Fictional Lives Matter

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🎥 Alice Through The Looking Glass (2016)

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One night, when i snuck into the woods

I met a witch reading a book

She was dressed in unknown colors

And emerging from her temple were two large horns

She spoke in the language of death

We danced from midnight till dawn

We drank poison and lived fantasies in the forest

Then she flew me home before the sun came up

Every night, i sneak into the woods

To meet the witch who loves to read books

When she kisses me- it tastes like magic, blood

And my favorites- freedom and love

- @decayindecadent

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FROM MARCELINE TO PRINCESS BUBBLEGUM

That night when you sang that French Lullaby

I saw nothing else but your smile

And your long, curvy eyelashes like angel wings taking flight

You brought back to life the part of me that had been dead inside

When we held hands, I saw you blush

And remembered why I now love the color pink so much

I drank the red from your cheeks

Never has a creature’s taste been so addictive

Later when we danced to Hozier

I took a bite out of your light pink and soft hair

Bonnibel, you are my favorite flavor

You remind me of the sun and it’s warmth

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“Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?”

Mary Oliver, ‘Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches’

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🎥The Intervention (2016)

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He flipped me around so i was staring at our reflections in the mirror on the wall with him behind me.

He rested his head on my shoulder and met my gaze in the mirror, “look at yourself”, he said softly, “why wouldn’t i adore you?”

I bit my bottom lip and didn’t reply. Behind me, i struggled to get my hands out of the cuffs.

He noticed and chuckled faintly. “Do you know what the french call an orgasm?”

I gulped, “what?”

“La petite mort”, he ran his fingers slowly down my spine. I felt goosebumps rise on my skin, “Do you know what it means?”

I shook my head.

He pushed himself against me and slid one hand up, wrapping it around my neck.

“The little death”, he snuck his other hand in between my legs, “now, how about we die a little tonight?”

- @decayindecadent (excerpt from a book I’ll never write)

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I’ll never fully understand why some readers/critics characterize Darcy as one of the original “bad boys.” Yes, he’s haughty and arrogant due to his excessively sheltered, privileged upbringing and innate discomfort interacting with fellow human beings (relatable!), but even at his most insufferably prideful, the man is always obsessed with honor, integrity, courage, honesty, ‘good character’, morals, duty, decency, etc. That’s what drives him, and those are the qualities he seeks in others. 

Even Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper who’s known him since birth, mentions that he comes across as snobby, rigid and uptight in large part because he’s not a pleasure-seeking, careless rogue like many his age. (I’m totally paraphrasing, but you get the gist!) Jane Austen gave us a prototypical ‘bad boy’ in this novel, but it’s Wickham, not Darcy. (And Jane Austen knew even back then what most modern writers have forgotten—that in reality, these ‘bad boys’ are not desirable long-term partners who women can magically ‘reform’, but the type of men we should be wary of and avoid ever truly trusting!) He broods over the fact that Elizabeth refers to him as being less than a perfect gentlemen—to a man like Darcy, that really is the ultimate insult. 

So to me the admittedly highly flawed Darcy is actually the OPPOSITE of a bad boy, and I think literature and real life could use a lot more men who value honor, decency, integrity, honesty, courage, etc. half as much he does! 

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“Forward is forward. You're taking steps every day to get to where you want to be, and it's enough. No matter how fast or slow you go, you're enough.”

- Daniell Koepke, Daring To Take Up Space

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🎥Dead Poets Society (1989)

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There were more stars than usual in the night sky and we lay underneath- on the green grass, gazing in silence.

“Are you okay?”, she asked.

“I’m tired”

“Let’s go to bed then”

“It’s not that type of tired”

From the corner of my eye, i could see she was staring at me now, “What’s your type of tired like?”

I inhaled deeply, “It’s like there’s a black hole in my chest”, i said, “slowly sucking in my will to live”, i added, “I can’t stop it. I’m not sure i want to but it scares me and it hurts so much”

- @decayindecadent , excerpt from a book I’ll never write

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“‘What do you mean, you don't feel real? Try and put it a different way for me-‘

-But there is no word to describe the feeling of disappearing and being there at the same time."

- Yrsa Daley-Ward, The Terrible: A Storyteller’s Memoir

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“I only believe in one thing”

“What is that?”, she asked.

“Loving you”

She blinked once, “what?”

“I believe in what i feel for you. I believe in it so much that it gives me hope”, i explained, “Every morning, when i wake up- I believe that no matter how bad the day gets, I’ll survive it as long as i have you. Loving you is my religion”

- @decayindecadent (excerpt from a book I’ll never write)

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🎥Tuck Everlasting (2002)

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The Nymphet In My Dreams

I saw her again last night

In my dreams

Caramel skin, dark eyes and a forced smile

That looked too real

We met at the usual place

Behind the oldest bookshelf in the library

She wore a tweed skirt and a black shirt with long sleeves

To cover the art she created on her wrists

When i kissed her, she shuddered

And quick breaths escaped her lips

Glistened tears streamed down her cheeks

Still, I reveled in our salty kiss

The world could have been on fire

But it would not have mattered

As long as she was mine and allowed me remain hers

For without her, who was i?

She looked up at me and i stared into her eyes

Dark pools of intensity with nothing beneath them

-but love, fear, and two hearts beating as one

As she made her request

If i could go back in time-

I would have said yes again

If she had asked a million times-

my answer would remain the same

We made our escape at dawn

Down the road leading to the country

I had no clue as to where life would take us

It would be fine as long as she was with me

The world could have been on fire

But it would not have mattered

As long as she was mine and allowed me remain hers

For without her, who was i?

- @decayindecadent

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On March 28, 1941, Virginia Woolf filled the pockets of her overcoat with rocks and walked into the River Ouse near her house. Before this, she wrote this letter to her husband, Leonard.

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“I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy.”

- Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

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🎥The Double (2013)

“It’s like I’m permanently outside myself. Like...like you could push your hands straight through me if you wanted to. And i could see the type of man that i want to be versus the type of man i actually am, and I know that I’m doing it but I’m incapable of doing what needs to be done. I’m like Pinocchio. I’m a wooden boy, not a real boy. And it kills me”

- Simon