Chaos Neatly Folded

Currently folding chaos into origami. Expect: dramatic characters, emotional damage (fictional, probably) and the dark occasional existential black coffee break. Caution: contents may shift during introspection.

[fluffydarkmatter]

in case you find this place

This is the little corner where I leave fragments of story and thoughts.

Right now, it’s mostly one story: Fold - The Frequency of Us, a soft kind of sci-fi about memory and the ache of being known.

If you’re curious, you can read it on Tapas → Read Fold on Tapas

— saejin (and occasionally, Void the cat)

[fluffydarkmatter]

(The Heart Asks Pleasure First - by Michael Nyman)

I’ve been thinking lately about how emotions aren’t as singular as we often describe them.

When someone says “I feel sad” or “I feel happy,” it often hides the complexity underneath. What we usually feel is a composition: a blend of memory, hope, fear, longing... etc..

People often say emotions shouldn’t be explained. That doing so strips them of their value. That they’re powerful because they’re mysterious.

I respectfully disagree. Deeply.

I think emotions can and should be understood. The fact that we often can’t doesn’t mean there aren’t entire universes in there, waiting to be discovered.

Some time ago, I talked with someone about the idea of emotion as a layered structure, that you can divide a concept or feeling into layer after layer, until meaning dissolves. In theory. That conversation changed how I write, and how I listen to myself.

One example that came up was The Piano soundtrack.

There’s a particular piece in there, slow, yearning ("The Heart Asks Pleasure First" - see above). When I listen to it, I don’t just feel “sad” or “calm”. Instead, it’s like my mind is being drawn into something vast and familiar, and yet distant, like the horizon.

So I tried to break it down.

At the surface: It’s a beautiful melody, repetitive rhythm, flowing like water. It sounds like someone speaking without words.

I feel:

Stillness

Melancholy

Longing

One layer deeper: I begin to sense why it feels that way: the music never resolves, it circles, returns, avoids closure.

So the feeling becomes:

Something unfinished

A yearning that doesn’t quite reach its destination

Movement within confinement

A "something" that never hardens

Another layer deeper: Now it’s not just about the music. It’s about the person (or me).

The song opens a door inside me that rarely gets touched. A part of me that understands:

The ache of beauty

The ache of not being fully seen

The weight of expressing emotion without language

The sense that something is being remembered, even if I can’t name it

And one more layer down: now we’re at something wordless.

I feel:

A pressure inside the chest

A slowing of thoughts

A moment of surrender

A sort of weeping that never reaches tears

This is where analysis usually stops, because beyond this, we lose the ability to explain. And in theory, this is where truth begins. A truth people often call subjective, because everyone arrives there through different paths.

But I believe there’s a deeper layer still. I believe the final layer is "purpose". It’s a layer so abstract, so unknown, that everything rational in us resists it. We can sense it, but we can’t grasp it. Like a shape beyond our vision, or a sound just beneath our hearing.

I think it’s there, we just don’t have the hardware, or the language, to fully process it. That's why it aches.

If you’ve ever felt something like that, something too intricate for a single word, I hope you know: there’s nothing wrong with wanting to understand it. Some feelings aren’t there to pass, they’re there to be understood.

[rudamaruda520]

me as a writer

[fluffydarkmatter]

Yep…

[fluffydarkmatter]

Someone left it intentionally. A folded paper shape, placed with too much care to be an accident, set exactly in the center of Saejin’s doorway. Its folds were sharp, clean, deliberate. It looked like a symbol, angular lines built around a closed loop, like a code that had been shaped by hand instead of typed.

There was no note. No name. No way to trace who had been there.

Saejin stood there for a long time before picking it up. Because whatever it was... it was meant for him.

Read on Tapas: 👉 Fold - The Frequency of Us

[fluffydarkmatter]

BL isn’t about who loves who, it’s about how much of oneself the characters are willing to show when love feels impossible.

[fluffydarkmatter]

coffee [kaw-fee] noun / celestial noun / minor deity

A bitter potion summoned at dawn by mortal desperation. Ritualistically brewed in sacred kettles, coffee is the only known substance capable of restarting the human brain after a system crash called "waking up."

Emotionally dark liquid capable of time travel.  Example: "I took a sip and it was suddenly Thursday."

Primary ingredient in human functionality.  Without it, most Homo sapiens revert to their base form: confused humanoids muttering about emails.

A legally acceptable personality substitute.  May be consumed in public spaces to appear social while harboring existential dread.

The only thing standing between ‘haha yeah sure no problem’ and complete annihilation.

[isabellebissonrouthier]

WRITING PROMPTS - Broken

A broken bottle incites the apocalypse.

"You broke me beyond repair."

A broken marriage ends in a fight to the death, not a divorce.

"Don't you dare break my favourite cup."

Soulmates and soulbonds are real, are beloved, are beautiful, but can all be broken by outside entities.

"A broken heart won't kill you, baby."

A mother goes to her daughter's bedroom and finds the window broken from the inside out.

"Break me, bitch. I dare you."

[fluffydarkmatter]

the prompt: "a broken bottle incites the apocalypse" the result: one sleep-deprived Kyle, one cursed tequila bottle, a god in bunny slippers, and exactly one churro offered to save the world.

things escalated. like, neon-raccoons-and-runes-on-your-hand escalated.

Read here

[fluffydarkmatter]

Tequila Apocalypse

It was 3:17 a.m. inside a dimly lit convenience store.

Kyle, who looked like he hadn’t slept in a century, accidentally nudged a bottle of tequila off the shelf. It wobbled once then crashed loudly on the floor. Unfortunately, that was THE bottle. The one with the seal. The only thing holding reality together like a strip of tape across a cracked window.

The cashier, who’d been half-asleep behind the counter, sat up straight startled by the noise.

Kyle stared down at the mess and mumbled: “Oops.”

The floor trembled suddenly. A fissure split open beside the Dorito stand and somewhere, in some corner of the universe, a prophecy began to stir. And then, with a low hiss, a portal opened and an ancient god stepped out of it. He was wearing a bathrobe, bunny slippers that squelched with every step, and had a steaming mug in his hand that read "Ender of Worlds" in gold lettering.

The god looked at the broken bottle, then at Kyle. And sighed.

“…Again?”

Kyle didn’t stick around to ask what “again” meant. He yelled, dropped his chips, and ran for it.

Ten minutes later, he was running through an alley while a flock of ravens with glowing eyes circled overhead, shrieking the chorus of AC/DC's Thunderstruck in perfect pitch.

By sunrise, Kyle had:

Escaped a gang of neon raccoons

Been chased through a fountain by a kid in a Batman costume screaming “Justice!”

Sneezed so hard it caused a brief rain of frogs

Discovered a glowing rune on his palm and tried to wash it off with dish soap

At 9:43 a.m., on the hilltop of a local park where he sometimes jogged, Kyle stopped. Breathless. One shoe on. Clutching a half-eaten churro like for emotional comfort.

The god was waiting.

“This has to stop,” Kyle said gasping. “I swear, I’m not whoever you think I am.”

The god didn’t reply right away, he simply held out the mug.

“A gift,” he said.

Kyle blinked. “What?”

“You shattered the seal. You cracked the balance. Now something has to be returned.”

Kyle looked down at the battered churro, then back at the god. After a long pause, he held it out.

The god took it, bit off the end and chewed slowly. The wind dropped and he sky brightened slowly.

“That’ll do,” the god said.

And then he disappeared with a sigh.

Kyle was left sitting in the grass, barefoot, sticky-fingered, and alone. The world, for now, was no longer ending.

“…I really need to quit tequila.”

[fluffydarkmatter]

I’m a BL / LGBTQ+ writer. Not a pro. No commissions, no fancy setup, just my own quiet space

I don’t write for money. I write for the same reason some people keep plants on their windowsill, really.

Most of my stories begin with a single image, usually a moment between two characters (a gesture, a look, a phrase said, etc…). From that one spark I grow everything else. My writing leans heavily into introspection. I know that’s not the usual tempo, most stories ride on event-driven arcs and fast-paced twists. Mine… slow down. I like to sit with things. Let them build. It’s the tension that gets me… the kind that keeps me up at 3 a.m., reading through dialogue, holding my breath, begging the universe not to let the tension drift sideways just when it’s about to land.

That’s what I want to write: stories that don’t rush to resolve. Characters who aren’t perfect, but feel true.

Anyway, hi! I’m Saejin. I’m new to Tumblr. Actually… I’ve been away from social media for a long time. Life got complicated, and I stopped reaching out. But I’ve decided to express again so now I’m here, trying to share a little of what I create, and maybe connect with others who feel the same kind of pull.