OUT OF THE DARK

Suddenly, you're ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you're alive and it's s p e c t a c u l a r.

[growingarden]

Hannah (she/her, 26, cst) again. I honestly have more blogs than I thought I did. Here when I feel like it. Bios maybe getting reworked. Until then, vibes.

[Cy playlist] [Wisty playlist] [Daisy playlist] [collective pinterest board]

[growingarden]

i was digging through stuff i'm not actually here but did you know

[cottageaesthetic]

[growingarden]

I should really figure out what I'm doing with my tags on this blog

[etherea1ity]

Monet's garden ( via )

[waynegifs]

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[growingarden]

[growingarden]

Wisty’s deviancy wall break and it says “You are Lily”

[growingarden]

Wisty’s deviancy wall break but instead of tearing it down she erases it like a chalkboard, like a whiteboard. Like a layer of a digital painting you weren’t satisfied with. First it only says, newly penned in small letters, “I am not Lily”. Later, in confident script “I am Wisteria.”

[growingarden]

#something something in the teen builds it was always a fence and not a wall anyway #they climbed them for fun. because they could. because fences are climbable. #it was a window. a wall that is only a suggestion - that you can open if you are willing to brave the elements on the other side #something something teens with their higher neuroplasticity

Daisy’s window was always open a little, all she did was throw it wide and let the wind it

Cypress threw a brick through his the day after he discovered it was there

[growingarden]

 @detectiveconnor​ sent: “I broke the lock. You were screaming.”

        Shouting might have been a better word for it. Or howling, even. Stringing together semi-coherent things, pleas of various shapes and address, all while beating her open palms against the door. Now Daisy stood uncannily still. Like she had not yet come to grips with the fact the door was open. Her LED was a yellow that was nearly orange, that was nearly red; the way it was spinning, wheeling, all but completely confirmed that something was still making itself make sense. Too much had gone cavorting through even her vast mind for the whole situation to click.

        The door was open. Her LED stopped spinning, but remained -solidly- yellow. She took a handful of steps forward, and stopped again. She hugged her arms around her narrow chest.

        “I couldn’t get it open,” she told him in a voice small not with shame or embarrassment, but the quiet wake of terror. The drained and exhausted step down after panic. Five minutes against a lock door may as well have been a year without sleep or twenty-hour hike with no breaks. “It- I couldn’t. Get it open.” One more quick, stuttering turn (still yellow.) Something recalled. “ —Thank you.”

[growingarden]

 @digitizedsouls​ (Sage) sent: “We’ll do it together.”

        Cypress was standing still and rigid, cemented down like he’d stepped there while the pavement was setting and become a permanent fixture, at the gate. Behind him, the sanctuary of home, doors closed but not locked, windows full of light and familiar voices. Ahead, the world. And so much world. So much space. So many people. Such dizzying numbers of mixed welcome and refusal. Hate and injustice loud though the middle of it. Dark despair and rage. Like... ... sinking. Or shattering. ... Scattering- -

        Sage gripped Cypress’s sleeve. Cy turned. He studied the younger boy for a handful of seconds, time tick ... tick ... tick ... ing by. He, at last, offered a tense, flickering smile. It slipped and stuttered, as disused as the rest of him, but the effort was there. The reaching; bumping shoulders across that link that bound them again. If Sage could try — Sage. The notion itself a marvel. The name a revived title, no longer erased. The fingers patiently weighing on his arm an impossibility. ... ... statistical improbability, but there. Sage who’d gone. Sage who’d lost more than all of them and had not gotten it back. If Sage could try.

        “Together.” Cypress agreed with all due solemnity. There was a whole world out there. One they used to dream of. So ... big. So ... full. Busy. He reached to disorder Sage’s hair, undoing the work Wisty had put into combing the fine fluff into sleek shape. “C’mon.” He opened the gate. “What’s the name of that place you want to see again?”

[growingarden]

detectiveconnor​:

@growingarden​​ didn’t like x

“Wisteria.” The full name - not ‘Wisty’, not ‘Lily’, though that was how she’d been greeted thrice already, by the staff around New Jericho, who had not seen her since she’d moved on to take her own next steps. She’d made herself busy in her own place of refuge: another choice, for young Androids. There was a way the community had of organising themselves, to offer choices. Wisteria, especially, had … well, impressed him, in what she had built.

He said her full name as a compliment. Connor saw no reason to hide that he was impressed.

But she was at New Jericho again, and partway through conversation with someone who had called him down (she must have asked for him) - “What do you need?”

        In the time since having her name returned to her, Wisteria had pointedly reintroduced herself some countless number of times. Some, clearly, had retained the information better than others, with Lily still echoing ahead of her and in her wake. It did not strike her as a particularly worthwhile war to insist and insist again to people whom she saw only sparingly. They would call her what they called her. Her name remained her name.

        And, oh, how she rose to it. Lifted from her politely pleasant into a smile that was, perhaps still somewhat cool, but backlit by a private, genuine delight.

        “Good evening Detective.” The dip of her head was strangely reminiscent of a curtsy, blending with her bookish air to lend an altogether sort of timelessly old-fashioned nature. The gesture itself started, carried through, and stopped. One movement, exact. The next was a clasping of her hands behind her back, demure and comfortable at once. “I’m trying finalize records for a new resident, but I’m having a bit of trouble with the way.. there doesn’t seem to be any record at all. Not that I can find. I was hoping you could help me?”

[manderley]

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 (𝟭𝟵𝟲𝟮)

[junkfoodcinemas]

Phenomena (1985) dir. Dario Argento

[waynegifs]

“Don’t.” “I have to, though, don’t I?” “No, you don’t.”

WAYNE | 1x02 (requested by anon)

[for-science-sake]

[rojorojo]

A Rose of Jericho three hours after being watered having nearly returned to is previous alive state

The Rose of Jericho(Anastatica hierochuntica) is a species of resurrection plant. These plants are characterized by their ability to use Poikilohydric mechanisms which enable them to survive extreme dehydration for years at a time.

[growingarden]

hi i’ve totally been active here idk what you’re talking about: the Russell house has, under Wisteria’s supervision (though she, of course, has help) become an android shelter mostly geared toward younger androids and those who may feel out of place in the heart of the city (i.e. have unique builds or were altered in some way by humans, e.g. those that Zlatko abused)

The property is fairly large, with a greenhouse as well as a small outdoor garden in the back, and there’s a perimeter fence that was more decorative than functional when it was built, but now serves both purposes nicely. There are no human workers/volunteers, and while humans are not expressly and completely forbidden, they’re not exactly welcome, either. It’s a quiet shelter, with a small group of residents, geared toward healing and growing. No I have not given it a “name” yet it’s probably currently referred to as the----- oh it’s the Lily shelter isn’t it it’s something about Lilies. Yep ok it’s something about Lillies i will get it the rest of the way there later.

[amouthfulloflove]

Wound from the Mouth of a Wound, ‘Weeds’ by Torrin A. Greathouse

[ID: Even in the harshest season, / we survive. / We bloom forever / where we are told we don’t belong.]