Your Friendly Neighborhood Immortal

Genderfluid (he/him default please), Doing My Best

[eonsgoneby]

Welcome, treasured friends, hated enemies, and the rest of you, to I Take Myself Too Seriously Central. Here we have:

Spooky Prompts to get those Spooky Brains Working

An inflated sense of self importance masking insecurity for days

Various ✨Aesthetic Images✨

Reblogs of whatever I find that Vibes

Witchery shit

The ramblings of an immortal who’s stressed, depressed, and trying his very best

May you all have a wonderful day, and in the shamelessly stolen paraphrased words of @kittyhorrorshow, your wings are always there under the skin of your shoulders, and the dread in your stomach will always be waiting to guide you through.

[prophetic-writer]

It's also normal to have weeks where you don't write for no real reason in particular. You don't have to justify unproductivity

[sirbonesly]

@anonmousegosqueak @writer-fennec @ihaventgotaclue-really

[anonmousegosqueak]

Oh yeah, definitely!

...for everyone else...

not me tho, I gotta write and write and write and if i don't than all y'all are wasting your time and I don't deserve y'all...

BUT EVERYONE ELSE SHOULD TAKE BREAKS AND SHOULD TRYING TO APOLOGIZE FOR NOT CREATING ALL THE TIME 24/7

[eonsgoneby]

>:C

[ex0skeletal-undead]

by Thibault Savary

This artist on Instagram

[sparkemberflame]

@eonsgoneby it u

[eonsgoneby]

@sparkemberflame, You’re smaller than I remember

[sparkemberflame]

1. ill eat ur hat

2. is that a size joke? *eyebrow waggle*

[eonsgoneby]

Good luck with that, I’ll get you the tabasco, have a Grand Old Time, and what else would it be? *eyebrow waggling but harder than yours*

[eonsgoneby]

The Platform

This place was never meant to be empty.

Sure, the ground loathes when you tread upon it, and the escalators’ dutiful chugging is underlaid by strained groans and hateful squeals whenever it’s forced to take your weight. Sure, the grey of the walls saps the light and warmth and sound from the space, leaving any crowd feeling empty and alone. And sure, with each train that comes, the doors seem to linger longer before begrudgingly struggling open to permit you entrance, and maybe, if you’re lucky, passage to somewhere, instead of another nowhere. Every aspect of the space glowers and bids you move along.

But it was never meant to be empty. Your footsteps weren’t meant to be audible over the silence, and your heartbeat ought to be drowned out by the nervous muttering of people going from somewhere to somewhere, not thrumming in the emptiness of the space. And no space this empty has the right to be this warm, the stale air humid with the breath of people who aren’t there.

The Immortal passes through.

[ex0skeletal-undead]

by Thibault Savary

This artist on Instagram

[sparkemberflame]

@eonsgoneby it u

[eonsgoneby]

@sparkemberflame, You’re smaller than I remember

[eonsgoneby]

a spark floats in the air before your face - a light breeze carries it along the lakeside, bobbing along as it disappears into the distance, red brighter than that of the waters. time sure is fleeting sometimes.

The Immortal watches the spark as it drifts, letting his mind go with it. He returns to an older time, a different forest, one notably more flammable than the one he finds himself in now. Somewhere solid, back when solidity was more than a mockery. A man with a sword, a fight, a shout, a start, and something older still...

He continues on.

[eonsgoneby]

The Waiting Room

This room is not meant to be stayed in, and every square foot has dedicated itself to reminding you.

Plastic chairs, uncomfortably warm from the last body trying to make a seat of them.

Magazines with yellow block text expressing the outrage and scandal of figures you don't recognize, but whom you think you may seen somewhere before. Perhaps they graced the tissue paper covers of other periodicals, or once flashed across:

the eternally silent television, its color washed out, the white-on-black text sliding by too fast to process. You get the distinct impression that if you were to try, whatever is happening would slide through your mind and root there, mycelium drifting through your head in search of something to latch onto and burrow into.

But at least it's making an effort to catch your eye. The same can't be said for the walls, entirely bare, which your eyes skate over in search of something, anything to focus on.

It's warm enough to make you sweat through your heavy jacket, and cold enough to keep every muscle in your back tense as you try not to shiver once it's off.

The doors, both sets, are forever swinging open and shut, each motion punctuated with a noise that skips right to the intersection of spine and skull. People pass through them, yet here you are. Why haven't you joined them yet?

The crowd is moving on without you.