I can do.” You annunciated the word “I” as you echoed the phrase he had said to you on the street corner.

He chuckled, a deep throaty sound; and it made your stomach flutter. “Okay, okay….you win this round.”

You noticed he said “this round.” Would there be another “round”?....The more you looked at this stranger with kind eyes and a warm smile, you did find yourself hoping that there would be another “round.”

After placing the order, the two of you stood off to the side waiting.

“So….what brings you out to a cafe in the middle of a rain storm.”

His eyes seem to light up. “I had planned on meeting some friends here. Well, I say friends but they’re more like my younger brother and sister; I’ve known them both for ages.”

His eyes lingered on you as if he was memorizing your face. “....And how about you?”

You laughed nervously. “Sadly, I am just a coffee addict. I thought I could make it here and back in time before the rain got too bad.”

His playful smile caused you to mirror his expression. “Ah, I see.”

The sound of the barista calling your name out broke the bubble that you two seemed to think you were in.

Moving toward the counter, the two of you grabbed your respective coffees.

Now what? The two of you were looking awkwardly at one another. It was as if you two wanted to say so much but at the same time you both said nothing.

Your eyes darted to the floor nervously as you tried to think of something to say

The sound of him clearing his throat caused you to look back up at him expectantly.

“.....if you aren’t doing anything you’re more than welcome to join me. My friends are hardly ever on time for anything and I’d love some company while I wait.”

He turned to the side and pointed at one of the free tables under the large windows.

Your wide smile creeped over your face. “I’d like that….thank you.”

The two of you sat down at one of the tables he had originally pointed to, but not before he pulled your chair out for you.

It didn’t matter that you were absolutely drenched and uncomfortable in your clothes. Or that you had left the television on in your apartment thinking that you would only be gone for five minutes. You could only focus on Ben.

The conversation flowed easily between you two. He was a history teacher down at the local high school and you had always loved history. Additionally, the more you two talked, the more you seemed to have similar interests in all the same areas. How many other men had you met that could enthusiastically talk about the finer points of movie musicals with the same enthusiasm that they could talk about serious dramas? Food, music, books, current events...the topics were limitless. The man even went from quoting Shakespeare to Spider-Man in just two sentences.

All of it made you not only laugh, but your walls slowly came down for this charming and intelligent man. You had completely lost all track of time to the point where you hadn't noticed that it stopped raining.

“So, do you come here often?” You asked him.

“I do. I usually stop in on my way to or home from work….Sometimes both depending on how the day went.” He chuckled.

“Oh, I get that.”

The sound of his cell phone buzzing on the table caught both of your attention.

“I’m sorry, excuse me.” He said picking up the phone and reading the text.

“......Huh…..Typical….” He smiled as he shook his head slightly back and forth.

You gave him a raised eyebrow look, asking a silent question.

“Well….it seems Anakin and Ahsoka are so late that they would rather we catch up for dinner instead….” He chuckled as he put the phone down. “Why am I not surprised?” He said looking back at you.

You looked at your watch. Wait….what? Dinner?! How late was it? You looked out the window. When had it stopped raining? How enchanted by this stranger were you? You needed to move along before you bored him to death.

Brushing your hair behind your hair, you stood up. “Well I should probably get going, I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

Standing, he gave you another one of his infectious smiles. “It was a pleasure. I enjoyed your company very much. It was lovely to meet you Y/N.” He stuck out his hand once again for a handshake.

Smiling, you shook his hand. “It was lovely meeting you too Ben.”

As you turned and headed for the door you couldn’t help the sinking feeling in your stomach that you could possibly never see this charming and interesting stranger again. Before you had any idea of what you were actually doing, you stopped. Running with the surge of courage you had before you thought too much about it. Turning on your heel, you casually looked at him.

“Maybe you could lend me your umbrella again sometime?”

His glazed eyes that had been watching you walk away cleared as he blinked rapidly at you, taking your words in. The thoughts he had been lost in would never become a reality.

“I would like that very much.” He gave you that smile again.

You tilted your head to the side, giving him a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if it’s supposed to rain again tomorrow?”

The glee in his blue eyes was unmistakable as he understood your hidden question. “...You know, I believe it is….Around 3, actually I think the forecast said…”

“ 3’oclock huh…..well…..I may just have to bring my broken umbrella to get a coffee in hopes that a kind stranger helps me out again.”

“....Hmmmm that does sound like a twist of fate….perhaps I’ll have to stop in for a coffee myself after school, see if anyone needs help with their umbrellas…”

With a polite head nod, you slowly backed towards the door. “Enjoy the rest of your evening Ben.”

He raised his coffee towards you. “You as well Y/N.”

As you walked down the bustling sidewalk, the sunshine was now shining across your face, drying your damp clothing. You sighed happily as you replayed your afternoon with Ben. You really liked him. I mean, what wasn’t there to like? He was kind, polite, funny, charming…..and not to mention beautiful…...a twist of fate indeed.

Waiting till tomorrow at 3 would be practically impossible, but the prospect of seeing Ben again would make it all worth it.

#obi wan x you #obi wan kenobi #obi wan x reader #obi wan #obi wan kenobi #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan fic

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inikavulpixelreviews · 4 years

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Let’s Talk About Pokemon - Gen 8 Retrospective

This Generational recap itself might be a bit on the shorter side, since I already said my peace on the games themselves and their less than stellar impact on the fandom before I even started them. (Not that there isn’t a lot I’m talking about here today though, hoo boy.) Though just know between a repeat playthrough and my opinion on the Pokemon dropping as I've analyzed them more, I'd say my final verdict is that they're a decent enough swan song to the way Pokemon games used to be that made Gym battles feel special again but lacked in a lot of other areas. 6/10 overall.

Though obviously Gen 8 isn't done yet. Since DLC is on the way, as I've said several times already. My general thoughts on the concept of Pokemon DLC replacing the traditional “Third Version” is good. For one thing I'd much rather pay $30 for access to new content immediately over paying another $60 for a “Pokemon Armor” version that had most of its new content back-loaded in the postgame. $30 is still steep... but it's better. And of course, the prospect of releasing more new Pokemon via DLC is a good one too. Hopefully releasing DLC rather than a full game every year will relinquish some of the workload off Gamefreak... so perhaps we can get smaller batches of new Pokemon released mid-generation to help mitigate just how many Pokemon felt like they didn't get finished in time. But also hopefully it'll mean Gen 9 will be all the better when we get there... Gamefreak has stated they're really challenging themselves with the next major Pokemon games so hopefully they're taking the more level-headed criticism to heart and it's not all talk but we'll have to see.

Yeah, that's about all I have to say about the state of Pokemon as of right now, neverminding my multiple rants and tangents since I've already gone to great lengths to state that Gen 8 isn't as good as I might've initially thought. I still like it overall, and it's probably still not my least favorite Gen... but it's very much like Gen 4 with an EXTREMELY mixed bag. Certainly felt like for every excellently designed Pokemon they had below-average flunky that feels like it should've gone back to the drawing board once or twice. But even all that aside, one of my more annoying sticking points with Gen 8 is the severe lack of new animals.

So in place of my usual ramblings on my thoughts on a generation as a whole, let's do a little Compare and Contrast. Let's look at the past few Generations and see just how noticeable this flood of species redo's is. Green checks are significantly new enough animals, Red crosses are for animal origins that have been done before, Yellow slashes for Pokemon with vague or heavily mixed taxonomic origins, and Grey circles for Pokemon that are disqualified for being Objectmon, since we've yet to get repeats of those. (Also disqualifying Gen 8's regional evos other than Obstagoon since it's not necessarily their fault that they're repeats.)

Are there arbitration in places? Probably. But I feel like the point still stands that Gen 8 was waaaaay too reliant on touching up on animals already covered in Pokemon before. Especially when there's still so many animals that have yet to get a Pokemon to their name. The one plus Gen 8 does have in this regard is that it has a few more “taxonomically vague” Pokemon than usual. But repeating animals in and of itself isn't all that bad, if you make the repeat different enough to be interesting in its own right. The one thing you could do wrong in that regard is to just make your monster notably more “normal” compared to the Pokemon it's repeating. So how does that hold up?

As much as I've established that one's a crow and the other's a raven, the two animals are still very much similar creatures. But I do feel like Murkrow and Corviknight are differentiated enough while both still being a “fantasy” creature in their own way. Murkrow is very much a gangly, cartoony crow while Corviknight covers the more majestic side of corvids.

Another one that's pretty blatant is that we now have two regions with a Ladybird as the common bug. Orbeetle does however get to be more accurate to the Ladybird life cycle, starting out with a larvae and ending with the beetle. Again, Ledian and Orbeetle are very different flavors of the same creature, Orbeetle not skimping out on any outlandish elements. In fact, it's more visibly outlandish than Ledian was.

This is where things start to get hazy. I've stated that Nickit and Thievul are sadly my least favorite fox Pokemon to date, simply because it has the least to offer imaginatively than all the other foxes that accompany it. Ninetales has the kitsune thing going on, while its Alolan variant covers Arctic Foxes. Zorua is a fantastical take on the tricky nature of foxes by combining aspects of shapeshifting kitsunes or tanookies while throwing in a bit of Kabuki. And Fennekin grows up to be more of a wizard. Thievul is very much a stereotypical red fox while having the trickster nature of foxes that's not only been done by Zorua before, but also in a much more stereotypical thieving way like a Swiper the Fox sort of thing.

Wooloo always struck me as odd ever since it turned out it wasn't the region's common Normal-type. I can excuse plainness in the common woodland animal since they're rather uniformly not terribly interesting (and arguably are like that by design). So it turns out it's more of a common early-game fodder just like Mareep is, but Mareep is just a smidge more interesting by being elemental, and also it turns into Ampharos, a weird little bipedal lamb with little flippers for some reason. Which is reasonably more imaginative than a Pokemon that's mostly just a sheep.

Sandaconda is another one that feels significantly fantastical and unique compared to its previous serpentine cousins. The only snake Pokemon beforehand that was hugely different from the template of what a snake usually is was Snivy. Sandaconda is even unique as far as cobra monsters go, with its “hood” being a big ol' sac that it keeps its projectile Anakin-repelent in.

Centiskorch is a little iffy. It's cool that they turned a real centipede's grappling maneuver and turned it into an even more effective weapon via its heat spots. But in terms of body shape it's significantly more normal looking for a centipede than Scolipede's almost horse-like proportions, isn't it?

Another iffy comparison since they're both fairly “regular” looking Octopus monsters. But even so, I'd count it as a point against Gen 8 since there's been more than plenty of time to come up with a cool and unique body type for an octopus.

That's better! Eiscue, while normal-looking if you only count the penguin body, is still a funny and imaginative take on a penguin monster that is a completely different flavor from Empoleon's stern look to boot.

Another dodgy one to justify. There's neat theming in there, but there's hardly any denying that an elephant that rolls up into a wheel and rolls around is notably a much weirder take on an elephant that Copperajah going by an elephant's body shape to a T.

Had they gone for a look more purposefully weirdly geometric like they SEEM to be going for, I probably would've given it a hand-wave, but even with that in mind, Copperajah is pretty vanilla in terms of Elephant monsters. Especially compared to Donphan.

...So even then, it's pretty mixed in that regard. Some Pokemon feel like worthwhile additions to the biodiversity, but others I can't help but wonder what the point was. Did Wooloo really need to exist in a series that already had Mareep? Couldn't they push Copperajah's concept further to better contrast with Donphan? Having repeats isn’t BAD, pretty sure every Gen past the 2nd has done them. But it’s hard to find sticking points on Gen 6 and 7′s repeats. Aurorus is totally different from Meganium. Vikavolt, while being much more close to realism in body structure compared to Pinsir, is still a vastly different fantasy creature just on account of having a gun for a face. And the whole Goomy line is almost nothing like Magcargo. And all that is WHILE still bringing in plenty of new animals to play with.

So yeah, I hope all that can help with understanding why I was a little harsh on Gen 8. It's still not my least favorite, cause we still got a ton of good out of it, and I would much rather have a mixed Gen of “Some Really Good, Some Not So Great” over Gen 2 and 4's “Some are good but the rest are really plain and boring.” But of course, as per usual, we gotta do the lists...

Top 10 Favorites of Gen 8:

Like I said, the new Pokemon that are good are REALLY good. Still struggled to make a Top 10, for good reason!

Top 10 Favorites Overall:

That said, there wasn’t a ton of impact on my Top 10. Top 50 maybe, but not here.

Bottom 10 Least Favorites of Gen 8:

Sadly there was plenty I was just plain not a fan of. Has there ever been a Gen where I just straight up dislike the whole Bottom 10? Hmm...

Bottom 10 Least Favorites Overall:

And tragically, this Gen did make a pretty deep cut into my least favorites, oof. It is an unholy image to not see Gallade be all the way to the left up there.

The Cutest:

The Coolest:

The Prettiest:

Corviknight and Eternatus aren’t just there because I ran out of traditionally pretty ones, just so you know. There’s something about a sleek, nearly all-black design that is genuinely gorgeous-looking to me.

The Spookiest:

Most Creative:

Weirdest/Most Unique:

Most Forgettable:

Most Personality:

At least there were still plenty of personality-driven designs! Look at all these adorable little charmers and smug little shits.

Most Under-Appreciated:

Best Regional Variants:

I’ve probably said it already but I am legitimately ecstatic with Regional Variation being a mainstay feature now. There is INFINITE potential with the concept and totally didn’t deserve to get ditched after a single use just in Alola. In fact I think it’d be rad if they do any more remakes they retroactively made “Sinnohan” or “Hoenn” forms of Pokemon. I thought they might’ve made some “Kantonian” forms for Pokemon in Let’s Go and redesigned a few modern Pokemon to look a bit like they were designed back in the 90s... but sadly that didn’t happen. Despite how cool it would’ve been. But Kanto is sacred ground that cannot ever be changed, I guess...

Best Ultra Beasts: (????????????????)

Best G-Maxes:

I still love the concept of G-Maxes, and we’ll probably get a few more before Gen 8 is done entirely. But it does stink that the concept in the end felt a little half-baked. Speaking of which...

Pokemon That SHOULD'VE Gotten G-Maxes:

Because G-Maxes wound up being locked to only be for Gen 1 or 8 Pokemon, with only a handful of exceptions. MAYBE they’ll stretch into other Gens in the DLC, but until then lemme just make a personal wishlist of SQUANDERED potential. Though I’ll limit myself to Pokemon that are only in the current Galardex as to not be here all day.

I’m sure if you pay attention to the Fakemon scene at all, you’ve already seen a few G-Max Dhelmises where the seaweed has grown so massive that it’s now able to possess an entire haunted ship. And they are CORRECT to make such a thing because GOD what were they thinking NOT doing that?!? It’s right there under your noses!!!

Still bummed there was never a Mega Vanilluxe... but this could easily make up for it! A towering snowing mountain of ice cream is a super cool idea for a kaiju-size ice cream monster, maybe even ditching the icicle shaped cone in favor of having it rest in a “bowl” of ice!

Like??? Hello????? Are you telling me you’re making Kaijumon over here and you’re NOT gonna make a giant mecha?????????????????

Because a giant living beehive deploying swarms upon swarms of Combee is a badass concept just by itself.

Like c’mon this one was REALLY staring you in the face. A region set in Poke-England and you’re not gonna make a funny giant Zeppelin?

Just trying to imagine a colossal haunted chandelier is giving me chills by itself. Especially if you were to make it look elaborately regal and all that.

I’ve not got a specific idea, you’d just think they’d compensate for the lack of a Mega form.

G-Max Rillaboom has me feeling like this one’s likely to not happen, since I imagined a cool idea for a G-Max Trevenant was to make it a giant Deku-Tree looking haunted tree with a colossal trunk and even bigger canopy.

I guess Butterfree already had the spot taken for “Mothra stand-in”, but I feel like Frosmoth has just as much cool potential for a G-Max form as Butterfree did. Especially with the powdery snow scales it has.

Perfect opportunity to give Goodra a giant, more monstrous slug-like form. But no dice there either. Maybe next form gimmick...

Okay, C’MON. We KNOW they weren’t that bothered about giving G-Max forms out to Pokemon that already had Megas. This is the most obvious one of all! ESPECIALLY since its defacto-Mecha Godzilla got a G-Max but it didn’t.

Most “Unfinished” Feeling:

Since “least favorite” doesn't necessarily meant “unfinished.” (As much as I dislike Toxel, it doesn't really strike me as “not done.”) Not that I have clairvoyance on Gamefreak's internal workings, but some of these Pokemon definitely feel like they're not up to scratch with the series's usual quality standard.

My Disappointment is Immeasurable and My Day is Ruined:

To pick on Gen 8 one last time... and since it was a running gag anyway, here's the Pokemon that just crush my dreams the most. Except Appletun, mostly. It's good enough to be let off the hook. The rest? They were things that were on my wishlist of things and animals I would've LOVED to see get turned into Pokemon, only for my hopes and dreams to sink faster than the Titanic. Considering a majority of concepts within Pokemon don't come back, if not for a very long time, these Pokemon mean that I have to reluctantly strike a cake monster, a snowman, a coal monster, a train monster, a sea urchin, a pie monster, and some fresh Lapras attention off my wishlist. Sigh.

With two rounds of DLC coming, the main Pokemon review series probably won't be back until the tail end of this year shortly after Crowned Tundra is released. I am excited to get to talk about some of what they've shown so far, but I'd rather wait until the content is released and we know everything about the new Pokemon and Regionals. There will however be at least one more little bonus article about Gen 8 and the future of the series, but I wouldn't expect it to be out for a while. Before the DLC is out probably, but still a long ways off.

[Archive]

#Pokemon #Gen 8 #Sword and Shield #Pokemon Sword and Shield #Pokemon Reviews

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el-im · 6 years

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Intentions are oftener vague than not, and mostly cannot be extracted from a body of work without error. Within analyzation of anything comes extrapolation, which is an inaccurate form of projection. Personal error arises from clouded judgement that is onset by experience and application of memory, and thus I provide this document in a strive for clarity. Notes accompany 25-30% of suicides, which, to one so enamored with words, seems an awfully low percent. I cannot imagine departing without an “Adieu, adieu, parting is such a sweet sorrow--” (though perhaps, more fittingly for myself, an “Adieu! Auf wiedersehen. Gesundheit. Farewell.” would be appropriate). Nevertheless. I was raised alongside a stretching literature: a growing stack of books read without discrimination to something so limiting as topic or author or, later, language (mi copia de obras completas de oscar wilde es mi posesión más preciada) that never towered above me. I believe in language more than I have any person, and stories as more necessary sustenance than light or sound or vision. I am inexplicably bound to books, and perhaps such, alongside possible dissipation of guilt felt by those I leave in departing, is the reason for my drafting this. To whom it may concern: might you forgive the disorganization, there are no templates on earth to follow.

I am young at my time of writing this, as youth is variable, it is impossible, when within it, to see beyond. The extent of my person is bounded by linoleum flooring in hallways and eventual promises of becoming new by incorporeal entities. I often think of the person I could become. I imagine someone so vastly removed from that which I currently am that there exists little room for transition. I am as concrete as my conception of an eventual self, and one cannot be melded into the shadow of another. I see adulthood now as I do most art, as out of touch and improbable. But still there are glimpses through the holes created in time by our minds. People so often forget that heads are tools for boring, and all of time is malleable. I imagine now not glory as I once did. Not fame or riches. I see simplicity in the domestic, which above all speaks of a separate peace. But still I know that time, too, is fogged by projection, and am not swayed by my hopes.

If ever I should find within myself the courage and ability (as the action that so stirs such a document is truly a complete mixture of both) to print this:

Know at times that I was sorry.

I know that my actions may not be mended by time nor words nor consolations in the form of flowers or casseroles or anything else of the sort. That said, many, (a number so large I cannot possibly be expected to type out) will be completely unaffected by this action. People that I will never know will continue aimlessly on with their day, thinking, for a brief moment perhaps, in that time or in the time to come, that someone was missing from their lives that should have been there. A door not opened. A gift not received. These will be the objects of their missing perceptions, and to them I must apologize as well. I find myself often thinking about a future I could have. Being alone someplace new. Not being alone someplace new. It seems so distant: much so the details can’t be properly worked out, and I never really thought much of glimpses into later days anyway. Maybe something could have worked out. Maybe not. Probably not. This version of me is too broken to carry on into anything worthwhile.

That’s kind of the whole basis of this thing. I took the mirror out of my room the other day upon becoming so suddenly sick of the person I am. Of seeing her body angled and contorted like a specimen at a horror show encased in glass. It’s easier being in there now, but the absence of glass doesn’t really do much for still having to wake up in this body every day. I wish I was different. I wish all the notions people have of who I am were different.

To many others such departing is a cracked bottle upon the wood of a ship: received with unparalleled joy and relief. To those that so feel this way: me too. (I remember mom telling me about an article she had read about a man who woke up from a years-long coma, having been conscious the entire time, and who had consequently heard his mother say that she wished he would just die. It's like that. Everyone was expecting it, and holding on just makes for a shitshow.)

Despite the effort put into consolation, I hope it is also known that this decision was not one hastily made. It has been a dwelling consideration since fourth grade, and reached its suggestive fruition in Sophomore year of high school. Afore that however, it existed always as an abstract possibility. My mind would wander aimlessly, when unoccupied, to all the ways I could kill myself (if necessary) given the items with me in the room I was sitting in. This game was especially exciting in Leslie Ringler’s first period geometry class in 8th grade at Tempe Academy. I play this game still, and wonder when I may put my creative processes of the previous years into practice. (It’s always been like this. The earliest memories I have are transcribed in a journal I lost somewhere. I remember sitting on a parking block outside of a dirty convenience store waiting for someone to fill a gas tank or return from the bathroom or come out with a bag of plastic-wrapped sweets for the rest of the drive. It was hot. It was always hot, and my hair, still light then, was pushing into my eyes. I remember not quite feeling anything, and being confused about the lack of anything in me. I wasn’t excited for the trip. It was as though the entire world had turned sour and it made my head pound and ache. We carried on driving, and as I looked out the windows, I was shocked about the absence of any wonder in me. It was cold that night.)

I read somewhere that depression is like watching paint dry, and never before has a statement made more sense. I’m full of nothingness. I have no motivation or concern. No governing principles and no subscription to reason.

I hope it is also known that there are (there are there are there are) times now where sorrow for what is to come is nonexistent, those times increasing in frequency and magnitude, being consuming in their presence. I want it to be known that I am angry. (I was angry? Huh.) I shake with an unnameable rage I have no outlet for; that no amount of any substance known to man may satiate or saturate. That no amount of slitting my wrists open (and following with a swab covered in neosporin to clean, as infections raise questions as to why open wounds were ever really present in the first place, and I’d rather simply Not have that conversation.) Anyway. The matter is that nothing can really do much for me at this point, so I’ve given up looking for solutions. Nothing alleviates the grief that’s taken up residence in my body, and seems to drag me along as though I’m already dead weight.

Frank Iero wrote “You can’t cure me/Drugs can’t kill me/Love won’t save me from myself.” the last part is a bit reminiscent of some Anakin Skywalker quote, but who cares. Its seeming more true than ever now. The solution to all my problems is either death–as brought on by myself, a very convenient accident, or medication. Medication. Medication that does nothing more than dull out what’s already gray. I’ve seen it in action and there’s not a way on earth I’d ever subscribe myself to become the drugged out shell of a person that I’ve seen meandering in family gatherings, holding close to the wall as though to define the boundary of space, because the walls would cave in and the world would be swallowed into darkness if they didn't. Medication. A fancy word for pumping people so full of pills they burst at the seams and deflate in areas barely protruding before. Medication. That is in no way better than whatever I’m in now. Therapy maybe, but if people ever listened to me, perhaps this wouldn’t be a problem in the first place.

I often forget that all my daydreaming about growing up and getting better exists as a result. A product of a prerequisite of my being treated. I forget that leaving the house I am gradually becoming entombed in will not solve the crises I experience (and refuse to contemplate the possibility of such a transition somehow making me worse.) I forget that, under all my moods, lying still as a flowing artery, the distractions from numbness is an omnipresent layer of distress and disarray. I forget that I am followed by a black eel with sharp teeth and a taste for sickness that is becoming more difficult to resist feeding until it becomes more difficult to satisfy. I forget that the bottom of my heart is a chasm, which has been filled with a thick and harrowing sense of discomfort. An unsettling black water that lurches and churns with every step forward and three steps back. I forget, at the end of each sunset and managed calamity, I will still turn to a noose rather than a pillow to cradle my neck. I so often forget that killing myself is never an option off the table, but gleams in the corner of my mind like an EXIT sign, and hate the knowledge that the prospect of getting better only pushed me toward it.

Know that I wish this was easier. Know that this isn’t about any of you, and if I had the chance, I’d kill myself without anyone having known I was ever here. I aim not to hurt anyone else, and know that anything I do will be detrimental anyway. What's worse, dying young, as the good, or watching the good meld into pathetic repose? Wasting away as does any once great mind, into average mediocrity and fading without a bang, but a whimper. (The Hollow Men - T.S. Eliot.) My apologies, though genuine, are not strong enough to be deterrents, I know this document will be printed eventually, that I’ll kill myself and remain young in the memory of those who didn’t particularly like me that much, anyway. The how is the tricky part. I am sorry more than much else that people will have to remember me when I’m gone, though know not to whom I am necessarily apologizing to. I wish for ease. For everything to end neatly. To hell with contemplation.

It is haunting to feel nothing so vehemently that the negative space within you creates a heartbeat of its own. This blackness has overturned every stone I have ever corrected, steady hands pulling at each thread I have woven together and crossed. I have watched, tired eyes in hollow sockets tracing its undoings, with every instinct within me pushing to rebel and correct. But my limbs are too weary to carry my form forward, and my bidding becomes nothing more than an instruction shouted to an empty hall. Slumped, a corpse watches itself burn.

I have grown too tired for this life.

Tiana: You know more of me than anyone, especially myself. You are the bravest person I have had the chance to meet, and I know you will continue to be such in the absence of myself or any other. I give you no advice, for I know you do not need it. I have seen you persist through the worst of times, and flourish in the best. I know that you bring with you a sagacity that no other possesses, much less employs.

Know, if not anything else, that there is a reason you collect rocks. I love you, but such goes without saying.

Nick: You once told me that you thought about death a lot as a kid. I did too. I used to imagine a sort of blackness. I imagined not being able to move or breathe or see or think and the longer I contemplated that the harder it would become to breathe and think and see until my vision turned as black as my thoughts and a wall would collapse somewhere within me and I would cry. I don’t think of it anymore. I can feel it now, the thought of such blackness, creeping upward toward the light to swallow it whole. I blink it back now. Force it down and shake it off. I can block it now, but it persists, as all evils, nonetheless; without much thought to resilience. Evils, Nick, I think are really just built that way, and perhaps we cannot hold it against them. I suppose it can’t be that bad if you’re not really conscious.

But who’s to say you won’t be, right?

These thoughts came to me at night. It always took long for me to fall asleep, and night seemed the only time where my mind could wander without a particular end in sight. Because I wasn’t contemplating a PACE problem or working through an English assignment, my mind would turn to depths I hadn’t previously the ability to see out of mere boredom, and I was powerless to its advances. All the menial. The dull and tedious kept me at bay. I am grateful for them now, in a sense I hadn't the capacity for then.

In hindsight, which I find is seldom far from 20/20, I believe that such wandering of the mind was due to sensory deprivation. I had nothing to look at aside from a barely lit popcorn ceiling, which seemed to twist and shift in the dark, contorting into the moving hooves of war horses or faces of generals who have long since been faded by sand and the constance of time. I had nothing to hear or listen to and nothing to touch aside from old sheets that felt like nothing in my hands, which were, then, still very young. So I filled in the gaps, and was far too smart to do so with any light.

I wandered too far one night, when I was still living with my dad, before his last two manic episodes in close enough memory to grasp. I laid in the twin size bed that Tiana and I used to share, the safety railing ironically erect in the dark, white wood bright as a beacon in the night. It had not yet broken off due to my age and tendency to roll onto the concrete floor. I was restless then, and am restless still, even in sleep. My head was near the window, which was so thin paned it fogged in the winters. One of my hands pressed next to the railing as though such contact might ground me. The dust filtered through blinds where the streetlight next to my room shone through the cracks, which never closed. I slept with my door open back then.

It wandered, my mind, and landed ultimately where it always did.

I peeked into that darkness, knowing not, standing within it, that I was so near an edge, which stared back at my eyes, then so lighted with curiosity they may have shone. I wandered though it, imagining what it would be like: not to feel.

These were the days of my youth that death seemed a plague: omnipresent and no better for it. These were the days that my nightmares were comprised of my parents: me standing at the edge of their open graves, white, polished shoes gleaming under the caking mud about their soles. These were the days that I woke in a start: sitting up as to distance my head from its previous position on its embroidered pillow, the pale roses I slept on seeming mocking. I dreamed of them each dying, leaving me all alone, and woke each morning thinking of what I would do then. How connected I was. How considerate. I wandered further and further into the extending blackness and Not the Blackness and the Absence of all things and its neverending until I began to cry.

My dad spent his Sunday nights watching TV, the blue light and hum of old comedy shows spilling careless light and sound into my room. He had spent the day washing dishes, as he always did, with a worn towel thrown over his shoulder as he let the water run circles down the drain. He came into my room with a quiet haste, knowing something was wrong but understanding children well enough to know that bursting in is often less appropriate than not. He told me that we would always exist, even after death, in people’s dreams. (I later learned the term oneirology to describe his poetic, vaguely Mystery Achievement-sounding waxings.) He told me he dreamed of his father all the time, so he could never truly be dead. I suppose that must have given me some comfort then, for I eventually stopped my shaking and crying and went to sleep.

I later learned that his father was, scientifically speaking, a shit-bag who hit his mother and abandoned his family to live in Iran, so I suppose that that comfort was kind of bullshit.

I slept with the door closed after that, and my room became darker. The sound of the DirectTV commercials didn’t float into my room with previous ease and the light from the kitchen could no longer be seen. Since then I have felt the encroaching darkness of those thoughts and forced them out of my mind with nothing more than my will. I only wish not to think of them, but they creep in the shadows, existing whether or not they are thought of.

I hope that those were not what your thoughts on death were like. I hope that’s what no ones are like.

Being that I also, occasionally, grew up around Buddhism, reincarnation became a subject of my thoughts as I grew old enough to understand it.

I hope you might know that the only aspect of my person that I regard with even the faintest tolerance is the consequence of my time of birth. I regard so many components of myself with a sullen distaste--quite the same as someone recently having bitten into a too-soft blueberry after having burst so many perfectly lovely ones between their teeth. I imagine, if perhaps distanced, in the low light of social interaction, I could be thought of as intriguing for my sadness (instead of desperate); interest in place of suggestion. Spring is a time of rot and death and rebirth. “I died, and was born in the spring. I found you, and loved you, again”.

When I was younger and had no history to my being aside from that which was thrust upon me by chance, I found myself often enamored with the thought of time that preceded my being on this earth as this person. Our mother often told me of my name and how it came to be. When she was pregnant with me, she lived in a small house in the middle of a dead end street with a man she hadn’t any intention of marrying. One day when it appeared as though she had swallowed a planet, and very well may have, she caught the faintest cream colored roses in bloom. Rose came to mind. Dirt colored eyes and rose tinted cheeks. The faintest white fading into brown rot in the sun. Adya Rose. Sunday Rose. Rose Rose Rose.

I thought of life after death as another possibility of events, but in no way necessarily believed it. I remember writing, as a kid, in one of the countless diaries I kept, that I imagined you being the only one at my funeral to cry. I imagined mom and Mia being off somewhere else busying themselves with something to keep their hands occupied or talking lightly about what a good student I was. I now see the falsity in this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t sometimes look at you and have that be the only thing I see.

I am sorry to you perhaps most of all. I’m sorry for all you’ve endured and all I could not have helped you with. I am sorry about your broken heart that you carry concealed under your great big coats (that I used to find such great joy in hiding in) as to not reveal its cracked state. I am sorry that you have lived through so much and will be aged so greatly by everything to come. I am sorry a million and one times.

I am eternally indebted to you for all you have done for me and I am impossibly thankful for your constant care. (I am reminded of when we were alone at El Parque. I didn’t have a room of my own to sleep in and mom would so often wake me when the morning sky was still dark as she shuffled out the door on her way to work. You would come check on me then, sleeping alone in a great big bed I would never fill to make sure that I was doing alright. You would so often come sit with me while I was reading at night--Magic Tree House books then--departing quickly from your friends to ask if I needed anything, never leaving me alone, even when I perhaps deserved it.) I am thankful that you made me feel cool when I hadn’t a friend to speak of. I am thankful that you were so selfless when you had every reason in the world to be distant; and thankful that you have continually made an effort to bring me peace. I am thankful for every movie you ever rented at Blockbuster, that you had to pause to hear all my questions about. I am thankful for your patience and have thus far not forgotten a single instance where it was present. You shaped my interests for such a great portion of my life by introducing me to solace, and for that, there are not words in any language to show gratitude.

You introduced me to stand up comedy. Despite your influence, our tastes remain varied, with the exception of Robin Williams–whom we both love. I believe my appreciation for him was borne of Mrs. Doubtfire, which you introduced to me and proceeded to have to watch every day since, rewinding a VHS tape for me when I was done. But regardless of taste, I found within its bounds the ability to laugh like I hadn’t in years, the practice seeming vaguely alien--a foreign body in a dark state. You made me happy. With artificial flavoring and your renditions of Chamillionare songs. With movies and books and stories. For that I am thankful, and for that I can hardly articulate my regret for this. You are distant and cold when you are sad, and I hope this is not an excuse for you to fold back into yourself. I love you. You have a rich and full life ahead of you that brims with whatever joys you choose to fill it with.

There are days that I look at you and only see the sun. It sets on a tall grass field in the summer, with lazing mosquitoes buzzing thick and heavy in the still air, filled so much with blood they might burst. They are engorged, much as you are, but in leathery richness of red rather than memory. You exist alongside the greatest pieces of time to come, and you create a happiness that cannot be compared to anything else. Nothing like it, not now, exists. You must create it. You smell of sweat and dirt and your hair is long enough to press under your collar. A little overgrown, like the grass. A small, plump hand, like yours when you were that age, but perhaps a little different, too, will pull you further toward the setting sun.

A secret? My dear Nicolas? You will be a better dad than either of us can dream of. (I am taking my time / Watching the / Afterbirth of a nation / Watching the tension grow). You were built for making something new and wonderful and revolutionary, and your hands are those which pitch stones that build the foundation of home. I am already sorry I can’t meet them, and I hope they’ll keep your eyes.

Mia: Hello. I believe it is not without reason to say that we have grown closer in the last few years. Afore that, you were often so busy with working or law school or waitressing or traveling that you spent little time at home. Seeing you was a reward long awaited, and not often received. You have been here more recently now, and even with a job that keeps you far for long, I see you with far more frequency than I previously did, and for that I am grateful. I hope you know that I appreciate you teaching me how to drive. My hands still shake and I’m still too nervous a wreck to do much, but the first day I ever sat in your car and made slow loops around a church parking lot, I was happy for the first time in a very long time. It felt as though I finally had control over some aspect of my life. It was freeing and powerful and made me want to Get The Hell Out Of Here all the more. You have taught me much more than that which may be measured in miles. You know that, I’m sure.

I don’t believe I understood your looking out for me until this year. Max visited, for the first time in six months. He was taller and his hair was darker from the lack of sun. His freckles had, for the most part, retracted into his skin, leaving only faint marks that they had ever been littered across the bridge of his nose. He stood in front of me much like a stranger does, and I found myself speaking to him with a removed sort of nonchalance that I can only explain through means of distance. And yet. (“Frail? Sure. Vulnerable? And yet… My favorite words, ‘and yet’.”) I know now, being separated as I am, that there isn’t a single thing in the world I wouldn’t do for him. He is to me as I am to you. In need of protection. I will sacrifice all for him without thought. When I was young, I used to imagine two people I loved standing atop thin pillars of stone, hundreds of feet above glowing magma, their faces distorted in the reflecting brightness. Sometimes they were you and Nick. Sometimes my mom and dad. I imagined being tasked to pick between them. To send the other to their death. Some years later I found the way out would be my own sacrifice, but for Max there is no question.

I think perhaps this is the dedication you might view me in. I am entirely undeserving of it, but understand it nonetheless. I believe that you are the most headstrong person I know. I believe that you love without much condition so intensely that it nearly burns. I know you have a blossoming life in front of you. That the sun will rise each day despite your troubles and you will set the world back into its axis. You will be the greatest mother the world has ever known, and of the freaky-strong, lift-a-car-type women that make Florida headlines. You are an unstoppable and will move each inch of the world if it stands in your way. I hope more than anything that you continue with your art. In the past few years, you have made more time for it than you have before, and you have grown into a newly invigorated person because of it. I am elated to see you so happy. Know that you are loved, entirely and without reserve, by so many and so much. You have moved mountains in your past hundred lives and this case is no different. I give you your rope, so go.

Max: Hello starshine. How I hope you know the sun rises to greet you. I know you are far wiser than me and thus require very little on my part. Knowing you has been the greatest kindness that chance has allowed me in this lifetime. My copies of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are set out in the bottom drawer of my dresser for you, alongside an old film camera once belonging to my grandpa that I hope you might like.

When you and I were both younger than we are now, I read The Hobbit to you when no one else was awake to put you to sleep. You, perhaps, were the push that lead to my staying up at night. I am grateful for it, as no stars but yourself are visible in the day. I don’t believe we ever made it past fifteen pages, and after the time it took to come so far I’d carry you back to your room. I don’t think I could anymore, but you’ve grown far too old for falling asleep in odd places anyhow. I mentioned the story to you the last time I saw you in person. You told me that you’d hear me reading it from across the country, and I hope you did.

The camera was a gift from my grandmother. Her husband took it when they went together on trips on his motorcycle. I never knew him, but he wrote a story about his life that I’m sure my mom will let you read if you tell her you’re interested. He was a wonderful man, as you too will one day be, with the same good natured face that you have. He took hundreds of pictures on that camera, and was happy every time he clicked the shutter. I hope that happiness extends to you, and that it might allow you to capture your view of the world; which is unlike any other I have yet to know. Little prince from who knows where: I hope you save the bees you find in pools like I taught you, and no matter where you go, take a pair or two of wool socks, which will keep you warm no matter how weathered they might become.

Fin I conclude knowing I am destined to fade as all else. As all does and will for all of earth and its surroundings. For explanation, if searching for it is necessary: I feel as though I am beyond help--like I've become so horridly dissolved into my fantasies about the future that I have completely lost the ability to hold onto anything real. I have no hope for growing older--no sense that I really ever will. It is a little like drowning, like having sat for too long at the bottom of a swimming pool that coming up for air seems foolish to pursue if one wishes to retain the faintest heir of dignity about them. Like the surface is too far a climb anyway; an unbreakable glass ceiling. Finally, This was never the person I imagined I’d grow into, and every bit of resentment I feel toward myself is reflected in the aluminum of each passed mirror. I’d give everything to be someone else, but know I possess nothing of sufficient value to make the exchange.

It feels as though my heart is still sinking, despite eventual ascension. There is something inside me that says, “Not yet”. Still, it becomes harder to gasp for air, as I have none the reason to.

I hear, sometimes, the light. “So shines a good deed...” but I am the weary world it speaks of. The air settles around it as it lays its head on its arm.

So as far as wishes may go, for one as dead as I: 1. Tell my cat I love him, and give him an extra treat for me, especially when he does not deserve it. Cats are far more clever than anyone else, and I understand him to be knowledgeable of my parting before any other. This, I think, is why he sits so close to me as I work. He is to soon fill space. 2. Do what you will with my words. They are the only gift I can truly bestow, and they litter about me like debris. They are no more mine now than anyone else's. 3. Don’t forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted

Cheerily,

Adya

#my writing

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