ichabod

the sideblog for my main, for the stuff that isn't as light-hearted, I suppose.

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It's hard to watch someone you love turn into the things you hate most.

[cannibalchicken]

[cannibalchicken]

[hitmewithcute]

Four year old beekeeper distracted by a roly-poly.

[scixerboa]

Best picture in the world

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!!!

[girls--complex]

Mystery / Koan

[gahdamnpunk]

WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK

[5895651-deactivated20210518]

The company isn’t boasting about using cheap/unpaid/forced penal labor.

It’s a project offering voluntary employment opportunities with fair trade wages to incarcerated women, allowing them to amass decent savings and avoid recidivism (i.e., having to return to prostitution, drug muling, and the other poverty-related crimes as soon as their sentences are up, because they’re right back in poverty where they started).

No, it’s not the all-or-nothing Tumblr justice solution™ of magically abolishing the PIC overnight, but it’s a significant improvement over the literal slave labor most corporations employ, while raking in the entirety of a prisoner’s surplus and setting them up for recidivism.

[cinemaglow]

Y'all….this isn’t slave labor the way the vast majority of prusin labor is. They have a 30 hour work week and pay their employees a LIVING WAGE. Also the company was founded after talking to women in prison about their lives and needs

[tronsgender-deactivated20210113]

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It is here, in wistful eccentricity, that I find I mull the veil between wake and sleep—yearning with a desperation—to bring my fantasy to tangibility. I am found dancing a lonesome waltz with a phantom beneath the moonlight. I am found singing a melody that, with a persistence, penetrates the virgin silence. My song is not melancholy nor longing for another—but a lament that I cannot have which I so fervently crave. As my love exists between wake and sleep alone, and they too waltz with a missing, intangible phantom.

[crowpocrypha]

Gloomy nighttime Mina rant? You guessed it. I know these aren't really what people come to this blog for but: I drop them anyway.

I'll repost on sidenotes since that blog is intended for this kind of stuff.

I love to create. I've been mulling over a lot of my content push as of late because: I'm now seeing there's an audience interested in it—but I feel like I'm stuck in a rut without a place to go.

I still feel incredibly insecure about my art, writing, and even my poetry— despite the validation I get from people in my day to day life.

I write poetry to vent and stimulate, and while I can call myself a "Poet" on my resumé: I don't want to be a "poet".

As some of you may know, I'm writing a novel titled Onyx Feathers on Snow—and I use some of the sets from my OFOS universe in Crowley in Arkham—and characters and themes.

I never really wanted to dedicate as much time as I do to CIA: I always had the intention of using it to get comfortable writing dialogue exchange— but eventually it felt more like "Get it out. Quantity over quality."

Which is why there was a tonal shift back in October: so that I could bring back some semblance of "quality" to it.

Ironically, the way I write Jon? I absolutely despise— but I felt like he couldn't feel too much like a character that already existed in the universe I have: Luciel Bright. My criminologist/detective in my wip "Lady In White" the work that bore my first short-story back in 2019.

I'll probably end up reworking CIA to be more appealing to me: I was writing it during a horrible episode while I was overseas, and though I no longer have the time I had before, I still adore that someone reads CIA and people enjoy something I made.

I got overzealous when I realized I could have a following that is less interested in me and more interested in what I make.

Though this blog is mostly people interested in my shitposts and my Scarecrow simpage— I do like to know I don't have people following me because of something superficial.

It's just not for me.

I like that I can say something I think and have both validation and criticism.

I know that my followings absolutely do not overlap: and while I find that difficult to juggle— I can understand why.

The people who read my books aren't going to be interested in my livestreaming, and those that are—come join! I talk about my manuscripts all the time and you can hang out as I rant about my trial-and-error process and some of my concerns with major plot points or pondering the potential interpretations of my narrative.

Sometimes, I join the Jetwaves and we read standardized reading and give commentary on them.

I guess I did start this post regarding my insecurity on my internet persona, and whether or not I'll have to abandon it.

I don't want to— and I don't see myself doing that— but, you'll have to get used to these long bouts of be not posting much or— not much of interest.

I just have very little time; now that I've returned to my normal responsibilities and a full-time job.

I have to cut my work hours again for school— and while I love a lot of my daily job-- I'm woefully underpaid and my management is just disrespectful. (Quietly voicing my qualms with my corporate overlord—thank god nobody that works with me follows me)

I just have very little time to put towards what I want to do— that's to dedicate to my goal and– I hate to sound ignorantly romantic:

My dreams.

All I want out of life is to write a good book and be a decent author—but sometimes I think I'm not as passionate about writing as I should be.

I have no drive to write.

Sometimes, someone reminds me of the world I see in my mind’s eye and the sensations I feel walking through it. The look of the mountains looming overhead, the smell in the wind, the taste of the air, the feeling of the ground below, the bustling sound of the towns— I am taken with inspiration at the crunch of snow underfoot.

It's only then, when I'm forced to remember— that I want to write.

When someone is delighted by something I've written—or even cared to read it at all.

I want to write.

Yet, my father, who I trust much and appreciate now that I have him in my life: treats my dreams as he treated them before he read "Man of Glass"—like they were impossible and unrealistic.

I had to get published before my father realized it was a viable option for me.

I believe that to be my biggest qualm with him.

Sorry for going on for so long about this: I'll head to bed now. Thanks for reading, anyway.

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I know it's super petty: but I used to envy another writer I knew in highschool very severely because she had a publisher already considering her novel.

It was a dystopia, and from the length I had read of it: purely for the point of being edgy.

It didn't offer anything that hadn't been said before, and any commentary you could draw out of it had been beaten to death by more prolific books.

That made me so angry—for no justified reason.

It was a book with an audience.

The reason I was upset was because she had done what I was trying to do: with less than half the time invested.

Sometimes, I think about scrapping all my major projects and just crapping out a YA romantica.

Goodbye to years of world development and writing—just start anew with something I'm not passionate about at all.

Maybe write a mute-point dystopia with a bad name.

Sometimes, I wonder if maybe my family is right about my goals being both unachievable and laughable.

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It's when I'm under the influence that I feel most violently.

I jumped at a shadow, and suddenly the flush of arousal snared me like a rabbit trap.

It's always that way, whether roller-coaster or sudden gunfire: my retort is always sexual arousal: it concerns me often.

My most vivid nightmares prey on it: I fond it difficult to explain. A euphoric thrill with the chokehold of terror lurking just barely underneath it, or, sometimes, the feeling of arousal that's pinned beneath the immovable feeling of dread.

I cannot decide whether or not it's good, but I do know I don't process fear or anxiety as I ought. I believe I've conditioned myself from a young age to associate fear with sex.

Sorry, presently inebriated— maybe sidenotes for a different time.

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Sometimes I wonder if the things I do and say are part of the charade, or are things I really feel.

I am better than when I was young: my hypersexualization greatly reduced after years of psychological guidance. Though, the emotional numbing: nit so much.

I usually rely on chemical crutches to experience emotions in any capacity: usually tryptamines to force myself to feel things that aren't aggression or doubt, with the side effects being nearly manic outbursts.

I do think my emotional trouble is the root of my "governed by lust and fear" idea, as when there is nothing else present, those primitive feelings are unshakable.

There's of course more to that, but, who's listening, right?

I often wonder if my perceived emotion is just a placebo, something I've acted out so many times it has become some semblance of real:

It would explain why my emotional numbing is undetectable by most, save foreign scenarios: like grief.

I don't believe I can even feel grief, to be entirely honest.

I grieved Claire because I hated myself for not upholding a promise I'd made to her.

I have not grieved the death of anyone else.

Maybe just a side effect of my emotional detachment? I wouldn't know. I'm not a doctor.

My only motivation in becoming one was always to understand myself and others in the desperate hope that I might achieve some semblance of normalcy.

Though— "normal" isn't something that I think exists, and if it does, I don't qualify in the slightest.

Not in terms of "haha I'm quirky" but rather, I just know that I don't share common experiences with others.

I can only seem to develop superficial relationships with others, just far enough to know, but not understand.

It's all very disappointing.

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I distinctly remember how it looked when the maroon blood was swept away by the hose. Like watercolor on a glossy canvas: or a strram rippling through the shallow ruts in the pavement.

Blood is blood, old or young.

It looks the same when it washes away, it looks the same with it's dark red outline when it dries.

It looks the same spattered.

It looks the same smeared.

Blood behaves as rigidly as bones: sometimes pink, sometimes yellow, always pale. Sometimes brown, sometimes yellow, always red.

Washing away the blood, like the tragedy never occurred at all. I'm meant to move on, like the tragedy never occurred at all.

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In my dying branch, our christmas tree is little more than a memorial.

Riddled in ornaments dedicated to those we have lost.

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It's a different feeling, to be unknowable. You somewhat get used to treating everyone the same in their fleetingness. Long-term friends and partners isn't something I have the liberty of enjoying, I'm too brief a spectre.

People know me at an arm's length, the feel closer to me than they really are. They find that I'm open, that I haphazardly let experiences slip from my lips that I'm being brave, sharing things that ought be hard to share.

The truth is, those things are the easiest to share.

The worst of it, I still keep behind closed doors. Not because I fear it but—because I abhor being seen as a wounded animal.

I despise pity.

I don't want to wedge others' authenticity by telling them about my wounds and scars. I'm an ultimately selfish creature.

I don't want to prey upon others' empathy, but I want to explain why it is the way I am: and I can seldom find a perfect median.

I always believed that "people like me only exist in fiction," and until I meet someone else that convinces me otherwise: I'll continue to believe that.

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I do hate having to constantly bite the bullet on my preferred name;

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Damned to a world without room: should I take the world or run from it?

It is tempting to take.

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Thrashing.

I can't describe the feeling as anything but thrashing.

It's painless, yet, compressive.

I can't think when it starts thrashing, all I can feel is it's want. It's a violent feeling that rips the seams of my mind.

A lightheaded feeling that plugs my ears and rattles my mind--like my rationality short circuits and all that wants to talk is the silence. It's loud, the silence. It chatters, the silence.

It makes me stutter and pause-- it swallows my thoughts and reason. It's desperate for me to follow. It isn't sound like the other.

It flails about like an animal, self-fulfilling and thoughtless.

The only way to exonerate it from my mind it to coo at it, it quells when it hears stories. So, I tell it stories. Many true, many untrue.

It loves stories that reminds it of itself the most.

For those stories it silences entirely.

It loves a good horror story.

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Quell the aching of my heart with the caramel rivers of the most jovial toxins.