The Last Unicorn (1982)
“It’s a very rare person who is taken for what he truly is.“
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@lilgraytears
The Last Unicorn (1982)
“It’s a very rare person who is taken for what he truly is.“
Lmao
I’m fucking 23 and i do nothing, my life is nothing, i am nothing
I am so fuckkin pathetic
i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i'm in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.
i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i'm 30, and i'm having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.
what they don't tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don't know what i'm fucking doing, because i always assumed i'd just go ahead and die. i didn't die, and i'm grateful for that, and i'm very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that's my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that's ocd.
so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you're, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don't have any sick days left, and a job's not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it's also like - it's yours, so you're fond of it.
and it's like - you're real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you're not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you're not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you've learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and yeah sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you're trying. even if you're never gonna be normal, you have something... close enough.
and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it's saying i trust you now. you won't give me up.
The people i miss don’t miss me back and that sucks
im painting on leaves again
i’m not sure i’m capable of being loved right now / i feel safe in my quiet way of living and telling my secrets to thread & paper / i don’t know what i’d say if you asked me to know myself / more
Chrysalis
1. @lesbiankermit // 2. acceptance via @heartvibes // 3. @twofigs // 4. @hillergoodspeed // 5. To A Young Poet, Mahmoud Darwish // 6. via lizzobeeating // 7. Prayer, Ghost Quartet // 8. ‘Blossoming’ // 9. @booksandothersecrets // 11. jonmichaelfrank // 12. @holybeings
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best kind of character is “guy who didn’t die when he should have”
1. anne carson 2. moby dick, herman melville 3. breaking bad, fly, dir. rian johnson 4. grief lessons, anne carson
YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN BITE AND SCRATCH AND BEG BUT YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK!
The drama’s done. Why then here does any one step forth?—Because one did survive the wreck.
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (Ch. 1) // Franz Wright, “Empty Stage” // Gregg Araki, “Nowhere” (1997) // Gwendolyn Brooks, Selected Poems // Ana Mendieta, “Silueta Series” (1976) // Hieu Minh Nguyen, “My First” // The Gibsons of Scilly, “The Minnehaha” (1874) // Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (Epilogue) // Euan MacLeod, Figure in Sea above Figure on Hill, 2002 // Ilya Glazunov, Wave, 1987
From the Dialectical Behavior Therapy Skills Handbook [pdf]
An Elasmotherium Unicorn, last of his kind. Wanted to try a more line-art/flat color focused approach for this one.
[ID: Illustration of a very fluffy blue roan unicorn; it’s a hybrid between a horse and an woolly rhinoceros and is looking down at a male cardinal perched on a tree stump. There are numerous other birds on the unicorn’s back and in the flowering hawthorn tree above him. The floor at his feet has a lot of little plants, branches and fir saplings.]
on flowers + loving + hadestown
Orpheus and Eurydice
Auguste Rodin. 1893 / Portrait of a Lady on Fire, 2019/Hadestown on Broadway,2019 / Painting / Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds; The Lyre of Orpheus / Frederic Leighton. 1864 / Hozier; Talk / Nicolas Poussin. 1650 / Carol Ann Duffy; Eurydice / Emil Neide