I kind of miss the impulsivity that certain spaces used to allow. oh you want a hair cut today? hairdresser in the corner can fit you in before her 2 o’clock. tattoo of a cobra… sure leg or arm? even concerts, back when you could go to the box office thirty mins before any show. not saying these things don’t exist at all, but everything feels booked five months in advance and 10x more expensive
I think part of getting better is complete ego death. Like you’re not above setting a timer for 5 minutes and focusing on a task. You’re not above doing a very simple 3 minute workout to start. You’re not above reading for 10 minutes a day when you first get out of your reading slump, even if you used to read for hours. You’re not above starting slow and then building up to where you want to be/where you once were. What you are above is total inertia. Doing something really is better than doing nothing. Radically accept where you are, radically accept your limits, and go from there. Don’t let your ego get in the way.
One of the best things about being a writer is thinking of something small you can add to your work that’s just. Devastating. Like you’re sitting there going. Oh. That would be diabolical. People would get really riled up about that. Exquisite. Let’s do it.
THE ANGEL OVER YOUR SHOULDER IS WEEPING AND YOU DO NOT KNOW WHY. you think she is, but you cannot hear her sobs, cannot see her tears. she never reveals her face, her core of existence, head buried in her hands. you do not know why. you do not know if it is an act of mercy or shame.
you do not ask her.
you watch, instead. you watch in the dimness of the bathroom, cold and clinical, flickering and fluorescent. the mirror distorts your reflections, fragmented. you watch the way her shoulders tremble, heavy with the weight of something wretched and something burdened.
you do not turn around. you never dare to. but there is something about the sight of the divine being crushed under the weight of being that makes the ache in your heart fester.
you do not understand the feeling. it is dangerous to.
you do not turn around.
THE ANGEL OVER YOUR SHOULDER IS WEEPING AND YOU DO NOT KNOW WHY. you find a feather in the sink tonight, torn and drenched in something red. there is the taste of iron on your tongue. something in your throat burns. you stare, listless, your fingers shaking in the ache to hold it. but you do not touch it. it is not yours to touch.
so instead, you look up at the reflection, stare at all the cracks in the mirror. something in you was supposed to stop feeling long ago. you wonder why there is still hurt in your heart. you wonder why you still recognize such emotions. you have once said it is better to let the numbness take a hold of you, to stop letting your humanity consume you.
the feather turns a brighter red. not old blood, not old wounds. active bleeding. hurting. suffering. ( there is something holy and dreadful in sacrifice for another, isn't there? )
you feel a lump in your throat. your vision wavers for a moment. this angel does not haunt you. she never has.
"...you take my pain as your own." you tell her.
she does not speak. she never does.
still, she weeps, and just as you see her lower her hands, your gaze finally meeting her altruism, the lights flicker violently, and the world turns black.
Something I think is neat and really cute about fanfic is that there’s a personal version of each character in it? Like, each writer focuses on different traits and qualities and even though there can be a hundred fics with the same character, they’re really not exactly the same.
So even if you and I are writing a fic with the same characters, they can still be uniquely different despite having the same core and they’re each dear to us personally as our take on the person.
I don’t know, I just think it’s cute that each writer cherishes these characters in personal and unique ways.
kaledo-art
annaxmalina
pixelskylines
jbbartram-illu
titsay
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
