because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.
you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.
you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.
don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.
if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.
you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:
how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!
aren't you happy yet?
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Apparently, my decision to be silly and make fanart of someone's writing (because I genuinely enjoy the story the person is writing and I was struck with inspiration upon reading a particular scene) has benevolent and wildly unforeseen consequences.
I apparently gained a bit of control of the canon because said writer really loved the art and decided what I drew/draw is canon.
2. Writer put said artwork into the document of his story right below the scene, so now it's IN the story where people who read the story will see it (with a link to me)
3. He sent the artwork to all his friends and people he knows because he was so excited
Wholesome interaction and I watched him do all that in real time, good stuff. However...there are two more consequences I was notified of today...nearly a full week after I gave the artwork.
Seeing the artwork caused his friends to become interested in reading and hearing about his story, which means more people are reading what he's writing and giving him critique on the story (which he actively asks for).
Apparently, upon seeing the art, his writer friends got a sudden second wind to pick back up writing they'd abandoned for a few months. Because, I quote, "seeing that someone enjoyed {his} writing enough to take the time to make art of it gave them the motivation that maybe THEY can write something that will inspire someone to also create something." I have accidentally caused a writing frenzy among his writer friends and my silly idea to make art for someone has had a butterfly effect for people who I don't even know.
Uhh...I'm pretty sure there's a moral here but I am tired and have a great deal of emotions about this.
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“i’m going to marry you someday,” james says, running his fingers through regulus’s curls. regulus smiles, his ear pressed to james’s heart.
“yeah?” he asks. “when?”
“as soon as you graduate.” james’s heartbeat stays steady, like this is a regular conversation on a regular night.
“yeah?” regulus asks, glancing up, meeting james’s eyes. his eyes are gray like a storm, and they’re so, so beautiful. “how?”
james smiles. “in the fields behind my parents’ house,” he says. “in summer. we’ll have everybody there — sirius and moony and peter and the girls, and all your friends, too. it’ll be perfect.”
regulus settles his head on james’s chest again. “you have this all planned out, don’t you?” he asks. james stares up at the sky, searching and finally locating regulus’s star. his star.
“of course i do,” he says. i love you, he almost says, but he leaves that for another night.
~
“i’m going to marry you someday,” james says, pulling regulus closer. his laugh lights up james’s world.
“tell me about it,” regulus says, intertwining their fingers.
“we’ll dance like this,” james says, placing his hand on regulus’s waist. “all night. with everybody, all our friends. and we won’t get tired.”
regulus laughs again. his eyes are closed, and he’s pressed his cheek to james’s chest. “how will we manage that?” he asks.
james thinks for a moment, still swaying them back and forth across the floor of the astronomy tower. he’s never been good at multitasking.
“potions,” james decides. “and firewhiskey, probably.”
“mm,” regulus hums. “i won’t drink any.”
“no?”
“no.” he pulls back, opening his eyes, and smiles up at james, gray eyes twinkling. “i want to remember every second of it.”
~
“i’m going to marry you someday,” james whispers, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks. “and then i’ll get you out of here.”
regulus gives him a weak smile and scoots closer, turning around and pressing his back to james’s chest.
“tell me where we’ll go,” he says quietly. “when we run away.”
james swallows thickly, glances down at the mark on regulus’s forearm.
“away,” he says. “where they can’t hurt us.”
where i’m free, he doesn’t say, from you.
~
“i wish i was a coward,” james says, his eyes fixed on the sky. on that star — not his, after all. he looks away, but it doesn’t matter. tears cloud his vision. “i wish i didn’t have to run away from you.”
there’s no response. he’s not surprised. there’s nothing for the headstone to say anyway. james bites back a sob, wiping the tears away just in time for more to appear.
“i wish i didn’t have to run away,” he says, setting the ring down in the grass, “but i’m not sorry i left.”
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And as she wept before the grave, the first buds of the Woundtree stretched out around her and formed a bower to shelter her from the falling rain.
It’s tragic, it’s compelling. People understand it, they sympathise with it. It keeps us safe.
I hate her, quite a lot.
Everyone go listen to @thesiltverses NOW. i love Paige so much its not even funny
[ID: fanart of Paige Duplass from the Silt Verses kneeling with tree roots growing from her skin. Paige is a thin white woman with long, straight brown hair and brown eyes. She is nude with her hands twisted in the air above her head. Roots protrude from her flesh, tangling and twisting around her. White crocus flowers bloom from her mouth and one of her eyes, and the flowers frame her silhouette. She looks towards the camera with one anguished eye, a bloody tear gouged into the skin underneath. Where the roots touch her skin, her flesh is marked by deep, bloody wounds. End ID]
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