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panopticonsys · 6 months

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when a joke takes a while to hit call that a jestational period

#stream of consciousness #1k

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ms-scarletwings · 10 days

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I always loved this specific expression of his for no particular reason it’s just so effing funny

It’s the most little cartoon guy face. Everything and nothing is going on in that head at the same time.

#iz #invader zim #zimage #stream of consciousness

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comatosebunny09 · 5 months

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Astarion’s the ex-boyfriend who reluctantly let you go because he felt like he wasn’t good enough.

He’s the ex who took some time away to mature before he could face you and your companions again.

It was nothing you did—Gods, you were perfect. He just wasn’t ready for what a genuine relationship entailed. For what it cost.

When Withers reunites you, you secretly hope to mend things—and, secretly, so do your friends.

Your conversation is seamless as if you hadn’t spent all these months avoiding one another like a sickness.

He smiles more. Your laughter’s lighter now. He’s no less beautiful than he was six months ago. His touch still makes your skin prickle with static electricity despite its harmlessness. Still makes your heart stutter, and those dragonflies stir in your belly, and you’re a nervous little wreck, aren’t you?

You part ways with see you laters as opposed to goodbyes because the latter would imply you’re done for good. But fate has a tricky way of meddling with your lives and bringing you back together like driftwood returned to the shoreline.

Eventually, you become acquaintances, running into each other by happenstance throughout Baldur’s Gate.

Bumping hands whilst reaching for a book in the library. Encountering each other at the night market, exchanging familiar smiles and nods—Gods, darling, you’re still as terrible at scoping out a good deal as ever, he jests with that customary waggle of his hand.

Then, you become friends again. Close friends. And eventually, he becomes a constant in your life once more, showing up to your home each night with the promise of wine and juicy gossip—it’s all just a ruse to see you.

Though your breaths hitch in tandem each night you find him seated close to you on your settee—your thighs brush together, your pinkies graze, and his lips “accidentally” touch your cheek—you don’t want to ruin things. Don’t want to dredge up those old feelings. Fester those old wounds because, of course, you still pine for one another.

But you don’t want to muck up your rekindled friendship by once again rushing into something he may still not be ready for.

So you settle for breaking your own heart each night, smiling like a drunken, enamored fool while he rests his head in your lap. And you twirl his pretty little curls about your fingers, watching his lashes flutter, and his cheeks redden with your blood—you still offer it to him from time to time. That’s what friends do, right?

And though your lips twitch with a question, with that urge to ask what happened to us—with a need to lean down and kiss him—you stomp down those impulses.

You’re content with sitting with him like this, watching a smile round his lips and his chest quake with a fond chuckle because maybe he’s still as much taken by you as you’ve always been by him.

And maybe it’s just you being wishful. Maybe it’s the candlelight playing tricks on your eyes. Perhaps it’s the wine warming in your veins, making you delusional.

But you feel his hand at your nape, slowly drawing you closer. And the world around fades into a beautiful bokeh when your lips meet, and your neck hurts from the angle, and maybe your lips are a little chapped and unrehearsed after all this time, but…

Well, it’s every bit of perfect. Just like you remembered it.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fluff #astarion #stream of consciousness #lovers to strangers #strangers to friends #friends to lovers #idk i’m on my period and in my feelings tonight #and i watched the epilogue after breaking up with him and like #there’s hope there #also inspired by my kindle series

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lucidloving · 25 days

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I learned how to be quiet about pain when I was very young. I learned how to fold in on myself like laundry, to take up less space in the cupboard. I learned how to keep the peace around me by sweeping the dirt under my own rug.

I have been taught that expressing my less favourable emotions is just complaining—something weak people do when they're too incompetent to solve their own problems.

Incompetent. Incompetent. This word is very important to me. Incompetent is the word I am always running from. To run from incompetency means to run from feeling dejected, feeling lost, feeling hurt. To run from incompetency is to run towards goodness. To run towards a me who knows all the answers and shoulders all the burdens and shrugs off all the pain.

Some days I am not very good at this race I am running. Days when the past lurches forward to bite my ankles, or days when the future looks back to scorn my present.

On these days I am weak. The poise slips. It's all too easy to cry a little and vent my fears. I forget that I am supposed to be keeping all of this shut away where no one else can see. I forget that I am not supposed to be dragged down by these feelings in the first place.

Today I feigned nonchalance and I feigned it well. No one noticed that I was hurt by the thing that happened, and sitting alone in all my hurt, I was bitterly gratified. I had fulfilled the proper narrative of an animal who is injured and returns to its cave to lick its wounds only in private.

But there is a desperation for the hidden pain to be noticed. This is the Achilles' Heel of the whole stealth operation; it threatens the little play I have constructed in which I suffer alone and inconvenience no one and am all the stronger for it.

Today I stood upright to talk to my mother and doubled over in pain the moment she left the room. It is satisfying, knowing I did the valiant and honourable thing of keeping the damn pain to myself. It is infuriating, the way my eyes flickered to the door in the dark and private hope that she would come back in and witness me while I was down.

I want to be strong and hide all the hard things away. I want someone to see my efforts to hide all the hard things away and realise I'm strong. I want to bring to life this character I have created who suffers without complaint and is loved when the truth is revealed. Who suffers well.

This is the person who stores up agony to a breaking point, to justify the ultimate snapping of composure. This is the person who wants to be depended on relentlessly and one-sidedly, so that someone someday might notice the unfairness of it all. This is the person who virtuously and righteously take all the hits without a sound, so that when they finally, inevitably break, their pain will come to light all at once and inspire awe and guilt in equal measure.

Who am I, really? Is it terrible to want to play this character? Perhaps some old wound craves acknowledgement and understanding and doesn't know how else to ask for it except by hiding until it festers.

Strength. Competency. Resilience. Dependability. Independence. They have all become synonyms in my black and white dictionary. They have all become straws for the drowning man.

I self-impose silence. I take pleasure in denial and secrecy. I take pride in successfully keeping a problem to myself.

Pride. That's another important word. I think I have too much of it, although it pains me when others point it out. Pride implies I think highly of myself, which is something a good person should never do. Pride is so audaciously self-absorbed, so high-and-mighty, so filthy with ego. There's probably a lot of it in this damn thing I've written.

Pride is the other thing that keeps my mouth shut. The thing that says I should be austere, untouchable, immovable. Pride is the thing that says look here, you don't have a lot going for you so you better keep this mask on right if you want to be good. If you want to be admired.

These terrible things keep me safe. I can't let go of that stupidly noble character or that cowardly pride. I need them to shield me from the reality that I am emotional, not all that put together, and honestly hopeless most of the time.

I need to have something worth liking about myself. I need to have a grit that makes me undeniably good. I need to have a strength that goes unsung, that lies in wait of discovery.

What an exhausting way to live. But it's the only way I know.

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heavenlythea · 6 months

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identity vs. I AM

identity is the opposite of harmony (going with the flow, tao, being the whole existence, the I AM). identity is like a knot on smoothness of existence.

you are either holding on to attachments and living from an identity created by your ego fighting against the world around you. or you're moving through life unconditionally in a way that is unique to you knowing that you are the whole life, the whole existence. that you are the experience itself and not just the experiencer.

wholeness and harmony lie in being the way, not just the identity of the ego. ego on its own is just a tool, just a part of this life experience. it allows you to experience your real self (= the life, existence) in 1st person pov. it's like a camera attached to one character giving you a unique experience, but you are the whole play.

ego creates its own little identities when you don't trust the God that you are, when you don't trust in the love of the world around you. identities and attachments are nothing but the results of a protective mechanism of your ego. when you revisit your attachments, identities, and fears knowing that everything is you, that you are not just this tiny individual but the breath of existence, the artificially created identities will dissolve and you'll be able to live freely though still as particular expression of God without thinking, without attaching, without defining, without conditioning, just with freedom and love.

#heavenlythea #stream of consciousness #nondualism #law of assumption

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 4 months

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thoughts on fanfiction, perfectionism, and being enough

I'm pretty sure I'm ill and half-asleep and the Good Omens fandom has destroyed my last tenuous grasp on reality, but I am making a post anyway not knowing what I'm going to say. Because that's what this site is for, is it not?

*holds out hand* *waits for you to take it* Hey, you know, you're never going to be done. You're never going to look at something you made and think it's perfect. It's never going to be enough. It's okay to stop and it let it be imperfect. The earth didn't just birth life into just the right conditions, it made creatures which evolved and went extinct, ice ages which ended, volcanos that destroyed life and volcanos that preserved cities for millennia. It made jagged rocks that would be smoothened by rivers and stomachs that would hunger, rivers that would flood and rivers that would run dry.

Create imperfect things and give them to the world. Let the world create from it in turn in an endless cycle. Like Milton on the Bible, like BBC with Sherlock Holmes, like anyone writing fanfiction of their favourite show... Let your creation be imperfect, so you can see all the million ways in which people try to perfect it. All the million ways in which perfection can exist. That's the beauty of fandoms and fanworks. It keeps the creation evolving, keeps it breathing and alive. It becomes the work of a million people, and carries their stories with it in a little back pocket.

And maybe we were made to be imperfect too. Our hair tangles just to be brushed, our arm itches just to be scratches, our hand clenches just to be held and unclenched. There are odd shapes that make us up but they fit in with everyone else's, in handshakes, in bridal carries, in a parent lifting a child, a rescue worker lifting a victim, a girl kissing her wife, a child hugging his toy, a person holding their hands in prayer or in pain.

I'm trying to remind myself of that, because it's so easy to keep wanting more, to believe that there will be a point at which I will be satisfied with what I have done. Even in this fandom, I look at my ridiculous summaries I accidentally wound up making, and look at someone's beautiful meta blog and I feel like shrinking a little bit. But in real life, I'm a designer and an artist, a reader and poet and songwriter, and someone who has been a writer the past eight years, if not all my life. Have I done enough to qualify for any of these roles? Who knows? It shouldn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to you, whatever you love doing or are doing.

It will never be enough, you will never be enough for yourself. Can we try to make peace with that little gap in ourselves that acts like a vacuum to keep sucking in more and more effort and things? It'll never be filled. That's okay.

*squeezes your hand before letting go* Isn't it amazing how imperfect and fucked up we all are? Isn't it beautiful that we don't have to sit and stare at statues we cannot touch, but we get stone that we can keep carving all we like? That creation starts with imperfection? I don't know if I'm making sense anymore, the medications are kicking in and my eyes are closing. But I love all of you, everyone who is a maggot and everyone reading this post, too.

Take this *holds out a seashell* it's pretty and it's broken and the animal that made it his home changed it, the sea changed it, and I hope you change it, too. That's all.

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lumikore · 4 months

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My Medic loadout I still don't know if he's an oc or not I guess he could be categorised as self insert oc but he's not really he's just my loadout guy but I do imagine him in my head in little scenarios mostly like stuff that would happen to me ingame and he acts like how I would but he's a little more mean and depressed like another day another dollar kinda vibe yknow so he's not me but he kind of is like he's my loadout yknow that's what other people see when they see me playing medic but also I don't 'kin' medic or anything like that if anything I think I'm most like engineer if I had to pick one Idk maybe he's a tf2-sona if that's a thing he's not exactly like me but he kind of represents me I mean he's my pfp as well on here and on Steam and on yt maybe he's like a mascot for my brand like Ronald McDonald or Chuck E Cheese but for Lumikore Tf2 Drawings And Etc Incorporated you feel me but like I also have hcs for him I guess they're canon if he's my character but anyway I think he plays the harp which well I mean I play the harp so I guess I'm projecting onto him a little bit there but it's ok like I project onto every single character I make ever it doesn't mean it's me it just means it is influenced by me which of course it's going to be if I made it and guys sorry for not using commas or full stops I can't help it this is what my thoughts sound like to me and it feels really weird and unnatural when I have to add pauses instead of just connecting all my thoughts in one sentence like how they come to me in my brain I didn't sleep very well last night btw so I'm kinda going a little crazy I slept 4 hours and then got up at midnight to eat strawberries and cherries and prosciutto and brie as stated in my other post and then tried to go back to sleep but it didn't work so I just layed awake for a bit now it's about 11:30 and I'm quite tired now thinking about it but I mustn't have a nap or my sleep cycle will get even worse and it also just occurred to me no one wants to read this and I think I got a little off topic as well but if I write a big enough wall of text peole will have no choice but to see it and think wow what is this guy on about that he needs to write so much under a little drawing post guys write Krampus in the comments if you read this far I'm also kind of sad rn about Krampus because after the event is over I'll have to wait another year before I can see my lovely wife Krampus again and she's gonna be so lonely without me like what does she do all year stay at home all alone it's sad really who's going to give her love and attention while I'm off fighting in the war (2fort) and genuinely aside from Krampus I really like the Smissmas maps especially Carrier and Galleria I don't really like Haarp it's very confusing and stressful but still I hope some of them stay throughout the year because I just know if they only come back in December then they will get hardly any players ever again cause people want to play the new maps every year and I think I should stop writing so I can go play tf2 now so I can play the event maps before they're gone so bye.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 medic #medic tf2 #tf2 fanart #tf2 medic oc #tf2 oc #stream of consciousness

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panopticonsys · 24 days

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mutuals and non mutuals alike shall know the wrath of my paws

#stream of consciousness #boop

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lurkdragonstuff · 2 months

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I'm an atheist and a philosophical materialist. I don't think there's anything more to the universe than what can be observed and measured. Disagree if you want, that's fine, but take as read that this is where I'm coming from.

As you can imagine, this makes it very strange to me that my brain thinks I'm a dragon.

I have been trying to square this circle for years. Since around the 2000's, when I first made contact with the Internet, I would look in on the otherkin community, and the draconic community nested inside it, and I would think, man. I wish I could believe that. I wish I could believe that souls were real, and that I had one, and that it was a dragon, and that's why I was so odd. For quite a while, I just explained it as a furry fandom thing. Sure, yes, my fursona is feral, but ferals are furries, too. This is still true! I'm still in furry fandom, and my dragonself still acts as my fursona. But they are also, in a deeper sense, me.

I'm a secular pagan. I don't think gods exist, and I don't think magic is literally real. I can't really cast a curse on shitty charities. The moon's a big shiny rock. It doesn't care if I roar at it when the sun reflects off it just so and I can see the whole of its tidally locked face.

But my dragon brain doesn't know that. It likes the big shiny rock. It likes little shiny rocks, too. It likes to light things on fire, and considers this a sacred act, both bringing destruction to noxious things and bringing honour to things worthy of it. It likes to growl and hiss when things annoy it. It likes to collect things, to have a hoard. It likes to range around its territory, keeping an eye on what's around in what season. It finds it frustrating that its wings don't seem to work at all, and its other limbs barely better. It wants its tail back. It wants its fire breath.

I'm autistic. Sometimes speaking is hard, and I growl and hiss when things annoy me. I like to collect things related to my special interests; I have a sprawling collection of cetacean, Nintendo, and SEGA figurines, as well as lots of little animal figures. Plushies, too, and videogames, and books. I do wildlife photography, as well, marking who's around in what seasons. This is, to my frustration, limited a lot by waning energy because of chronic health problems.

If backed into a corner, to say what I really believe, of course I'm a human. It is in my DNA, expressed in a bipedal body plan, five fingers on the forelimbs only, nails and not claws, no wings, no muzzle, no tail, short neck, skin and fur instead of scales. Not even any horns. I find this frustrating, but it is what it is. I also find it frustrating when people call me 'she' and not 'they', and that really there is no feasible gender presentation that would guarantee that strangers would use the right word. The best I can hope for is that people will read the 'they/them' button on my hat, or otherwise call me 'he'. Still wrong, but at least novel.

I honestly think my draconic identity developed when I was younger as a way to explain why I was so weird. I have never been normal. I will never be normal. As an adult, I have fancy words like "autism" and "anxiety and depression secondary to post-traumatic stress disorder" and "seasonal affective disorder" to explain why I'm abnormal.

But a part of my brain, I think the same one that still believes in magic and deities even though I don't, tilts its head, then grins a sharp grin and says, "Cool story, bro. I'm still a dragon."

I generally have, for any given of my eccentricities, the philosophical materialist explanation (generally that I am either brainweird in some way or another or am playing pretend for placebo purposes to manage executive function etc.) and the dragon explanation (generally what the pretend play revolves around). But - and this is hard to explain - it isn't exactly playing pretend, either. It's me.

When I'm pretending to be Link, either playing a Zelda game or writing Zelda fanfic, Link isn't me. I might be inhabiting him as an actor, but he isn't me. When I play Animal Crossing, and I'm playing a character named after me, that's closer. It's me but greater. Me but more. Me existing in a life I wish I could have.

When I put on my mask, when I sit and daydream about the multiverse-hopping shenanigans I get up to, when I hiss at someone startling me by getting into my space, that's me. I'm not a dragon, I'm a human wearing a mask, daydreaming, hissing because "back the fuck off!" isn't allowed in the workplace.

Yeah. Cool story, bro.

I am still a dragon.

#original posts #stream of consciousness #perhaps you can catch my vibes #so to speak #dragonkin #otherkin #secular paganism #musings #original writing #psychological otherkin

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creatingnikki · 3 months

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I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. What do you miss? I miss the way you smile, that knowing smile. I miss the way you hug me, like you can never get enough. I miss the way you kiss my cheeks, my eyes, my nose, everything so many times before you come to my lips. I miss the way you ask me to hug you tighter, bone-crushing tight, every time we hug. I miss the way you crack your absolutely silly jokes. I miss how happy you get when I laugh at them. I miss the way you get so excited to make me ramen, eggs, and any other thing we have time for. I miss the way you pull me by my legs closer to you in bed. I miss the way you kiss me, like this is what we were put on this earth to do. I miss the way you say the most insane, politically incorrect shit and wait for my reaction. I miss the way you make worse suicidal jokes than me. I miss the way you imitate me when I am trying to act mad or cutesy. I miss the way you never capitalise my name when we text. I miss the way you say my name. I miss the way you remember our first memories just as much or perhaps even more vividly than me.

I MISS YOU, YOU FUCKER.

I miss saying your name. Again and again and again. Each time with a different tone and intention that you always catch on to. I miss being sad in front of you, being real in front of you. I miss feeling the way I felt with you. I miss hearing how you feel with me. I miss the way you gave me lessons on the correct way to hold a cigarette. I miss the way you pacified me, the way you apologised so randomly and earnestly that I could forget almost about anything.

Fuck you.

With over a month of distance now, I realize how much I loved you and how scary it was. You could say and do anything and yet and yet all I would do would be to look at you so tenderly and with so much love.

I miss you.

I miss liking someone, loving someone. I miss being real with someone, I miss not hating myself with someone, I miss not hating someone for them withholding love.

Don't ever walk into my life again.

I have romanticized you and all the time shared with you a bit too much. If you were to walk back in and shatter the glass, show me all the things I have such a blindspot for, I don't think I'd be able to breathe again.

Missing you now, no matter how painful, still has a sweet sadness to it. But if I were to wake up from this day dream delusion and see you and see me and see us as an objective third-party, all I would see is a silly boy and a sillier girl and because we are not teenagers, it would not be okay. The silliness? It would be tragic. It would be bone crushing, even though our hugs could never end up being.

So I will keep missing you. I will miss you forever if I have to. But I would rather miss you and have you be a past tense than become any form of present tense in my life ever again.

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dylanisdazed · 9 days

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I was writing in my notepad at work like stream of consciousness stuff, just rambling, writing whatever

And I was gonna write “I’m pretty sure”

And I wrote “I’m pretty”

But then I got distracted by my boss and forgot about it

And then I went back to my notepad and saw

“I’m pretty”

And it made me chuckle hehe

💖🥰🌸

#dylanisdazed #dylie #lol #stream of consciousness #writing #bored #office #I’m pretty #pretty

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flllourish · 4 months

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#diary #journaling #stream of consciousness #stream of thoughts #writing #journal #studyblr #study motivation #aesthetic #notebook

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iamjackstylerdurden · 10 months

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ok but dennis’s hands shaking late at night while texting mac as johnny and he tells himself its bc the room is cold or hes stressed but its actually bc its getting more and more difficult to know where dennis ends and johnny begins. when johnnys texting mac all the things he loves about him but its really everything dennis loves about mac. and when mac texts all the things he loves about johnny its all the things he loves about dennis. because dennis made johnny just like him. he wants to be caught by mac because he cant catch himself. he knew from the start it wasnt sustainable. that wasnt the flaw in his plan, it was the climax

when he sees mac texted “gn ily” and for a second he prays mac sent it to his number and not johnnys. but he knows mac didnt bc mac already confessed and dennis said no. so macs trying to move on. when mac texts that and for a brief second dennis debates texting mac “i love u too” from his real number. he knows mac is in his bedroom. he wonders, if he did, how long it would be before he hears footsteps making their way to his door. what would be the first thing mac says as he makes eye contact with johnny for the first time

or when he sends mac to the motel and he sits outside of what he knows for a fact to be macs room. johnny texting excuses as to why hes not there while dennis is just feet away from the door. maybe once or twice he gets his hand on the handle before pulling back. the cold metal burning his skin like holy water hitting a demon (despite nothing about this being holy). sitting in his car in front of the window begging mac to look out the window. to see him. to recognize him. to make the first move bc dennis sure as hell cant

but he never texts “i love you” from his real number and mac never looks out the window and dennis never opens the door. so hes left there knowing exactly where mac is and a pretty good idea of what hes doing but never getting to be as happy as mac. bc mac is texting a fake man hes convinced hes going to have while dennis is texting the very real man hes convinced hes never going to have

always telling himself tomorrow. tomorrow he’ll go to macs bedroom or motel room and confess. lay out his soul and affection. but he can never make tomorrow happen. then mac has to go and tell everyone about johnny. and suddenly its real. mac is in schrodingers box and unknowingly blows it open and the universes collide. text mac and irl mac are one and dennis cant handle it so he doesnt get his grand confession. he gets his exasperated “i am him” but theres people around. he could maybe get his soul out in front of one person (one specific person) but not here at the bar in front of an audience (even if that audience is only one or two people)

so it ends. johnny doesnt exist (at least physically) and now mac knows. everyone pushes it behind them as some scheme abruptly ended as usual. no one pokes or prods at it too much bc why would they. so now that johnnys gone mac isnt tethered to anyone anymore and dennis has to sit through as mac uses his own system against him. so he has to make another elaborate private tactic because being another person is the closest dennis has ever got to being true to himself and mac. dear god he couldnt get anyones help with this because again, his soul only has room for one person. if he doesnt start something else this feeling with sit and sit and fester then die. he already has enough dead things inside of him and one more might start having consequences. he wonders if this is how mac felt all those years. if macs feelings festered and died. maybe he’ll never know

#iasip #macdennis #macden #wow this got a lot angstier than i expected #sorry abt formatting this is my brain throwing out words #mightve gotten too abstract idk i think i have adhd and just wrote whatever i thought #frank vs russia #frank vs russia changed my brain chemistry #help im doing character analysis outside of class #at least i stopped before i started making hannibal and succession references #stream of consciousness

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pitch-locke · 4 months

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There's something so visceral about The Blue Eyed Samurai that really resonated with my identity as someone non-binary, aromantic and asexual.

It feels very genuine in its expression of the experience of a purpose outside romance and love, despite how much everyone insists those are the only options.

Allowing their assigned gender to dictate their life experience is just not an option.

A moment, brief and bitter, where Mizu forces themself to play the role they was born into and trying to find their peace in it, even succeeding in those momentary joys.

But as always, those moments are tainted by dissatisfaction, knowing that that life, that future was not made for them. Or rather they were not made for it.

No room for love or romance, no craving for power or money.

In the moments where carnal instincts could take precedence they will turn their head away as many times as it takes.

They will find their peace in nature, in the sound of crashing waves and soft breezes, make physical contact only when it truly matters. Mizu will never waver. They will never look back.

My body will not dictate the life I choose to lead. It will not sway me from my purpose. I see myself in that.

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astarions-musings · 5 months

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This story is about survivors, who’ve seen the worst that life has to offer and said “Fuck you, I’m gonna be happy regardless.”

This one’s for the people who clawed their way up from rock bottom, with bleeding hands and bleeding hearts, supported by headmates who know exactly what you’ve been through and how to support you in ways you never realised they could.

It’s about the hope the world couldn’t tear from your heart, the life they couldn’t squeeze from your lungs, the fire in your eyes that they thought they’d put out, but yet it still fucking burns.

This one’s about the future, for people who never thought they’d get one.

It’s about what happens after the happy endings, when you’ve fought off the monsters and made friends with your demons (they make damn good headmates), and yet the story goes on. It’s about the nights you spend stitching together a new sense of self, about patching the holes in the person you once new, about moving into a whole new self like a hermit crab who outgrew its old shell, admiring the claws and the fangs and the dashing good looks of the new form.

It’s about sitting down in a bed under the warm blankets, surrounded by the creature comforts that your system’s collected, and approaching your trauma like you’d approach a stray dog. Moving softly and gently, with some comforting treats to help it feel safe, letting it approach you at the pace it feels safe at. Feeling your heart break into pieces at how awfully this animal has been treated, feeling the cold rage in your soul at the bastards who abused this animal so cruelly, but also the hope and the joy at the life this creature still has ahead of it.

It’s about looking the pain in the eye and going “Fuck you, I’m gonna be happy regardless, and I don’t care how much work it’s gonna take.”

It’s about people like us. It’s about people like you.

And you’re not alone.

So welcome to the story. Let’s write a new chapter.

#Aston's musings #stream of consciousness #plural #plurality #plural system #pluralgang #plural gang #plural pride #plural positivity #actually plural #endo safe #endo friendly #we're all in this together #pluralpunk

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