Have you read the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness sequel books that came out in like 2020?
omg no I haven't, i've had people tell me they were good but I haven't gotten around to it, I am also a bit wary because I thought the chronicles of ancient darkness was soooo good and well ended. (Also what if my favorite characters die.) but should I try to find them? Would you recommend?
I think even slightly understanding the world gives rise to so many beautiful metaphors. What I wouldn't give for a chemist to write a book and use galvanized zinc coatings on iron as a parallel for like a toxic relationship between two characters. Or the poetry of metal generally being regarded as a strong and unyielding material but most metals being in a constant process of reverting to an oxidated state (corrossion). Perhaps I just want more highly specific nerds to write poetically. Also don't ask me about these things I only know the basics
(also something something about languages being littered with textile metaphors related to the women who were spinning yarn as they were spinning tales.)
For those that wish to avoid reading a long caption, be cautious in scrolling and avoid this message as quickly as you can. To summarize, I’ve been dissecting what it means to grieve those no longer in my life and that I have simply been obsessing over this character from the past again – still mine, but part of my life I can’t revive. Also, please just enjoy the art, I thought it was fun.
As I propel through journey’s of grief, some further from the path than others I find these specific comforts in the digital realm. I still read through messages to an old friend, and our jokes sometimes echo in my mind as a way to amuse myself. I don’t find myself yearning for our contact as much as before; but perhaps rather the products of our conversation. The new content we produced that now has gone out of production. It’s all documented in our digital features, but I doubt it will tell me something new anymore, even if I can continuously think and guess what I’d say, and what the response would be.
My grandma’s passing has left me with about 50 pictures and 4 videos in my personal collection. There is a certainty that there are more, but I still haven’t received them. I’ve scoured through them and talk to her face that is just a manifestation of the light at that moment as if I can continue to pursue her aliveness. It seems like the woman that withered away is much farther than the one that used to join us on vacations and playfully slapped my hand with significant force when I was not quick enough to pull it away from the table. Her presence was always marked with aliveness and a spark in her eyes, leading me to the thought that her death is so out of character that there’s no reality in it. I think of the woman that gave me wet kisses, that bought me to school and walked miles away from me when I couldn’t keep up and who was always swinging her leg sitting in our blue chair. She always retained her humour which was so iconic I thought it should be written down in the history books, but I barely recall more than five of her common phrases. She feels closer than ever, and it frightens me that with every day I spend the distance becomes greater, with my grief not being a matter of a week but rather of months in which there is some supposed deadline for tearfulness even though the reservoir still fills up. I am frightened to let go of my grief, carrying it in my bag alongside my nifty belongings for the fear that if I let go, it is like the weight of the loss will sit heavier on my conscience.
It’s been more than 10 years since my first Guinea Pig passed. I recall his brother searching the pen and my initial thought being such a profound sadness at my inability to explain dead to this dumb little being as I towered over it. Now I find myself unable to comprehend. A quiet certainty that we’ll talk again and a constant floating question of ‘where are you?’ that perhaps should be rephrased as ‘what are you?”
I hope you are dancing and swinging, that somewhere there’s still that twinkle in your eye, that maybe you can sit inside my chest and smell the flowers when I invite you to. That when I eat the things you like, you are sitting next to me enjoying it as well. I hope you miss me too.
Why do I cry when I don’t accept this distance, while at the same time having made peace with it?
The digital gives me the opportunity to become a stalker of what I once was a participant of, and I question my sanity in rereading old conversations and laughing at old jokes. At the same time, I meet people I have no recollection of. The old conversations with my friend are still a testimony to the live we shared, and the fun we had. I’ve found it painful to reread our end, as it is related to the words never said and the tensions between. I don’t think it could’ve been cured as I seem to need a certain degree of loss as a catalyst of growth. This drawing shows one of the characters we talked about together. I think I still find creativity and potential in there, and while it’s mostly the spinning of own mind, I find it hard to not imagine you sitting in the audience. Perhaps it is because this character is so related to the concept of memories, loss and grief that I find myself yearning to discuss it.
literally entering my abusive husband era like i want to punch a hole in the wall because i removed some of mykeys frommy laptopand now theyre broken!!! So I have to order new ones (which are somehow like 30 euros) if you'r ewondering how I can still type I just have to press the Super Tiny Buttons which is soooannoying and my drawing tablet pen has also been working absolutely horrible, drwaing lines when they aren't there So i just flung it across the room. i am trying to relax but the world wants me down. i also got some ominous feedback from my professors soooo if you guys see me with broken knuckles you know whats up
Working in the museum and one of yhe guests when leaving says "thank you it was very interesting" and you respond "Oh really? Thats nice to hear!" But she keeps walking so you end up just saying "Oh, Really?"
It kind of fucks with me that somebody killed ötzi the iceman because ötzi himself is like whatever but the silent presence of human hands that drew back the string of the bow that shot the arrow that killed him is crazy. the idea that there were various people involved in that situation and while one of them has had his last hours painstakingly reconstructed and studied to no end, the others now only exist insofar that an arrowhead had to get into his shoulder somehow. imagine killing someone and then suddenly your entire existence is only a vague shadow implied by the fact that you killed them. much to consider
Testing the mummified bone marrow of ötzi to figure out his ancestry whole time there’s definitely another person, maybe more than one, standing in the room with us but I can never see or speak to them because I only know them through the assurance that they were there too in the form of one single arrowhead. I hate prehistory so much it’s unreal
WHY did I just read an article researching natural rubber that was talking about its production and went like 'the discovery has been surprisingly recent! Of course, mesoamerican societies discovered it as well, but it hasn't been seen in the civilised world until the 15th century." like. That's insane. It's from 2011 as well so not even that old?
Thought of eating a fresh plum today and got transported to that road of longing which rivals (and dare I say, surpasses) the type that comes to those alienated from the seaside. Fresh beach wind will have nothing on the path i'll take past tranquil orchards and tiny sheep to buy a kilo of pesticide free purple fruits.
I don't know about you guys, but my professors will send me on a quest far up north with merely a mysterious citation that I must unravel. I've journeyed through the mountainous terrain of JSTOR, found myself haggling with the cunning merchants of Google Scholar and have dropped at my knees at the doors of Taylor & Francis for a place to stay for the night. PDF! PDF! I asked, begged and pleaded.
I fear to come home with no results, that my failure to achieve the impossible does not reflect well on my scholarly attitude. A new ache in my stomach makes itself known, as does the virus knocking at my door.
Artwork I made a while ago which was supposed to accompany the beginning of my story or something. trying out a style... I find landscapes so incredibly difficult digitally, even though there's so much options to easily add texture and noise. Perhaps that is what bothers me. I can never quite get it right. Well! It was just an experiment.