SOULFUL SUGGESTIONS FOR SOULFUL CREATURES

stormy posts to make your soul feel alive run as a sideblog [24. she/her]

[soulfulsuggest]

feel the rain on your skin. no one else can feel it for you, only you can let it in.

[wavebf]

with weather worn hands i raise this quiz to you: what position would you be on a ship?

[soulfulsuggest]

there is nothing like candlelight.

candlelight is warm and gentle. amber, golden, flickering. it causes a sensation known as coziness. you feel close, sheltered and safe in its light. candlelight brings you together, and comforts when you are alone. it’s breaking bread with your family in the kitchen, full of weary talk about the newly passed day. it’s hot soup and a crusty loaf with butter melting quick. it’s playing board games while the power is out, only safe around the table where the light is. it’s knitting by the fire in your favourite chair, the clock ticking on the mantle. it’s when you’re bleary-eyed but reading, long past midnight, desperate to find out what happens next. it’s roaming around hidden passages, dressed in nightgowns and robes. it’s ghost stories with friends, animated and quiet. it’s the flickering, wavering last drop of hope you have before your stomach plunges into dread.

there is nothing quite like it.

[soulfulsuggest]

the air is thick and rumbling sounds from above, restless and angry. all at once, rain hisses down from the sky in great sheets and the wind begins to whip. shadows of trees dance ominously, furiously, warning you. but you are not inside.

[soulfulsuggest]

timber creaks as the ship rolls over the ocean. you’re stood on deck, looking out into the night. below, people are singing by candlelight, and you can just make out the tune. the wind whips around you as it always does, and you feel wide awake. spray, bitter and cold, jumps aboard, high enough to rain droplets across your cheek. the stars are out, the sky is clear. you try to name every constellation. the moon is bright and beautiful, as she always is. her beams dance on the waves, a brilliant white on black. tonight is a fine night.

[soulfulsuggest]

impart some ancient wisdom in the middle of a conversation, then make yourself scarce before they have chance to catch up with what you just said.

[soulfulsuggest]

you sit in an old wicker chair by a large fireplace made of stone, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you are finally resting. the logs crack and the fire roars. you have stories to tell. but they can wait. you are resting.

[soulfulsuggest]

the village inn is warm and filled with chatter. the locals are kept cosy and safe from the storm that rages outside. in the hearth a fire paints the room with an amber glow. laughter rises above the hum of all the voices mixed together, replaced soon after by children’s squeals of joy. it’s past their bedtime but no one seems to mind. tankards of beer are downed. a fiddle is being played in the corner and sweethearts dance to its tune. old fisherfolk tell tall tales and men in uniforms beat their fists on sticky wooden tables, cards in hand.

you are the stranger who causes silence to fall. the ice cold winds disappear into stillness as you walk into the wall of warmth, but you can still feel the ghost of them batter against your cheek. your heavy coat drips water onto the floorboards that creak underfoot. your boots are covered in mud from a faraway place. you pull down the hood that did not protect you from the storm, your hair is a damp mess. you look at them all, then walk toward the bar uncaring. you feel for coin in your pocket, hoping the currency is right. you need a drink and do not mind the stares. no one seems to want to fight you, but you feel safe knowing you can reach for the dagger hidden on your person. you wonder if you remembered to wipe it clean from earlier and take a long drink from the overflowing tankard served to you. you ask for a room. how many nights? the barman asks. you do not answer.

[soulfulsuggest]

...

...

no.

[soulfulsuggest]

well I—

...

uh...

I...

[soulfulsuggest]

the village inn is warm and filled with chatter. the locals are kept cosy and safe from the storm that rages outside. in the hearth a fire paints the room with an amber glow. laughter rises above the hum of all the voices mixed together, replaced soon after by children’s squeals of joy. it’s past their bedtime but no one seems to mind. tankards of beer are downed. a fiddle is being played in the corner and sweethearts dance to its tune. old fisherfolk tell tall tales and men in uniforms beat their fists on sticky wooden tables, cards in hand.

you are the stranger who causes silence to fall. the ice cold winds disappear into stillness as you walk into the wall of warmth, but you can still feel the ghost of them batter against your cheek. your heavy coat drips water onto the floorboards that creak underfoot. your boots are covered in mud from a faraway place. you pull down the hood that did not protect you from the storm, your hair is a damp mess. you look at them all, then walk toward the bar uncaring. you feel for coin in your pocket, hoping the currency is right. you need a drink and do not mind the stares. no one seems to want to fight you, but you feel safe knowing you can reach for the dagger hidden on your person. you wonder if you remembered to wipe it clean from earlier and take a long drink from the overflowing tankard served to you. you ask for a room. how many nights? the barman asks. you do not answer.

[soulfulsuggest]

...

...

no.

[soulfulsuggest]

stand on the battlements of a gothic castle, sword in hand, blade glinting in the moonlight.

[soulfulsuggest]

stand in the middle of a moor, shrouded in mist.

[soulfulsuggest]

the village inn is warm and filled with chatter. the locals are kept cosy and safe from the storm that rages outside. in the hearth a fire paints the room with an amber glow. laughter rises above the hum of all the voices mixed together, replaced soon after by children’s squeals of joy. it’s past their bedtime but no one seems to mind. tankards of beer are downed. a fiddle is being played in the corner and sweethearts dance to its tune. old fisherfolk tell tall tales and men in uniforms beat their fists on sticky wooden tables, cards in hand.

you are the stranger who causes silence to fall. the ice cold winds disappear into stillness as you walk into the wall of warmth, but you can still feel the ghost of them batter against your cheek. your heavy coat drips water onto the floorboards that creak underfoot. your boots are covered in mud from a faraway place. you pull down the hood that did not protect you from the storm, your hair is a damp mess. you look at them all, then walk toward the bar uncaring. you feel for coin in your pocket, hoping the currency is right. you need a drink and do not mind the stares. no one seems to want to fight you, but you feel safe knowing you can reach for the dagger hidden on your person. you wonder if you remembered to wipe it clean from earlier and take a long drink from the overflowing tankard served to you. you ask for a room. how many nights? the barman asks. you do not answer.

[soulfulsuggest]

stand on a clifftop, the wind howling round you, and shout your grievances to the sea.