Stuck In A Loop Of Time And Space

Viya (she/her) || Tumblr is my therapy? || the most random place you will find yourself at || Main Blog yet the most random ||

[just-a-kazik]

The sickest feeling is having your garden destroyed but people still wonder why nothing is growing

[just-a-kazik]

I hope to never see the day I lose the ability to see beauty… I find beauty and joy in the simplest of things, the strangest of things, yet I feel someday that may not be the case.

You cannot live a life happy if you cannot find the beauty in the simpleness of things.

[chillandoblivious]

Is this that archive guy yall are obsessed with?

[just-a-kazik]

Ah yes… Journaling Stamps, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

[twoinsaneheartstoppers-deactiva]

this is so stupid but I meed to share it:

jon: *to the eye* is elias friendly?

the eye: yeah he’s pretty friendly

elias: HELLO JON APOLOGIES FOR THE DECEPTION-

jon: *to the eye* I thought you said he was friendly!

the eye: he is, thats not elias

[just-a-kazik]

Never trust what your eyes show you!

[justicewasserved]

tma is a show which spends the first 100 episodes going "look at these monsters. aren't they fucked up. yeah and they're all so happy being monsters who hurt people monstrously" and then the protagonist who you've spent hours listening to at this point becomes one of those fucked up monsters, forcing you to either dismiss him as evil or you have to fully change how you view all the previous monsters. and then they spend the next 100 episodes dealing with that

[just-a-kazik]

The Magnus Archives is a podcast

[6vcr]

water era of my art

[just-a-kazik]

This is pixel art… I am in awe with how beautiful this is

[just-a-kazik]

The story of Orpheus and Eurydice has my heart right now, might do a retelling eventually.

[just-a-kazik]

Anyways, Malevolent has taken a root in my brain and refuses to be weeded out… so I guess I’m in it for the long run. Wish me luck, we might have a new TMA competitor (impossible, nothing could be it, but I’m loving this podcast).

[just-a-kazik]

“Last night, you know, I dreamt of Icarus laughing,” he said quietly, smiling at his hands. “His laughter seemed to fill the skies, the wind carrying his joy across the world, so the sun and ocean had no choice but to grieve his death.”

“Damn, that’s poetic,” Kieran laughed, patting Novul’s shoulder. “But hardly something to dwell on, right? We have work to do.” He stood, reaching for Ferris’ map.

Novul seemed unsure, his eyes returning to the paper in his hands. “Maybe, but I can’t help but feel it means something,” he sighed.

“Well, what did he say?”

Novul looked at him like he just asked for a secret; he seemed worried. “I sat next to him for awhile—he didn’t speak to me at first, just laughed at the Sun as he passed by, and taunted the Ocean as she crashed into the earth below us.

‘They still write poems about you,’ I told him, though I’m not sure why.

He gave me a strange look. ‘Why?’

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I said the first thing that came to mind: ‘You were a tragedy. People find meaning in tragedies, inspiration for their own lives, they love to dwell on those.’

He had looked away as I said that, laughing once more as the Sea crashed into the rocks and sprayed her salty water at our faces. ‘Well,” he hummed, a childlike sparkle in his eye as he looked at me, grinning from ear to ear. ‘There’s nothing tragic about grasping for what you want…”

He paused, looking back up at the Sun with a small, loving smile. ‘…Even if it’s just for a moment.’

And then he was gone, that’s when you woke me up. I don’t know what to make of it.”

[just-a-kazik]

Icarus fell, we all know how the story ends. But do we all know how the story goes?

Born to a world of myth and wonder, he was the son of Daedalus, a master of craft and cunning. In a labyrinth of his father’s making, where shadows and silence intertwined, the boy grew up with dreams that extended beyond the stars. The Sea was vast and the sky infinite, but his spirit was boundless, untamed by the limits of men.

One fateful day, Daedalus, with hands worn from toil and a heart heavy with sorrow, fashioned wings from feathers and wax—wings that would gift them flight. “My son,” he whispered, his voice trembling with both hope and fear, “these wings will carry us away from this prison. But, remember, fly neither too high nor too low. The Sun’s fire and the Sea’s embrace are not our friends.”

Icarus nodded, though his eyes were fixed on the horizon, where dreams and reality seemed to blur. Fitting the wings on, Icarus and his father stood on the edge of the tower, the rocks warm under their feet from the afternoon heat; Icarus himself felt a moment of hesitancy, a moment of fear, as they stood there. This would be their greatest adventure yet, he reminded himself.

With a leap, they soared into the blue expanse, the wind whispering secrets of freedom in their ears. Up and up he flew, carried by the wind. For a moment, the world was theirs—a tapestry of blue and gold, where the Sun kissed the Ocean’s edge.

But the Sun, oh the Sun, with its alluring warmth and blinding brilliance, called to Icarus like a siren’s song. Higher and higher he flew, each beat of his wings a rebellion against the constraints of his mortality. The sky seemed to open for him, and for a moment he was so high up, looking directly at the Sun—he fell so in love with it and the weightlessness of his flight. “Father, look!” he cried, his voice a symphony of exhilaration and defiance.

Yet, in his ecstasy, he had forgotten his father’s warning. The hot wax began to melt, dripping down his shoulders and back, carving scars he couldn’t bring himself to notice. The feathers began to scatter and swirl around him, and in that fleeting moment, as the heavens embraced him with a searing kiss, he realized the price of his hubris. The sky that once promised freedom now offered only his end.

His wings collapsed.

Down, down he plunged, the sea rising to meet him with cold, unyielding arms. The waves swallowed him whole, a silent requiem to his fleeting flight. Daedalus, heartbroken and bereft, watched as his son’s light was extinguished, leaving only the echo of his laughter in the wind.

Icarus fell, and we all know how the story ends. But what they don’t tell you is he laughed as he fell.

He locked his gaze with the Sun that betrayed him so quickly, grinning like a madman. As he plunged towards the Sea, he laughed, not for one second turning away from the Sun. The wind ripped against his face, tearing the mangled wings from his back, his end set and guaranteed... But as he fell, he laughed—a sound both wild and serene, a melody of defiance and joy. He laughed because, in his life of darkness, he had fallen so deeply in love with the Sun and the light it shone. He laughed because, in that moment, he had touched the Sky and felt the warmth of the Sun on his skin.

He laughed because, even in his fall, he had flown.

[just-a-kazik]

Do you think the sun wept over Icarus’ death?

[just-a-kazik]

“But, tell me, do you see the beauty of a dung beetle, Ilija?”

The man behind the counter rolled his eyes. It was the same routine every night. “You appear to take pleasure in all manner of unsightly things,” Ilija chided, only merely glancing at the unnerving painting placed delicately on the counter. “Why don’t you paint what draws actual beauty, Rodya?”

Every night, Roman Stepanovich Kolodko, a crazed artist thought to have lost his mind in the same fire that took his family, pays a visit to the local library—a quaint old shop, outfitted with both the classics and the moderns, delightfully greeting any and all passersby’s. Well… almost all of them.

The offense in the other man’s eyes left in haste, replaced by the crease of an unnerving Cheshire grin. “Why, yes, you’d be right of that, my friend. Other more frivolous painters lack the insight required to perceive beauty in that which offends the eyes. I find I possess a knack for picking out that which is fundamentally beautiful, and bringing that beauty to light through art!”

“Through art,” Ilija repeated.

“Why of course! What better medium to catch an eye? Art encompasses them all—it’s poetic, it’s thoughtfully written out, sculpted to perfection, allowing the eyes to embrace light and color and meaning through just a glance! Think about it—what would the world be had man never smeared dirt on a cave wall? Man found color in clay and berries and foliage, and art was born. I, for one, think the world would be a hell of a place to live if there was no art.”

Ilija sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Perhaps. But you must admit, not all art is equal. Some of it, like yours, is… unconventional, to say the least.”

“Unconventional?” the painter echoed with a laugh. “Perhaps. But it’s in the unconventional where we often find the most profound truths. Art is a universal language, transcending borders and barriers. It captures the essence of humanity, our joys, our sorrows, our hopes, and our fears.”

Ilija folded his arms, leaning back. “Or it confuses and repels. Not everyone sees what you see in your so-called ‘art.’”

The painter’s grin remained, undeterred. “That’s the beauty of it, my friend. Art is meant to challenge, to provoke thought and emotion. Without it, we would be adrift in a sea of emptiness, devoid of the means to express the depth of our experiences.”

“Or perhaps,” Ilija countered, “some of us would be spared the sight of things better left unseen.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” the painter insisted. “In times of darkness, art is a beacon of hope. It can inspire revolutions, comfort the grieving, and celebrate the beauty of life. It’s not just a luxury—it’s a necessity.”

Ilija’s skepticism was evident, but he remained silent. The painter continued, his voice softer now. “Art connects us to each other and to the world. It reminds us that we are not alone in our struggles and triumphs.”

Ilija gave a noncommittal shrug. “If you say so.”

The painter’s grin softened into a look of profound sincerity. “So, you see, art is not just about decoration or entertainment. It is the lifeblood of culture, the heartbeat of humanity. To create art is to engage in the most profound act of human expression, to leave a mark on the world that transcends time and space.”

Ilija remained unconvinced, but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth in the painter’s words. “Well, I suppose someone has to believe that.”

Silence filled the air around them as Rodya’s dazed, dissociated eyes stared into the space separating them, the grin leaving his face, something empty and dark replacing it.

And just like that, Kolodko shook his head, muttering to himself once again, and returned to ignoring Ilija’s existence. He grabbed his painting, a book off the shelf, and stumbled out the doors.

That man is nothing if not an absolute confusion, Ilija thought, switching the light of the front counter off.

[just-a-kazik]

When you grow up in an environment of people who ceaselessly interrupt and ignore, who speak but do not listen; you learn not to speak—it’s simply not worth the effort. And now, when given the opportunity to speak… all the thoughts that rumble and toil in your head vanish, and you’re left stuttering to fill the silence with nonsense, stumbling to work these meaningless fillers into something halfway sensible.

When I am spoken to, and given the opportunity to speak open-ended, it is fruitless. I stutter and laugh to make up for what my brain has done to me—it devours my ability to speak with purpose, to produce a coherent response, to provide meaning to a conversation; I cannot provide reactions, I cannot give advice, I cannot even explain topics of which I am expert without stumbling over broken thoughts like a toddler learning to walk.

In fact… I listen. Perhaps I listen too much. If I only could, I would sit with you for hours and listen to your voice, observe your behavior, give to you without uttering a word—but all falls apart when I am expected to respond, to provide sympathy or advice, to answer a simple question even if it pertains purely to myself.

If I could not speak, perhaps conversation would have more meaning. If I were a mute, perhaps a response would not be expected of me. Perhaps then I could sit peacefully without worry of ruining a conversation.

Maybe I am not meant to have a voice.

[just-a-kazik]

There was one night that lives in a place within my mind I do not visit often. It is not bad—in fact, it happens to bring about a feeling I cannot describe by words, I feel as though you’d need to feel it to in order to properly understand.

This night, I was sat beside my father. He was leaned against a tree, doing the same as I—watching the sky, hypnotized by the vastness of it, with our minds long lost in the stars.

I recall the numb feeling I had grown so accustomed to had slipped away in that moment, leaving nothing but awe and wonder as I watched the stars. I recall, as well, my fear slipping away in that moment, and without hesitation, whispered to my father, “I don’t think you’re a good person.”

He responded almost immediately, though his eyes never left the stars, as though he was as hypnotized as I was. “And you are?” He asked quietly, passively. There was no mockery, no anger… in fact, his expression hardly changed; but do not clock me as the fool—my mind still lingers on the way his lips formed a thin line, and his face tightened ever so slightly.

“No,” I replied. “I am too much like you for that.”

~ Another story that isn’t actually a story lol.

[hamilton---admin]

Welcome to America.

[kal1c0]

As a student council member I say we have to do this now (@just-a-kazik I'm bringing you into this too)

[just-a-kazik]

Well, we don’t have a choice now, we must!

[grimeye-j]

The pattern is long haired men who are always annoyed by him

[chilliesh]

So very normal about them

Inprnt