#this is my first time using procreate so if anyone has any advice please tell me

[yupstillhere]

Willow has not left my brain since November so have this as a present.

If anyone would want any of these cropped as a wallpaper I’ll post it cropped too.

#elora danan #kit tanthalos #jade claymore #willow fanart #willow 2022 #tanthamore #this is my first time using procreate so if anyone has any advice please tell me #the soldier poet king song entered my brain and did not leave until I did this #tik tok edits to soldier poet king made me do it #my art

[chudleycanonficfest]

the hippogriffs and the flobberworms

Day 23, Post #2 by @accio-broom

Title: the hippogriffs and the flobberworms Author/Artist: accio-broom Pairing: Arthur & Ron Weasley (platonic) Prompt: slice of life Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Mentions of sex lives and STDs, very cringe-worthy.

Arthur whistles as he roams the ground floor of the Burrow, searching for his youngest son. Ron’s best friend Hermione is due to arrive any day, ready to spend the latter part of the summer holiday with the Weasleys, but there are some things Arthur needs to speak to Ronald about before Miss Granger joins them.

He’s probably left this conversation a little late—Ron turned fourteen a few months ago—but this is the first time the youngest has shown any interest in the opposite sex. With the rather exciting activities coming up for their fourth school year, including a ball, it’s only inevitable that different feelings will start to stir.

Chuckling, Arthur reminisces about the conversations with his other sons. Bill, always cool as a frost salamander, kept his focus on his old Dad without any outward discomfort, even though Arthur made a complete mess as he told Bill about the facts of life. All of Arthur’s words came out in a massive jumble—he couldn’t even use the correct terms for various body parts and used all the wrong euphemisms. Arthur had been trying so hard to be a cool dad that he got himself far too worked up to make any sense. 

His second son, Charlie, was dismissive and didn’t seem interested in the mechanics of making love, which was disappointing given the amount of time Arthur had spent rehearsing, determined to get it right that time. Percy approached the conversation with logic and appropriate questions, discussing it as he would an important Ministry policy before thanking his dad then leaving the room without a backwards glance. In stark contrast, the twins cracked inappropriate jokes and turned the tables on Arthur, making him feel awkward as innuendo after innuendo spewed from their mouths.

Ron will be Arthur’s last chance to do “the talk”. Molly is responsible for dealing with Ginny, and they’ve probably already started. He doesn’t baulk at the female aspect of puberty, having lived with a woman for almost twenty-five years, he’s well versed in the potions and muggle contraptions they need to use, but he thought it only fair that Molly gets a go of this, too. It’s one of the essential parts of being a parent, after all. 

Although Arthur is well-seasoned in explaining the facts of life without going overboard with the detail or using cringe-worthy phrases now (although the twins did teach him a few new idioms), he has decided to step away from the ‘cool’ dad persona and go full-on over the top this time. 

He could make this easy for Ron, but why would Arthur want to spoil his own fun?

A flash of red hair leaving the broom shed catches his attention out of the kitchen window, and Arthur’s grin widens. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, but there is a light breeze, keeping the air fresh and cool. It’s the sort of day that would lead to him fishing in the lake at the bottom of the garden, but he has a task at hand that he needs to deal with first. 

Maybe there’ll be time for him to get his rod out later.

Pouring two glasses of lemonade from the jug Molly has left on the side, Arthur uses a cooling charm on them then steps out from the backdoor and onto the patio. 

“Ron,” he calls, smiling as his son turns his head around faster than a niffler chasing gold, looking like Arthur has caught Ron doing something that he shouldn’t. Probably skiving from the long list of chores Molly gave him this morning. “Come up and have a chat with your old Dad.”

Arthur eases himself into the bench under the wisteria with a groan. Although he isn’t all that old, having seven children and living through a war takes its toll on a guy’s body. Now, every joint clicks and complains every time he moves. Forget getting somewhere in a hurry; slow and steady is now the way to go.

Ron settles in the seat next to him. 

“What’s up, Dad?” he asks, smiling at Arthur. He takes the offered drink, gulping almost half of it in one go before letting out a loud, satisfied sigh.

“Hermione is coming to stay with us before we go to the World Cup, I hear? But not Harry?”

Ears turning pink, Ron turns his head to look out at the garden. “Y-yeah. We’re going to collect Harry in a few days, remember?”

“Oh, yes. I’m very excited to be visiting the Muggles. Will they tell me about eckeltricity? Should I take my battery collection?”

Ron laughs. “I don’t think the Dursleys will be too impressed with batteries, Dad. They use them every day.”

“Shame.” Arthur sighs, then turns his eyes to gaze the same way as Ron’s. “So, Hermione is a girl.”

“Er, yes, I guess so.”

“A girl you’re attracted to?” Arthur glances at Ron, whose face has turned as white as a ghost.

Ron reacts with a knee-jerk response, but the look on his face indicates that he’s not telling the whole truth. “No!”

“Are you sure? You and her have gotten close lately. Mum and I like her.” Arthur waits a moment for Ron to take back his first response, then tuts when he stays quiet. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone you do like soon. Anyway, as you already know, she’ll be staying in Ginny’s room with your sister, and I’m sure you’re clear on the rules of the house. Your Mum does not want any sneaking around or late-night visits.”

Arthur doesn’t hold the same views as his wife. Sure, he doesn’t want the kids to be sleeping in each other’s beds, but he remembers the conversations he and his friends had during the early hours of the morning when he was their age. If the children wanted to get up to something, Arthur would rather it happen under their roof where they’re safe than have them take unnecessary risks. He and Molly were young once, too, although it feels like a lifetime ago now.

“I know, Dad.”

“Good. And so you know, if you ever find yourself feeling conflicted or wanting some advice on how to ask a lady out, you can always come to me. Because being a teenage lad is a very confusing time, and the magic will heighten this, as well as the fact that you live in proximity to some charming young women. You might not feel it right now, but you’re on the precipice of being a man. Your voice has started breaking. Sure, it’s a little later than the others, but I’m sure that’s nothing to worry about. Everyone develops at their own pace, after all. Pretty soon, you’ll have hairs sprouting all over the place, even in places you wouldn’t expect it. I can’t remember when all of this started happening for me, but it was around your age. And don’t get me started on the wet dreams…”

“Merlin,” Ron sighs, now squirming in his seat, trying to make himself as small as possible. When Arthur checks again, his youngest is looking into the depths of his glass as if considering whether he could drown himself in there.

“Sex is healthy, son, especially if it’s with someone that you admire and love, whether that be a girl or a boy, Your mum and I don’t mind as long as you’re happy. And if you find the right person, then it can be amazing.”

A low groan emits from Ron’s mouth as he pushes himself further down the bench, attempting to put some distance between him and Arthur. 

“Please stop talking,” he pleads with bright red cheeks.

“Having a good sex life is nothing to be ashamed of, let me tell you. The seven of you weren’t delivered by the hippogriffs, after all. Not that we only have sex to procreate. Having you kids out of the house has done wonders for our love life. 

“While we’re on the subject, if you can’t get a partner, then there’s nothing wrong with taking matters into your own hand. Masturbation is very beneficial, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s important to explore your own body and learn the kind of things you like so that you can recreate those moments with a partner. I can tell you some useful charms if you need them—ones for when you’re with someone, and others for when you’re alone. Of course, there are some spells that are vital for you to learn. Safety is sexy, and you don’t want any little accidents happening.”

Ron runs his hand over his face as if trying to erase his dismay. “Dad. Please stop. I know all of this already. Not that I wa-I mean, do that sort of stuff.” 

He crosses his legs with a gulp, and Arthur feels a rush of joy. He’s succeeded in making his youngest son feel as awkward as possible. You have to take delight in the smallest of moments, especially the older you get. 

“Who told you?”

“I have five brothers and live in a dorm with four other boys. Also, Flitwick taught us the contraceptive charm last year.” Ron is still focused on his glass, looking like he wants to be a million miles away.

“Oh, right. ”

An irrational surge of disappointment crashes over Arthur. He should have realised that kids are far more advanced and talk much more than they did in his day. He should have bit the bludger earlier and nabbed him last summer.

“Well,” Arthur continues anyway, determined to see this through, “contraceptive charms aren’t the only things you need to learn. You need to ensure you protect yourself from Sexually Transmitted Diseases, or STDs, as well. Some of these can make you a little itchy, but others can be dangerous. You should go and see Madam Pomfrey if you think you might have one. Of course, you could always get some muggle con-domes. Fantastic little invention they are. Rather than trying to remember a load of different spells while you’re in the heat of passion, you can whack on a rubber and get to it.”

He doesn’t allow Ron’s small squeak to put him off his speech, now he’s in full flow again. “Talking about getting to it. Consent is important. When you decide to take that step, or even before when you snog someone, you need to make sure they want to do it too. Every step of the way. If they say no, you stop right away, even if they said yes only a minute previously. You must understand that. Never force yourself on someone, especially if they are drunk or otherwise intoxicated. If they can’t say yes, it’s a no-go. Got it?”

“I-I d-do,” Ron stutters, his voice strained under the embarrassment of the situation. “C-Can I go now?”

“Yes, yes, of course. But don’t forget that I’m here if you need anything, son. Even if you think it might get you into trouble. And look after Hermione, even if your feelings for her are only platonic. I admire the way you, her and Harry have formed a little group. The three of you are good for each other.”

Arthur reclines on the bench and closes his eyes, letting out a sigh as the sun warms his face. There’s no point getting one’s wand in a knot over spilt potion. He still managed to get Ron squirming like a flobberworm, so it was mostly a successful mission.

The bench shifts as Ron rises to his feet. He finishes his drink with a gulp and sets the glass down on the floor before shuffling away.

“Dad?” a small voice asks.

When Arthur opens his eyes, he spots Ron towering over him. When did he get so lanky? Ron is going to be the tallest of the family, for sure. There’s a smile on his face, though he still can’t meet his Dad’s gaze.

“Yeah, Son?” Arthur asks, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Thanks for trying.”

Ron shrugs, then wanders back down the garden, his gangly frame hunched over. Arthur marvels at Ron’s response. You think you fully understand your children, and then they do something that knocks you off your broom. But Ron is a decent lad, and Arthur knows he will go far, like the rest of them.

With a happy sigh, he leans back and closes his eyes again. He’s done an okay job at this parenting thing. As long as none of them gets arrested or tries to break into Gringotts, he can die a happy man.

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest platonic #submission #arthur weasley #ron weasley

[harrypotter-imaginess]

Part 1 Here!

A/N: I’ve been writing this since March, and finally wrapped it up. Slightly NSFW, and apartment scene is inspired by Lore Olympus by Rachel S. 

- You’ve been dating for 2 or 3 months.

- You do it basically every chance you get

- You moan as he pushes you up against the wall, trailing kisses down your neck, sucking at your collarbone

- “Dra-Draco please” you mumble into his shoulder

- “When do you have to be back at work?” He asks between kisses, piercing grey eyes peering into yours

- He never seems to lose his composure, not even during sex

- Which of course only makes you more flustered

- The first time, it had been fairly dark

- But over the past few months you’ve been with him so often you’ve got a very good idea of what his body looks like

- Toned arms, a firm outline on his abs, pale skin blooming with the hickeys you’ve left

- Not to even get started on that face

- No wonder you couldn’t keep your hands off of him

- He bites your collarbone and you yelp, only to be met with a raised eyebrow in return

- You feel your face grow hot, you were so busy admiring him, you forgot to answer his question

- “H-half an hour I think” you mumble.

- He frowns, that’s not as much time as he’d like

- “I guess you’re going to be late” he mumbles against your skin, his hand making quick work of your blouse

- You’ve got this glow, and everyone has noticed

- “Hey! Took a long lunch today?”

- You feel your face growing warm, your hand moving over the new hickey forming on your neck

- “Just lost track of time” you say with a laugh

- You haven’t told anyone at work about you and Draco because of his popularity in your office

- “Hey (Y/N)! Come over and look! The hot guys walking by our office again!”

- Draco’s got a scowl on his face, thin, pale eyebrows practically pressed together. His eyes hold a fierce glare.

- God, you haven’t seen that expression on him in months

- You had completely forgotten that you both hated each other at first

- You catch a glimpse of his soft, pale hair, falling against his eyes. A gloved hand moves to push it aside.

- A hand that had been somewhere rather intimate only a handful of minutes ago.

- Draco’s never been happier in his entire life

- Even his employees have noticed

- “Is it just me, or does Mr. Malfoy seem more chill than usual?”

- “Yesterday That part timer, Natalia, spilled coffee all over his coat. He didn’t even blink, just said ‘these things happen’, usually he’d sack her on the spot!”

- “Maybe he finally got laid”

- They both laugh at that, while Reginald is practically sweating buckets at his desk behind them

- Little do they know they’re spot on.

- Ever since Draco started seeing you, he’s constantly come to Reginald for advice on “navigating the muggle world”

- “The traps of the muggle world are terrifying” Draco had said with a shiver. “Y’know she wanted me to use one of these?”

- Draco pulls out a condom

- “I mean what even is this? A sweet? It tastes just like plastic”

- Reginald’s not sure what’s more embarrassing, that his boss tried to eat a condom, or that he had to spend an hour and half explaining what a condom was to him, and how to use one.

- “So you can shag as much as you want with these, and nothing happens?” Draco says with a face of sheer amazement.

- Reginald has to remind himself to be empathetic. He’s lucky his parents are muggles, and generally very open minded.

- It’s not surprising Draco doesn’t know anything. The wizard world’s typical propaganda encourages procreation to increase the wizard population.

- The truly desperate can drink a potion or cast a charm, but Reginald’s sure something of that sort is never discussed in pureblood familys.

- “Muggles are pretty brilliant aren’t they?” Draco’s staring at the small plastic square in his palm, with true wonder.

- Reginald can’t help but smile, he looks like a kid that just discovered sweets

- “They are”

- Draco’s feeling pretty good, he’s got your favorite take out in one hand, flowers in the other, and a smile on his face

- He’s got someone he loves, he knows what condoms are, he’s on top of the world

- “Draco, how come I’ve never been to your place?”

- Happiness is fleeting, and reality is a lie

- He’s just set down the take out on your dining table, watching you sitting on the edge of the sofa

- You’re only a few feet away from him, but you feel an ocean away

- Well, he can hardly tell you that he still lives with his parents and that they despise Muggles and would probably curse you before you could even make a sound

- His mouth opens, brain scrambling to find an excuse

- He’s going to go with “he lives at his parents estate” when he actually looks at you

- You’re not looking to him, waiting for an explanation. You’re looking at your hands, eyebrows creased together and teeth nibbling into the flesh of your lip.

- He places a hand under your chin, nudging your face to look up at him.

- “Is that really what you’re worried about?”

- It’s not

- You were too much of a coward, and chickened out asking him your initial question

- You hadn’t thought of it before today, when all the women in your office crowded around the window to look at him

- He must have women throwing themselves at his feet

- You were together so often, you doubted he had the time to have anyone else.

- But you never had dates at his place, always yours

- In fact, you had never visited his place

- He could have an entirely different life than what you imagined, and this relationship, the blossoming feelings inside of you could just be in your head.

- Well, you’re only half right. Draco does have a whole other life, but not like you think

- “It’s just- what are we?” Biting on your lip, mustering up every ounce of courage you have you add “...are we dating?”

- Or are you both just f*cking

- He’s taken aback that this is what you want to ask, and honestly he’s a bit annoyed

- In his mind he’s already given up so many things to be here with you now

- His pride, his family, his heritage, he’s even ready to give up magic if it comes to it

- It’s all so obvious to him, that he doesn’t realize it’s all in his mind, he hasn’t conveyed any of this to you

- A softer expression moves across his face, as he takes you in, your gaze lingering on your hands. 

- Of course you’re confused

- He kneels beside you on the ground, his fingers wrapping around your hand

- “Of course we’re dating, you’re my (girlfriend/boyfriend), my lover, my significant other, my partner” each title is pronounced by a soft kiss on your knuckles. He peers up at you through his eyelashes, taking in your flushed face

- You’re his entire future

- “How do you feel about me?” He asks, his breath held in his throat as he watches you carefully

- He’s only now realizing that much of your relationship has existed in his mind

- The thought that perhaps you don’t see your relationship as anything long term only occurs after the words leave his mouth.

- You’re flushed hiding your face in your large sweater

- It’s hard for you to be honest with your wants and needs, especially in relationships

- “I want you to be my boyfriend” you mumble, and he squeezes your hand

- The words take courage you didn’t know you had, but Draco’s grin is worth it.

- He places kisses on your hand, then your face, and finally your lips. You feel his smile, and can’t help but smile as well.

- Then his kisses trail to your neck

- “Draco... the food will get cold...” you murmur, but your hand creeps under his shirt.

- “It’s fine,” he mumbles against your neck. “Gives me an excuse to invite you to my place for a proper meal next time”

- Cue to the next day, with Draco sitting across from his mother in their home. She’s flipping through a book with her wand.

- “I want a flat!” He practically shrieks out, Narcissa doesn’t even look up

- “To own, or rent?”

- Crap. He didn’t think this far ahead, he didn’t really think the words would actually come out. But he promised you a date at his place, and he can’t exactly bring you to the manor now can he?

- Besides, possible hexes and curses aside, his parents being here would definitely kill the mood

- “Rent, I guess. It’s just hard commuting to the office from home.”

- He half expects his mother to tell him to quit then, not like he needs the salary anyway. They have plenty of money.

- But instead, she says:

- “Fine, I’ll tell your father to contact our real estate connection.”

- Draco lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, about ready to walk away, his mother looks up from her book for the first time

- “And Draco,” He meets her gaze, stopping midway from exiting “do bring them home sometime.”

- He’s attempting to play dumb when his mother adds

- “And make sure to cover up the marks on your neck before you see your Father. You know how he is.”

- Draco just nods, feeling the heat creep into his face.

- Apartment hunting is surprisingly stressful. Partially because of how little he understands the muggle world.

- “This is the electrical closet, it stays locked.”

- Muggles. Don’t they realize he can just use a quick ‘alohomora’ to open it.

- When the realtor isn’t looking, he opens it, takes in the air conditioning unit and the wires, and promptly closes it again

- The muggle world is truly terrifying

- He ends up choosing a flat a few streets away from yours, in a posh upscale building. Naturally he lives in the penthouse. 

- He considered moving into the same building, but decides against it

- He has to remind himself that even though he plans on marrying you, he has to play it cool.

- From your perspective you’re a new couple that’s still falling in love

- He hates his apartment, he doesn’t understand how anything works, he has to cook all his meals himself, and he didn’t realize how much cleaning went into living without servants

- He has a newfound respect for house elves as he scrubs pasta sauce off of the ceiling

- In addition, none of the appliances in this place are enchanted, which means he has to actually use his hands to turn on the water or open the refrigerator

- He hates it

- “Wow, I considered this building too, but it was pretty expensive” you say as he helps you out of your coat

- You wonder if the reason he never invited you over was because he was trying to hide the fact that he came from money

- Not like it was a secret, what with the clothes and the restaurants he took you to, he was either rich or close to bankruptcy

- Draco’s just hoping you haven’t figured out he only moved in a week ago

- Thankfully the red sauce stains on the ceiling and Draco’s inability to clean very well thoroughly mislead you into believing this is a well lived in apartment

- Your eyes twinkle as you take in the incredible view from the large panel window in his living room

- “The views absolutely bewitching” you murmur with a smile, enchanted as you gaze at the twinkling lights of London

- He watches you, watching the lights. You look like you’re almost glowing, your form wrapped by the scenery

- “You’re the one that’s bewitching” he murmurs, watching your grin

- Well he can manage for a bit longer

#harry potter imagine #harry potter preferences #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy headcanons #draco malfoy imagine #harry potter headcanon #harry potter x reader #draco malfoy reader insert #draco malfoy x Muggle reader #draco malfoy x you

[chapter18yes-blog]

I would like to just, turn all the bird-patterned pillows in that room with their pattern down because they are fucking disturbing. It's as if they were staring at me, judging me. The questions, even if they are not of a reproaching or moralising nature, are echoed from the direction of the pillows with escalated negativity and hatred. Self-hatred. I just want to stand up from that deep armchair and say, what the hell is going on? Have you noticed? Have you noticed this freezing cold, it's almost out of this solar system, it's so deadly cold. My feet, my hands, my nose and I imagine, my inner organs all suffer from my brain's failing functions. I've lost many of them. And those chemicals keep my head heavy, help me feel gravitation and stay two feet on the ground or below the surface, even. You don't give me paper, it's OK. You would have have a paper to my mother but I am still just guessing, and you nod, sometimes, yes, that's unfortunately true - Everything I am is queer. Do you have labels, in the notes you don't show, in the notes you don't even write for a while now? Is this depression, anxiety, borderline, OCD, autism, what? We talk, you love my words, just as everybody else, even if words fail me, lately, and my stories are clumsier every time. I have dry lips and dry skin; every time I undress myself in the toilet, white crumbs of skin come off of me on my legs. I have ongoing inflammations and infections, my face is covered with scars that heal over a month. My nails and the skin on my hands bear wounds, too, and it takes them forever to recover and look like a normal person's hands. Don't blame it on my diet. I'm slowly disintegrating and expiring. Ever since I was out in this world, I was drawn back to the place I've come from, it had an inexplicable magnetic charm, non-describable and strange, abnormal. I never wanted to see what it's like out here, I came uninvited and now I am here to find some dignity in these short decades - of joy, I often dream, but they are only dreams. Every time a train or plane crashes, I wish I was on board. Every time I am near Oktogon I wish something would take me, or that someone would hit me. Don't hurt me with words, behaviour, ignorance or psycho-wars and mindgames. Kick me to the ground and step on my chest, break my bones, my ribs and my thigh bones. I don't want to be able to walk, or think. Everything I do is about this endgame. The Human, as it is, seeks opportunities to procreate and save humanity; to make the world a better place along with ensuring the species' future with having offsprings. Everybody has a mission, however stupid it is; they have a vision, they have a cause, the world has many problems or at least, people have many problems, people around them, or themselves directly... The cogwheels turn and turn, not a dent is missing. I am here, weak and useless, a baby animal waiting for a hostile weather condition or a predator to come and take my life. My body is just an empty vessel of nothingness. Some parts are good for something, most of it is just junk. I am good for a couple of hours, or days, and then rapidly deteriorate and fall back to a state of feeling like trash. What I do is of no use, I don't sell, I don't advertise, I don't exist. I can't alleviate my own pain; my days are about making it through to the other day. It requires great efforts each minute of each hour to assure myself that I can get back to a longer plateau this time. I should be a femme fatale, a Queen, I am intelligent, smart, whatever they use to label my brain; I am not that ugly, but wrinkles creep onto my face after each lengthy episode of hysteria, low energy battles of getting out of bed or the sudden twenty-minutes cryings three or four times a day. I am in pain, and it started to show. I'm also ageing. I can cover it up with make-up, and I hate to do it; I can entertain, I can laugh, I can smile. I can talk from an objective perspective about myself, I can be self-aware, I can be ironic about my-self. I am trying to live in the moment, to not take things personally, to let go of things and people only passing through my life. I am literally trying hard, and so I am detached and locked up in the worst prison anyone can wish for, my own thoughts. I should be excellent at work, first things first, I should have an awesome job, awesome friends, awesome hobbies, activities, social circle. Yet, you know, I know, more often than not, what it would take to make those corrections and to push myself gently back on track. But I'm in love with derailment. Have you noticed? That I've started this self-eliminating process, scaringly unconsciously, unplotted, coming naturally, with imprinted agenda. It will run through me sooner than anyone, myself included, would have imagined. And it's unstoppable. What have you thought, what did I think, you see, I was so unaware of what I was doing - quitting my job, covering up with some stupid weak motivation. Cutting myself out of the already limited microcosm of my social life, isolating myself further, sailing farther away from the shores. Skipping meals, wearing flats, putting on the same sweater twice a week without washing them. Unseeing unwashed dishes, existing on some bread and cheese. Soothing my nerves with yoga and chakra music, the only way to soothe them. Slowly driving myself off the map. Here I am, out in the middle of nowhere. I read, you know. With each sentence it grows, this grey cloud that's over me. I am fucking exhausted. High-functioning, oh yes. Indeed. With mentions. With flying colours. Getting awards post-ceremony, being told I'm making myself uglier when everyone else is making themselves prettier. I am a woman, I'm always weak and wrong. I should behave so and so, only that way will they love me. And you can train me, you know. Set me up with a few slaps, only verbally, of course, with as few words as you can; put me in a straightjacket and just tell me, or don't tell me, I should be able to learn from silence as well. Am I mad. Yes I am. I have two opinions in paralell motion; two narratives, two possible explanations; I feel, I have empathy for everyone but myself. You hurt me and I feel your pain and your motives for having done so; and I'm with you and no one is with me. What is the point of sharing this unshareable, unspeakable loneliness, what is the point of me talking, talking to anyone, receiving questions with good intentions; receiving harsh-worded advice; receiving attractive lies. What is the point of only taking and throwing it away. Not being able to give; everything I give is cheap, not needed or can be gotten anywhere else. You know, somewhere in the past, maybe just a past filtered through nostalgia and idyllic thoughts, transformed into some timeless footage running in loops, I am just a small body, even shorter than I am now, chasing cats, living with her father, mother and little sister, playing in the summer in loose clothes out in the yard, grandma visiting; reading books about science and how the Sun will slowly blow up and burn and consume planet Earth in 3 million years from now. There are colourful dreams everywhere, sometimes I was happy, maybe, I certainly smiled, and I was not afraid, and maybe years from now, I will be a fearless woman, with achievements and success and confidence and something to provide, who knows, unfortunately me, it's not going to happen. Each time I pretended I'm OK, I voluntarily threw away 5-10 years from my life, and now here I am, I have to board a plane soon, in any case. I don't hate you or anyone, and it's not your fault and please never ever think you could have helped. As it turns out, it's no one's fault. It's just as it is. You know, the next day I will just get up and smile, and tell funny stories and dance and play around pretending to be seductive, nothing happened, dear, it's OK. It was just temporary, I'm OK. I just age faster with each day and I can't wait to consume what's left, the sooner the better. You know, there is something strange and funny about how people behave. People like to distance themselves from any sign or notion of madness; they overuse words like crazy, mad, fool, yet when it comes to some strange behaviour in the street, in the bus, or at the university, at the workplace, in a bar, etc., they immediately show the sign: I am different, I am normal! I have nothing to do with this person! There is a fine line I can't define - from what point does one count mad, exactly? I think, depending on context, it's always in connection with the instinct, the fear we feel towards death. We live in an age of luxury and freedom, how dares anyone reminding us that our existence is finite? No, this is deeply personal, it's not something we all share, strangely; everyone is concerned separately. You know - you die alone. You are addressed. It's not a fucking groupchat. So that mad person in the street, you know, he reminds you of something deep, dark, of not verbal nature, something you dread. Mad people somehow see and speak the truth, the ugly truth, the unbearable truth. There you are. I am always sitting in something stinky. You ask me about my day and I honestly tell you I feel shitty. Give me two hours and I will be screening you with questions about the meaning of life and will ask you to elaborate on your and everybody's fucking credo, carpe diem. Yeah, please, I want to hear what I'm missing out on. And also, I need a how-to. Everyone these days tells everyone else, how to. How to do this and that. Instructions, for money, from an amateur - every online course's, every 2-day-retreat training's honest description line. I know everything that's out there to know. There is no greater knowledge than that. Love? Having an actual relationship? Having friends, you say? I tried. I fucking tried. And it's not my fault that I failed at everything. I am your product, everyone's product, this sick world's product, now eat me. Yes, eat me. In a world where everyone is supposed to sell - themselves, first of all, I pull myself back into a snailhouse and pronounce - whisper, rather - there's nothing to see here. Because, what's there to see about me? This raw, honest narrative no one can stand? Do you think I'm pretty? How about pretty when I wake up around 4 AM and rush to the window to breath in some cool morning air because I just had nightmares - or I had insomnia - because I was thinking about not having consciousness anymore. What it's like to be braindead. How will it feel, in the very last moments, will my body be crashed, or will I be spread out on a hospital bed; will I have any thoughts, or will I be just cut off completely without a second more to just say goodbye to this world? How about that? I told this once to someone and a few months later he reminded me of these episodes with a light laugh. Oh, well. I made a couple of mistakes even after that, I guess. I am loveable. I am worth it. I am great. Some people tell me that, and mean it, some people tell me that and are fucking liar assholes at the same time. Whatever the case is, I don't beleive a word anymore. Yes, you've just read it right - I don't beleive a word anymore, not even my own words. You don't know me unless you've know this icecold bottomless pit, the placeholder of my heart, existing somewhere in a virtual cloud, full of empathy and love I can't give to anyone, because they get it everywhere else for cheap. Drama queen, the only label you can't put on me if you are a professional and if you have a heart. Everyone else can just sincerely, fuck off. Don't dare marching in the front row with flags in your hands when it comes to the next wave of mental health awareness issues. Drama queen. Oh yes, I am. So has been a lot of other people on this Earth before me, and I'm definitely not the last one of the species. I am deeply unhappy, unsatisfied, I can't be cured. I'm hard to live with, I'm hard to be in the same room with. I do everything I can to facilitate every situation I am present in, in every possible way, yet it's not enough. Where can I find dignity, and how. For this little time that's left for me. Is there a home, is there happiness somewhere, is there someone who'd accept my love and who'd give some back to me, some new love, not just the echo of my own unsaid words. Is there? Can you hear me? Are you still there?