[afflatuslux]

Quick Intro:

David • he/him • 21 • mixed • aroallo

Greetings! This blog is mainly a vent blog that also doubles as a personal blog. If not for the numerous untagged posts where I shout into the void, then you'll mostly find me within the DRDT tags, as well as the occasional post here and there in mental health ones.

Additional Info / "FaQ":

— No, I do not have an art account I can redirect you to, and I am not interested in having an online presence as an artist. I hate making art, actually. I don't draw shit for IRL purposes. My majors are solely english and economics for a reason.

— I'm a fictive that deals with a lot of vivid faux memories, ones that frequently have very little in common with my source, as they take place under more "mundane" circumstances. If any of the art I post ever felt out of left field to you, that's -- probably why. ——> On that note, I am prone to heavy, heavy bias when discussing my source, which I try to account for, but slip-ups are inevitable, so take opinions with a grain of salt. For the same reason I try my best to avoid talking about David, but -- with varying success. Turns out it's a little difficult to talk about DRDT without talking about the elephant in the room.

— Feel free to talk to me even if I don't follow you! No, seriously: I follow like five blogs at best, because I keep forgetting that it's a function that exists, as I just sit inside tags instead of the dashboard anyhow. ——> That said, please contact me either through asks or comments, as I despise Tumblr's buggy "direct messages" function. If you're looking for a more lengthy interaction, I'll gladly give you my discord tag.

— As far as text posts are concerned, I don't tag any triggers. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's just not going to happen. I'll also not be tagging any "ships" for the artworks I post, as already the mere idea of it feels insulting to me. You're free to tag my posts with whatever you like within your reblogs; I couldn't possibly care less. I'm just not going to tag them as such myself on my own blog. ——> I'm sure this is very upsetting for anyone who is looking to filter out certain content, but quite frankly I suggest you make use of the block button. Alternatively, if you do want to see my illustrations but don't want to deal with the venting -- just unfollow me and keep an eye out on the public DRDT tags; almost all of my artworks can be found there, with few exceptions where I didn't feel like it'd be appropriate.

— Speaking of art. Do whatever you want with my drawings. I genuinely couldn't care less. No, I Do Not Care about credit, either. You can save them, use them, edit them, sell them, burn them — who cares. I don't.

— On the note of "I Don't Care"; this blog has no DNI. That's final. Don't try to make me care about declaring X or Y, for I already do enough performative shit IRL and I quite frankly am not interested in doing that on a vent blog, too. I may hate myself, but not enough to invest energy in something so very pointless.

— Furthermore on "I Don't Care"; yes, this extends to whatever Fandom No-Go's you can think of. I'm not paid enough (/at all) to care about whatever the fuck other people draw or write. Jturo didn't kill your grandma; get over it.

[afflatuslux]

I'll never understand how girls pack their luggage 38438569699 days before the actual flight. Don't you need all your shit, still? Moreover, why does it take this much effort to pack an amount equivalent of perhaps two carton boxes? With that amount of stress one might think you're the pilot flying the damn plane.

[afflatuslux]

[afflatuslux]

Look, it doesn't matter if you consider it a positive trait or a character flaw, but if you don't acknowledge Arei's potent forcefem energy you're just straight-up in denial.

[afflatuslux]

the way you draw arei is 💙💙💙 i love. her

more arei when i need a collection./j

Happy to hear! Here's more of her thriving.

On that note, happy CSD this year once more!

[afflatuslux]

-- OBVIOUSLY NOT, YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT!

[afflatuslux]

I'm sorry, but "to process one's trauma" has become nothing but a buzzphrase to me. It's every therapist's favourite solution to present to me after I've voiced dissatisfaction, but pressed on the details of what exactly they're thinking of when saying as much, without fail I'm returned nothing but hot air.

It's not like I was born yesterday. I've been told that I need "room to process" as early as when I've been a tween, and treatment after treatment I've opened up about every possible nook and cranny.

Over the years, I've relived its experiences within numerous settings, I've cried and fought over its details, I've babbled on infront of psychologists and support groups alike, I've created stories, poems, theatre scripts, and an insane amount of art - all as means to "process" and express myself, and I've had the years pass me by.

I've come to a point where I've near to no connection to these memories anymore. There isn't any weight on me when recollecting the details on it for the xth person asking me, and I've realized that at this rate, when I try to talk to someone about how I've felt, I'm relying on my old responses instead of the original memory, for that's, to me, already long lost to time. I've turned over this stone excessively enough it's corroded to nothing but a small pebble; I've to stop myself from laughing when others expect there to be a sore spot they could take advantage of. For all intents and purposes, it's not just a finished chapter to me, but an entirely previous book within the volume that's already been collecting dust in some shelf.

Yet, despite this corrosion, when I bring up my persisting dissatisfaction, I'm yet again told that I've to "process my trauma" if I'm to hope for any sort of improvement. My claim, that I've already done all that can be done, simply fall on deaf ears; supposedly, it's a textbook example of repression, or rationalisation, or anything of the sort -- and that I've surely not processed anything at all in truth, living in denial & refusing to look my suffering dead in its eyes. My response, that I'm long over it, that I've no longer any weight I'm carrying from what's by now a good decade ago -- it's returned with pity, from all things. They see nothing but a poor soul that must be lying to themselves by putting up a tough act, who's dissociated themselves from the past so severely that they've lost any touch to what's still troubling them.

It frustrates me. Not only because it dismisses all of my efforts thus far for naught, but because it makes the idea, to "process one's trauma", a genuinely unattainable goal. To be emotional is to be burdened, to be indifferent is to be in denial. There's no scenario where they'd agree with me that I have processed it, that I'm finished with it, for they'd only believe me if I were not to be dissatisfied with my life anymore, as my dissatisfaction is treated as indisputable evidence that I'm still stuck in the past. The possibility that I, perchance, am unhappy for a reason entirely disconnected to what's happened to me roughly ten years ago, isn't even up to consideration.

I'm sick of it. I don't use the technical term lightly when I say that I feel like I'm being gaslit to believe that there is something still that I surely must've forgotten, even though, frankly, there's only so many times I can disembowel myself until there aren't any internal organs left to inspect and study. I don't take it kindly, to be treated like I'd not know best myself on whether I'm burdened, or not.

[teathattast]

[afflatuslux]

Watching a bunch of girls end their friendships over trivial point distribution rn

[afflatuslux]

I'm so fucking tired of being sick during every exam phase. Can't I, just once, write them while physically well,

[spellcastinghearts]

dont hate the girl , just hate the crime !

[afflatuslux]

eternally grateful for your benevolently cold embrace, penetrating skin and bone forevermore.

[afflatuslux]

NO ONE GIVES A FUCKING SHIT ABOUT TIMMY.

[afflatuslux]

For every person who whines at me about how sad they are for Timmy I Will Kill Two Puppies. On Camera.

[afflatuslux]

NO ONE GIVES A FUCKING SHIT ABOUT TIMMY.

[spellcastinghearts]

reposting because hi 30 minutes and nothing is embarrassing.. look at my art yay

[afflatuslux]

Hot take but anyone who'd like to quit/reduce smoking and chooses to switch to vapes for that very purpose is an absolute fucking idiot.

[afflatuslux]

just wanted to say i think youre weird, and i decided so after i projected all my issues onto you. i now find you really relatable. also, i hope you take this as a compliment ^__^

im joking, how tf do you get so many anons that are exactly like this...

A vent blog like my own is certain to evoke a sense of intimacy/familiarity in some folk, as it contains personal thoughts and grievings usually reserved for people one trusts, instead of broadcasting them on the internet for anyone to read. That makes it particularly susceptible to parasociality and projection, worsened by how you only get to know the person in question through scarse tumblr posts instead of anything more tangible, leaving vast room for you to project onto. If you add in the factor that the majority of people that are within the DRDT's tumblr space are susceptible minors with unresolved problems, and you easily see how the math works out.

It's, also, far easier to act this way about someone you don't perceive as real, such as with fictional characters, for it's a "risk-free" environment that'd not lead to any real consequence from your interactions, unlike if you were to interact with an actual person the same way. Which, by no means would I ever accuse anyone of such a thing, but -- I do find the constant emphasis on "observable distance" and "interesting" pretty telling.

Though, 99% of the time, I'm indifferent; that's that user(s) problem to work on, not my own. Rest assured, I've enough luggage to worry over. There's only been two extreme cases with minors where I felt the need to intervene, but that's only because it's reached a point not at all comparable to the average Anon I receive here.