580 words added to RE tonight; good night book, let’s do this again soon?
(Also I’m 20 followers away from 200! Woop woop!)
580 words added to RE tonight; good night book, let’s do this again soon?
(Also I’m 20 followers away from 200! Woop woop!)
whenever my mouth gets tired
words bend like vibrant electric paintings
that shock you at your fingertips.
i peel the feelings from my brain
peel my mind like a bittersweet orange!
isn’t this gorgeous!
you get to see me at my very lowest point
crawling in the soil of the earth with my vulnerability, a girl that is a snake.
naked in the painter’s eye and a poet’s dream.
soft baby in the eyes of some, but a devil in others.
lately i feel so confined in my body
had lies birth a universe in the home
of my ribcage
teeth got sticky from sugary tropical juice pouches like summer
lately i feel like i don’t know why we exist
but i let you linger inside me like my intestines
i used to wonder why i couldn’t live on the moon and drink fresh azure waters from its craters.
i used to wonder why my soul never got intertwined with another
and why i’m always dreaming of a boy whom i call apollo and that i have a loving family with him
i’m such a fool to think i would get an answer!
i turn to the cards of the universe but none of them satisfy my curiosity
but hey brain! sky! universe! i have a question!
why am i the one falling apart?
In the past week, I have seen a total of 3 of my tumblr post posted while casually scrolling Instagram😳 It is such a weird feeling honestly
The thing about suffering is company makes it seem more pleasant
Known as: The Gemini (refer to each other as “H” and “A”)
Genders: Unknown (each can be referred to as they/he/she)
Occupations: Vary (nomadic)
Personalities: Clever, confident, full of all kinds of energy, adaptable, straightforward, jacks of all trades, stubborn and unshakeable, a well-oiled machine when they work together, outspoken, don’t care what anyone thinks about them, loud and brash, obnoxious, deceitful, insensitive, their hatred of each other affects all areas of their life. One is dreamier and one is angrier.
Appearances: They look exactly the same. 5’11”. Physically extremely androgynous. Peachy white skin. Shoulder-length brown hair. Green eyes. Each has a long, thin scar across collarbone and a thin, faded scar on left ankle. Curse marks manifest as warped skin on their necks.
Backstory: Their memories of the time before the curse are mostly lost, leaving them with only the knowledge that they’ve always hated each other, though sometimes they may dream of brief glimpses of the lives they had before. Sometimes they dream of dark things, of soot and purpling bruises and blood-streaked faces. Sometimes they dream of bright things, of cherry pie and summer days and pink and yellow pinwheels. Sharing a mental bond, it is impossible for them to distinguish which glimpses belong to who.
Forced to look exactly the same, to dress the same, and to repeat what the other one says and does, The Gemini may be synchronized on the surface, but inside they are constantly at war with each other, hurling insults and lies at each other within their shared mental space. Referring to each other as H and A, it is almost impossible on the outside to tell which is which. The only times they are free from the synchronization is in seemingly-random occurrences, most notably when they fight someone else together.
The Gemini eagerly await the day that they may remember their past and the reason for their curse, in the hopes that they can break it.
Today’s writing prompt: heretic.
I admit, this has been surprisingly helpful in inspiring me to write. Now I just need to actually, y'know, write :p
I’m not one for following most writing advice but this was something my English teacher taught me my senior year of high school.
Usually the term “editorialize” refers to news media. Basically, it means that you shouldn’t insert your own comments or opinions, just report the facts.
Hearing this in my AP literature class felt pretty strange, since I was in the journalism track as well and felt used to hearing it in that context. But I found this advice pretty useful then and now.
In class, sometimes we’d go around in a circle and share a line of what we wrote from our work that day in class. Just one line. We weren’t allowed to explain ourselves or prelude with any context. “Don’t editorialize, just go,” he’d say before waving us off.
I don’t like to explain my work anymore. There’s value in letting something “hit” without having to describe your intentions and aspirations. Let your listeners and viewers make their own opinions. Share, then leave.
While I do love hearing people go in depth about why they wrote a piece, knowing about the intentions behind the work too soon dulls the experience. Trust your readers’ ability to interpret. If you write something you don’t think can be easily interpreted without explanation, take that as fuel to get rid of that barrier.
There’s always the chance that people won’t get what your work is about, and I think that’s okay. I wrote a story about a sibling duo obsessing about whether or not the boy next door would like them because they’re black, which is an unfair deciding factor for relationships based on my experience as a black woman. Not thinking, “does he find me attractive?” But having to think, “would be even consider dating a black girl?”
Everyone found the story cute and adorable.
Sometimes, your work can go over people’s heads, but let them figure it out themselves.
It’s the little space of skin between your toes
When you’re asleep in silk white sheets
The slight wrinkles on your forehead
Which make me think of the Death Valley and the way it leaves me breathless
The shape of the curl that falls on your brow
Which maybe was drawn by Leonardo da Vinci
Yes yes it must have been, this kind of perfection only comes from genius
And the reversed peak between your collarbones like the crates on the moon even if your skin shines of its own light
As in: the only thing that doesn’t need the sun to appear beautiful
It’s this house
It’s this home
It’s you, my home,
It’s the fact that I would even gift you my first name if you ever needed one
Not minding being a nameless creature
It’s the fact that I am thinking these things which
Means that in my brain there’s a little hole in the shape of your hands.
It’s the way your heart beats inside your ribcage, like a priest praying his god, worshipping everything that needs to be worshipped.
It’s the place where your heart beats or
Maybe what I like to call the place my heart is.
(My church, my original sin, my one and only revelation)
- “Sacred Places”, The Cynical Idealist.
me causing pain to all my characters in a loving and fun way
4 o’clock is golden
5 PM is cold October days and colder November evenings, where dark gently strokes the edges of the sky and slowly consumes pink with a winter starved hunger. 5 AM is more ravenous, and sinking; stars melt into black like a sponge soaking up suds. It’s sad, and lonely, and kisses your empty rib cage with a hollow, unforgiving love.
Two in the morning disguises itself with the mystery of night yet has the excitedness of early sunrise. It’s eager and bubbly-a glass of champagne, fizzing in your nose, gurgling in your throat. But…the taste left on your tongue is always sticky and sour, and upsets your stomach with alcoholic tears . In the afternoon, two is lighter: it’s breezy, all springtime lambs and lime green grass. Painted Easter eggs that aren’t for eating. Sticky chocolate on your lips.
3 is somewhere in between. It is simultaneously forgotten and unheard of, discovered for brief periods of time and then buried back in its box. It’s lazy, sinful, gluttony strung up like a sloth on a tree. It’s when you sit down for afternoon tea in too tight clothes, and you eat too much food, when you spend too much on trying to remember, remember, remember. And it never fully dissolves, not quite anyway.
But 4 o’clock, 4 o’clock is perfect. If 5 is North and 2 is South, and 3 is a strange murky centre, 4 is rising in the East with the Sun, counting down to 1. It’s evenings are tinged with treasure from pirates, sailing across the sky on ships made of cumulus clouds. It is birth, and it is death, what your fingertips stretch out to reach; you brush the feathery wings of a white summer dove, and smile, because the window glass is golden.
Since I posted my masterlist yesterday I’ve gotten a handful of new followers so I just wanna make a quick PSA.
I do not write fanfic anymore. I’m flattered that you chose to follow me if it was in any part due to my writing, but I’m taking an indefinite break from fanfic to focus on my original projects.
That being said, if you (or any of my followers for that matter) enjoyed my fics, it would mean the world if you took the time to look through my original stuff.
Here is a masterlist of my novel project (it will be updated regularly: Legion Masterlist
Anyway, I love you all so much, hope you’re all well. Don’t hesitate to reach out. I love to chat.
Normal People, by Sally Rooney, bothers me because I relate to Marianne.
Like Marianne, I was unpopular and had a crush on a popular friend, my only friend for most of high school. Unlike Connell, he never liked me back. We had a falling out my senior year. I became desperate and clingy to someone who wanted nothing to do with me.
In college, I grew past this codependent behavior. Sure, I made some mistakes along the way, but I’m better now.
Marianne starts and ends the novel dependent on Connell. In high school, they enter a relationship and he pretends she doesn’t exist at school. Marianne has no friends or close family. From the beginning, she has an unhealthy mindset towards the relationship:
“She would have lain on the ground and let him walk over her body if he wanted, she knew that.” (page 54)
When she enters college, she dates other people and makes friends. Establishing healthy relationships, after the bullshit of high school, is great. I wish the novel explored that feeling.
But every time Marianne has a life outside Connell, she’s punished. Her boyfriends turn abusive. Most of her friends are shallow and untrustworthy. She doesn’t have career ambitions.
They get back together. Even as an adult, Connell still has control of the relationship. “You can do anything you want with me.” (page 294) She gives him money, a place to live, while he’s rude in return.
At the end of the book, Connell is leaving to follow his dreams. Marianne promises that she’ll always be there for him, even though she’s not sure they’ll still be together. She doesn’t have her own dreams.
I wanted Marianne to no longer be defined by a toxic teenage romance and to find herself. But in the end, she never grows up, she’s still naively waiting for Connell
To me, it’s not a romance but a tragedy.
just a little something i wrote after reading the Trials of Apollo.Apollo and Hyacinthus own my heart 🥺🥺
i really hope uncle rick brings hyacinthus into the story at some point in a future book cos he’s been mentioned so many times(/ω＼)
The meadow stretched out in front of us_, _adorned by purple flowers. I had created the flowers so lovingly, as I desired them to be a reflection of his beautiful eyes. Such a deed should have been child’s play for the great Apollo, but when I looked into those purple orbs, the turbulence of colored sea that pulled me in, it seemed to me that nothing could compare to the accentuated color of his irises. It had been a while since we got off my sun chariot, and my horses were on their way down the sky without me. In literal terms, the sun was beginning to set, wrapping the meadow in its dim colors. I didn’t stand there as the sun god that day, I was fulfilling my duties as a lover. Of cherishing the most wonderful mortal I’d ever met.
I glanced at him with expectant eyes. I hadn’t felt such need for validation in a couple centuries to say the least. His skin wore a dark, honey color and his sturdy figure turned to face me as I said, “My dear Hyacinthus, accept this gift as an expression of my great love and admiration for you. This island is now yours. When you lie down and let these flowers engulf you, you’ll know what a simple gaze of yours does to me.’’
I woke up with a start, for the fifth time the past hour. I’d seen the visions at least a thousand times before, my heart getting heavier each time the scene flashed before my eyes. Ever since my father, Zeus, turned me into a mortal, my sorrows aggrandized. My tears streamed down my cheek in patterns down my blistered skin like water moving down a crevasse. The pain had been agonizing enough when I was a god, but my puny mortal self had a pathetic response to heartbreak—heartbreak a several thousand years old.
The mortal world is cruel. Fear and danger roamed around every corner like wind spirits on Calypso’s island. With my immortality snatched away, the fear of death was so dreadful; it sent shivers down my fragile body. I could feel the dark, caustic mist approaching me insidiously, behind which is the face of the infamous Thanatos, Death himself, prepared to pull me into the ‘void’. Millennias lived in glory, all shattered within seconds. Surely no one could have imagined the great Apollo crumbling under the weight of mortality like this, not even Thanatos, or Zeus, or Apollo himself.
Not even my lovely Hyacinthus, whose life had so cruelly been taken away by my carelessness. I winced as the image appeared in my brain once again, my discus flying like Zeus’ lightning, Zephyros’ wind bending its course towards Hyacinths’s mass of blonde hair, him turning his head just in time for the discus to leave an ugly gash across his forehead. At least that’s what it looked like to me, until he started pouring out of the wound. I remember letting out a scream as he fell, his weight cushioned by the bed of flowers. You’d think my priority would be saving him. It should’ve. But I was too absorbed by my anger towards Zephyros, while his life slipped away- in the arms of the god of healing, who did nothing to save him.
I spent centuries blaming Zephyros. But deep down I knew it was my arrogance that was at fault. At some point I faced the truth and the blow was strong enough to break an Olympian. Its definitely strong enough to kill a mortal…
But perhaps death isn’t as bad as it seems.
His head was cradled in my arms, his luscious hair a gold and red mélange. The red was all over my hands, how a murderer’s hand should look. ‘tha thymámai,’ I whispered persistently into his ears until his fair lashes veiled his purple orbs, and his body went limp against mine. ‘I’ll remember. I’ll remember what it was like to love you.’ I would have done anything to save him, and you bet I could have, being a mighty Olympian. However, it was too late. Divinity meant so little at that moment. I wondered if he thought he was just another mortal in my life, who would wither anyway. That was the bitter truth. He was always destined to die anyway. But I, I was Apollo of the twelve Olympians. I had to carry on, without him. I had to carry on knowing the fact that I was the one responsible for his fall. It occurred to me, perhaps death isn’t as bad as it seems.
When I watched his face through teary eyes, death was the last thing I worried about. Such a punishment would give him justice, anyway. Or it could allow me to be with him, to love him once again. My vision was blurry but somehow his face was crystal clear. My tears only seemed to make his wonderful skin sparkle. And his eyes…their purple irises so intense, they seemed to radiate a fiery light. The light I had so longed to see. The light I yearned for thousands of years after. I would do anything to save the purple fire that light up my life although I was the one to shut it down completely.
His face began to dissolve as these thoughts clouded my head. I reached out a quivery hand, and just like that, he was gone completely.
The meadow stretched out in front of me. i stood alone, my heart aware of his absence and aching. I stared at the island smothered in purple bulbous flowers, at least ten shades lighter with their heads low. Conceivably mourning. And right there in the middle was a cluster of dark colored….hyacinths. Yes, that’s what i’ll call them. He lay there on the purple hyacinths as they soaked his blood and grew into red and magenta flowers. Gradually more of the bloody hyacinths would grow and acclimatize among the shades of purple, forever reminding me of that day.
I woke up with a jolt again but it had stopped having an effect on me after the sixth time. I was drained of energy although i lay asleep the whole time. But i couldn’t sit up either.
The visions were gone and i was miserable. I noticed that i was holding onto something tightly- _very _tightly as my hand was numb and my nails bloody. As my vision focused, I realized it was a hyacinth- insidiously soaking the blood from my palm. I let out a sob. All my despair came rushing out through endless streams of tears. I felt like I could go on forever- but my abject body would be unable to comply. So i cried until I had no tears left. And my mind just thought of the one thought that hadn’t occurred to me in years. it was possible to die from heartbreak and perhaps-
Perhaps death isn’t as bad as it seems.