Caotic stuff...Idk

You can call me Carson | If you were so kind. Please leave some feedback. Thanks in advance:)

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Peaceful days

The first light of the day fell through the tiny cracks in the wall and illuminated small specks of dust that were swirled into the air by the ocean's briese. In the broad hammock there laid a young boy. He was sleeping, even snoring lightly, but his rest was soon disturbed by his mother's voice calling him. He grumbled upon being woken but got up nonetheless. The boy dressed himself quickly in a light shirt and shorts and walked over the smooth stone floor towards the kitchen. He enjoyed the stones cold touch on his bare feet. It contrasted the humid morning heat quiet nicely.

Once he stepped foot into the kitchen his senses were filled by the heavenly smell of the breakfast and the fire's gentle warmth. His mother ordered him to set the table and get some more eggs from the hen house. So he placed ten plates on the table and hurried outside. The chicken were kept in a small wood house and the boy climbed inside. The hens started greeting him and he petted them in return before lifting a few and quickly stealing their eggs. One of the hens grabbed one of his brown locks that was flowing freely down to his shoulder. He needed a few extra minutes to free himself from the hen's grip and once he got out of the house his back ached with the effort of arching.

While cracking his spine he looked out over the ocean. This morning was an exceptionally beautiful one. The sun's orange rays touched the water surface and gave it a comfortable warmth, while a gentle briese cooled his skin. He stayed there under the palms for a few more minutes before returning inside. During his absence the rest of the family had assembled around the breakfast table and were already starting to plan the day's activities. His father and uncle were talking animatedly about different fishing techniques while his sister and mother stood by the fire and discussed the different methods of cooking an egg.

After placing the eggs in his mother's hands he himself took a seat at the table and basked in the mornings tranquility. Everyone enjoyed their breakfast and in the middle of eating the boy's father stood up and announced that today the whole family would be going fishing. Upon that statement the younger children broke out into laughter and the adults too smiled in obvious pleasure. Fishing days were everyone's favourite.

Around two hours later the family went to the boats. Everyone brought their own spear and net as well as a small bundle of food. This would be necessary because they wouldn't return to the house until the evening.

They climbed into the thin boats and left the coast behind. The water underneath them was crystal clear and had a turquoise hue. After about 40 minutes they arrived at their fishing spot and everyone stopped and looked to their grandmother. She would decide who was allowed to dive in first.

The grandmother looked into the assembled faces and took a steady breath. She focused in on the young boy smiled and tilted her head slowly to the side. That was the signal, so the boy stood up, grabbed his spear and dove into the water.

The cold water engulfed him and looking around himself the boy saw another world filled with colour and life. Hundreds of fish swam around him. Stretching out his hand he touched one of them and felt the smooth scales under his fingers.

He pushed himself through the water and flowed along the sandy ground. There he too found many animals. Krabs and others mingled there under the safe branches of the corals.

Above himself he saw the others entering the water and he remembered why he was here. So he gripped his spear a little harder and swam to his sister. They would hunt together, like always.

After a long day of fishing and enjoying the time spent together, they made their way back to the coast. The sun was slowly setting on the horizon, casting a gentle orange light all over the place. The sea seemed awfully beautiful.

Truly a fitting end to such a peaceful day.

Everyone was excited for dinner and a good night's rest, so they paddled a little faster and made a hurry for their house.

Maybe this would be one of many nice days to come or it would be last in a long time. One could never know and so the young boy enjoyed the memory of this beautiful day and went to bed with hope in his heart and a peaceful mind.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

On rainy days

There once was a warrior. He wielded his weapons in the eternal fight against the evil of this world. He had seen death and futures worse than hell. He had seen war, famine and disease and his body wore the marks left by his suffering. But sometimes even an unshatterable mind needs a rest. So he endured hours of flight, train rides and paid a small fortune in taxi fees to finally arrive in the small town of his birth to lick his wounds and wait for a better future. He felt his body relax with every breath of mountain air and saw his scars hide in his summer's tan. But even though his body healed, his mind kept him awake most of his nights.

One rainy day he ran under the dark clouds to his favourite bakery. His stomach craved a sweet treat and his mind begged for the peaceful calmness that the bakery's enchanting smell awoke in him. He opened the bakery's wooden door and stepped into the shop. His eyes were directly drawn to the numerous cakes displayed under the counter. There were cheesecakes and some cakes with seasonal fruits but during this horrible weather he preferred a chocolate cake. So he stepped up to the counter. He had his order laying on his tongue but all words left his mind once he looked into these beautiful hazel eyes that belonged to the smiling man behind the counter. The warrior felt himself falling victim to the man's simple beauty. His square face was adorned with small freckles and his light brown hair was cropped short. And in contrast to himself the man's hands were not hardened from wielding a weapon but rather from honest work. Prompted by the puzzled look in the man's eyes the warrior ordered himself a cheesecake and a hot cocoa. Not really what he came for, but it would do.

Once he got his order he sat down next to the window. He was the only customer, the others were probably held prisoners in their homes by the storm raging outside. And so he enjoyed his cake and drink and stayed a bit longer. He watched the friendly baker "discreetly" and after an hour and a half decided to go talk to him. He stood up, took his plate and cup and brought them to the counter. He struck up a relatively smooth conversation with the man and actually enjoyed himself for maybe the first time in weeks. He tried his best at being funny after seeing the other laugh for the first time and even succeeded a few times.

So he made it a habit to return to the bakery often and especially on rainy days. Often he would enter the store soaked to the bones and drizzle the whole floor with a mix of mud and rain. On those days he'd help clean the shop up and stayed to keep the baker company. Those were the happiest hours of his weeks. The conversation between the two flowed freely, like they had known each other for years and the warrior felt his mind settle whenever he stepped into the warm bakery.

Over the weeks and eventually months they got to know each other, became close and closer. But both of them were afraid to become more. The town was small, news travelled fast and nobody knew how the old town folks would react. So they kept it friendly and safe. But of course fate doesn't play into ones cards and one rainy day the warrior ran through the rain to his favourite baker. But he found only an unknown face behind the counter. An old lady, with shaky hands and gray hair. His shock kept him quiet for a moment but after a second he asked: " Where is he?" The old lady looked at him with pity in her eyes and spoke slowly: "In the hospital, dear. The cancer got the better of him." The warrior didn't waste a second and sprinted out the door. He got to the hospital after half an hour and had to refrain from strangling the receptionist, who refused to give him any information about his baker. So he sat there in the waiting room, staring at the blank wall. His head was aching with the volume of his thoughts. He had a thousand questions in his mind but none could be answered right now nor could they bring him any peace. At all. He sat there for what could have been hours or days, but once his name was called time sped up to double speed. The nurse led him through corridor after corridor. And suddenly he stood at the foot of a bed. A bed in which his beautiful baker laid. His eyes were closed and he looked peaceful. But as soon as the nurse left his eyes opened and the warrior almost fainted with the amount of relief he felt at recognizing this beloved sparkle in those hazel eyes. His baker's lips pulled up into a gentle smile and he stretched out his hand. The warrior didn't need to think twice and took his baker's hand into his own. He interlocked their fingers and in this moment he knew that no amount of gossip and filthy looks could get him away from his baker's side. He was happy and he would protect this as long as he could. Even if it meant staying with someone, who was fighting a battle in which he could do nothing but stand by and hold his hand. In this case he stay and simply hold his hand. Because it's just as they say, in health and sickness.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

The young king

The fresh morning fog settles in the streets and marketplaces of the great city. The tall houses come alive with the light streaming from their windows and their inhabitants are slowly woken by the rising morning sun. The first rays of warmth touch the highest roofs and paint them on a peaceful orange. The young king steps out of his bedroom and onto the adorning balcony. He oversees the whole city and bathes in the sun's golden rays. Not too long ago, he stood there looking down at the blood covered ground. The damning liquid slowly flowing from his father's head. The skull split open by the force of the fall. He made for a terrifyingly horrifying view, but the worst part weren't the broken bones nor his brain spilling onto the street. No it was the smile plastered onto his aging face. It was an inignorable sign of his suffering, of his will to die.

He had been in a horrible state after the big fire, after the desolation it brought to the once grand city. His burdens were heavier than he could carry and his soul was crumbling under their weight.

On the young Prince's, now king's, 18th birthday the old king looked happy for the first time, after the tragedy. Everyone thought it was out of love and joy for his oldest son, but no. He smiled, laughed and drank only because he knew that now his son was old enough to take the throne and he could finally Putnam end to his suffering. So the king didn't waste a minute, excused himself from the feast and threw himself off the balcony.

On that day when the son found the father, he was alone.

He broke down and mourned not only for his father but also for his future. His dreams of a few years of independence and freedom were shattered by his father's death and his coronation had to be planned as fast as possible.

But today, almost exactly five years later the young king stands on the balcony without any fear or regret. His father was gone and all he inherited were a crumbling city, a starving society and a lifetime of reparations to do. But among all stehe struggles he found the love of his life ready to support him through the struggles, through everything. Therefore today he stands on the balcony embraced by his love and even though another day full of problems lays ahead, his heart is full of hope for the future and love for the person holding his heart with gentle hands.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Roca's selves

This story was written by life and has been lived by many. It is an example for the human conviction, dedication and ability to grow and it shall begin anew right now.

Roca is the name given to our brave protagonist. His small frame is trembling in the low light of the cabin's lightbulb. Brown hair in his eyes, tears streaming down his dry cheeks, his nose running and his muscles twitching, he is a mess desperately trying not to fall apart. His white tear-freckled shirt is being clutched by his right hand, while his left is over his mouth, trying to quieten his sorrowful sobs. His teary green eyes are filled with mourning and longing for something impossibly far away.

But his soul is filled with something else. His souls very being is shook by a fear it has never known. Something existential, something that goes to the core and uproots all feelings of safety and sureness.

He is afraid, afraid of never being able to see his family again, afraid of being alone in a world so alien and strange, afraid of the months to come and the days that are to be survived. Survived not lived.

But at this point it maybe appropriate to step back for a second and explain a bit more about Roca, his situation and his ultimately life-changing adventure.

Roca is a child, a student. A student away from home. Learning, studying, experiencing new culture. He chose to visit a country far away, with a language different from what he has known all his life and customs that seem so very strange, refreshingly different.

The plan was easy. Go away for a few months, have a great time, learn a new language and come back changed. Full of new experiences and newly gained knowledge. At least that was the plan.

But the reality looked so very different.

The new culture and language were giving him a hard time, he felt alone, different, even isolated at times. In a life without the comforts of home everything becomes much more difficult. The smallest things can cause extreme difficulties and hardship.

But the hardest, most challenging part was not the new home, not the new people, not the new language nor the new culture.

It was, what was left behind.

His home, his family, his friends. Everything that seemed so awfully normal.

All of it gone.

Now he is sitting in his small room, on his wooden bed and his mind is telling him that this is where it all ends. All hope of a good time is crashed by his overwhelming homesickness.

All he longs for now is a hug from his mother and one of his father's bad jokes.

But suddenly something presents itself. It is bright and it floats just above the tiled floor. It doesn't look human, nor does it look like any animal or plant known to men. It is solely a voice. Manifesting itself in rays of white light.

It spoke softly but with dedication: "You mustn't fear me. I am hear to help you. I am here to tell you something very important and you ought to listen very carefully. We are in this place right now and at least a days flight away from everything we've ever known and this right here is a shitty situation. Your feelings are betraying your purpose of enjoying this time of growth and adventure. And I am sorry to tell you that these feelings will most likely stay with you for a bit. But please do not despair because it doesn't matter where you are, wether you are in a different city, a different country or even on the moon, you will never be alone. I will always stay with you and I will always be proud of you. I need you to know that. I was proud when you got over the dark times of the past, because you kept going forwards, and I am proud now. Proud of every day survived and lived, because I know that we will grow together. With time and every battle won, or lost. I will be with you trough everything. I, your past self, will always be with you and we both know what exactly we are fighting for. We are fighting for our future self. We want him to have everything we haven't got right now. We want him to be strong and prepared for everything to come and for this we must endure now. We must learn to adapt to this situation and mature with every experience, because at the end of the day we both want the same. We want our future to be better. We want to grow. Physically and mentally. And you will see, it will get easier, with time. So learn to appreciate patience and the unstoppable flow of time, it will be a great friend. And in a few months you will stand at the airport with your backpack in hand, wondering where the time went. And you will be stronger, because you didn't give up, because you kept fighting."

And with that the light was gone. It helped. It gave hope, where a troubled mind couldn't find any on its own.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

A place of shared passion

A month ago my life consisted of a singular routine. Go to school, eat the meals, do the homework, go to the trumpet lessons. Not one day fell out of this routine. I felt stuck and was bored to death but then one wonderful day my school, the most boring, unexciting and stable school in the area decided to take part in musical competition. I assume they didn't do it for the student's benefit, god beware, they probably sought after the prestige it brought.

Normally I would despise such a cause and would fight it with every fibre of my being. But on this day in this incredibly boring math class, I didn't fight. My brain was too drained by the unambitious minds around me. And from lack of anything else to do I decided to compete, to finally have something to focus on again.

Two days later I walked into my school's bare music classroom, where I found the only other two competitors. I knew them and had been forced to work with them before. And please don't misunderstand my words those two are kind and pleasant human beings, but their ability to create enjoyable rhythms and calming melodies is not yet well established.

Therefore my chances at winning the role of the school's representant were high. If I'm honest, at that point I didn't even know what this competition consisted of. I had no details and only competed to be excused from the horrible hours of torture they call school. The only thing I knew was that after this first round there was to be another in the next biggest city. But I didn't think it would go on long after that, maybe a third round but nothing more.

Oh I was wrong, very wrong.

After winning the joke of a first round and the second round, rather surprisingly. I was requested to go to another two competitions all over the country. In that small amount of time I travelled more than I ever had before. I met interesting people, saw amazing architecture and the breathtaking beauty of nature's best pieces of art. But then I was invented to be shipped to the southeast coast to play on the last stage of the competition. This last stage was essentially just a big reward for the winners of the prior competitions. The goal of this meeting wasn't to estimate who is the best at whatever instrument but rather the chance at playing in an orchestra possibly for the first and last time.

I myself had the first three days to myself because these days were dedicated for the string section.

And of course I used this time. I made fast friends with my fellow wind players and played beachvolleyball for three days straight. It was amazing. I never knew I liked volleyball because I never got the chance to try it before. I was limited in so many areas. A shame really.

After this physical excess I returned to the musical arts with an ache in my muscles which accompanied me for a week and a half. But it was worth it.

On the eighth day the orchestra was first put together.

The violins moved the blood through my vessels and my heart mimicked the drum's steady beat. I never experienced such a feeling before.

It was one of companionship, of belonging and pure passion.

Before it had always been me and my trumpet. The music separated me from my fellow classmates, it made me different and unapproachable, lonely at times. Alone in a world full of football and cheerleading. Everything else was strange and too different. It didn't fit into this small world. I didn't fit.

But at this moment I felt a strong connection with the other musicians and the songs soul, it's voice, it's meaning.

On this weekend I decided that I shall never restrict myself by routine and and boredom ever again. I will find this connection again. In music.

I will play till my lungs burn and my brain is dizzy, because this rush is worth everything. I will put in all the hard work necessary to find a place for myself. A place where routine consists of change, new experiences and focus. Where like-minded people come together to create a beautiful composition of passion. I will find this place and I will thrive in it.

Of that I am sure.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Revolutionist's code

Time runs too fast. A day turns into two, into a week, a month, a year. But my mind can't move. It's stuck in a loop of unanswered questions and hidden solutions to problems I haven't even discovered yet.

They are what keeps me going. My vitals up and my sleep down.

Down to the moles and corpses.

My eyes are burning, my fingertips are covered in thick hard skin, which probably evolved around the time I stopped counting the days passing. My back's aching like the one of a man trice my age.

But their writing didn't let me go. It enchanted my very being. These complex arrays displayed in such a simple way and solved seemingly without effort. As if this language was their mother's tongue.

Engraved into their genes.

Their understanding is throughout like the one of a native speaker, almost as if unconscious knowledge flowed through their blood directly into their fingers, writing blindly, effortlessly. No man, no woman, nor anyone in-between that I know of has ever had such an immaculate, perfectly punctuated handwriting.

None of my writings could ever portray such a big part of my soul, such an unearasable mark.

Hundreds upon hundreds of times running smoothly at every try.

No mistakes, no errors.

Their programmes are running and will continue to do so. They will run one revolution after the other. They will be the cause of a thousand wars, but no mother will loose their child, no soldier will loose their comrade, no human will die, because all these wars will be fought in the sanctuary of some lonely Island server.

And I will be one of the few watching all of this evolve and unfold. And not having the guts to stop this god of code.

Because after all I am here. Protected by the walls around me and the internet's anonymity.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Going down too far

There were a thousand good reasons for me to be here. A thousand reasons thrown my way by society.

For your country

For your people

For safety and peace

But none of those mattered to me when I signed up. My family's line had ended years ago and my wanderlust had destroyed all chances at finding a lasting home. Nothing to hold onto, no roots, no memories, just different specks of land in the middle of nowhere, cultivated and inhabited by strangers. The only reason I am here right now is the feeling of belonging. Of being needed by somebody, anybody.

And of course my damned curiosity. The curiosity that drove me towards the possibility of working with this intriguing technology and in such an unexplored territory.

But these reasons be damned because the air is getting sparse, the temperatures are rising and the sirens are howling. Just because of this tiny bit of water leeking through the unbendable steel.

The only thing I can hope now is that the pressure will kill me quick and painless because this submarine is going down fast.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Tales of travel and misery

The waves were rough that day, the heavy rain was creating a steady rhythm on the wooden planks.

Still, the crew was working hard on keeping pace. They were determined to reach their goal of following the great explorers of the past into unknown territory.

Fearless and with hope in their hearts did they continue towards their ultimate goal. Through an endless ocean of blues and greens and the underlying darkness.

The home and family they left behind would be out of reach for a long time. Which meant: no safety, no guidance, nothing they knew could guide them safely through this adventure.

It was like learning to walk again. One step and fall. On the good days they were able to get up again. But on the bad days....

Let's just say they were called "bad days" for a reason.

Some members of the crew were homesick, others sick of the swaying sea, the salty air or the burning sun. Some got I'll, others didn't. But all of them were overwhelmed and at times shell-shocked by the realisation of this adventure.

None of them were older than 17 sun circles and not one of them had left the land of their birth before. At the time of their departure their hearts were drowned in wanderlust and the possibility of travel, but not one of them was wise enough to guess the consequences following.

Days like these with heavy rain and a hiding sun were the hardest. The loneliness, homesickness and the mourning for what was seemingly lost hurt the most, in these dark hours.

But they saw their goal even trough these dark times and continued on, because they knew the heartache and misery would pass but the memories and tales would stay with them.

Forever.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

PS. I regret nothing

Blinding lights, loud beeping and a needle in my arm. Those are the first things I feel, hear, sea. Wait a minute wasn't I dancing, feasting and riding on the highest waves just a few seconds ago?

Wasn't there loud music in the house, the hut, the mansion? Weren't we, my friends and I, convinced to be having the best time of our lives this weekend?

After school at Friday the party started, somebody brought Bubaz to get started and beer was passed. We were running through the dark streets and singing loud enough to awaken the old couple of Gordory Lane, which we had thought dead multiple times before.

The evening turned into another morning and we were still going. Going further. Away from school, from home, from any kind of responsibility and everyone we knew. Just us, the world and our rising pulse. Around midday, or midnight again, we met this guy and of course all our money had to be spent on medicine to make us chronically happy, active, alive.

We were flying through the landscape, talking with the birds and the trees. We tasted the wind with our eyes and heard the sun with our skin.

We felt unstoppable, unbeatable, immortal.

The next thing I know: we climbed over the fence of a house, hut, mansion like my favourite kind of monkey and entered the mansion-made-disco. We parties with people we didn't know and were sure to never see again. They treated us like equals, we were like-minded rogues seeking escape from society's firm grip in a chemical delusion of bliss. After that I don't remember much. A stroke to my head. I went down fast and hard.

Then

Nothing.

The only thing I know is that the needle in my arm is probably not the kind of needle I would want in my arm right now and the bed I am laying in is too comfortable to be the obnoxiously expensive carpet of the mansion I passed out on.

Considering all, I'm probably fucked.

PS. I regret nothing.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Beginnings n' Endings

My voice almost broke under the depressive silence of the mourning souls that I call my family. The only soul untouched by our sadness lays there comfortably and well rested in front of me. His face is one of silence and quietness, no muscle will ever disturb this peaceful rest ever again. Considering his recent struggles it is probably for the best. My cousin's polite coughing rips me out of my comforting thoughts and with this my little speech shall begin:

" I still remember a lot of him. The good old days of laughing and playing in the beautiful lavender fields on the southern hill. His white hair creating such a stark contrast to the soothing dark Lavender that his chances of winning at a game of hide and seek were always minimal at best. Still he played with us. And lost willingly, just to see us smile.

Or the uncountable afternoons spent with us down at the ice cold river trying to cool down from the smoldering heat. There he thaught us how to swim, how to dive and how to respect the nature surrounding us. He showed us the plants of our land and told us how we could use them to our advantage and how to secure their continuous blooming in the seasons to come.

And of course in the starlit nights under the big old apple tree he told us the story of his biggest adventure:

A long time ago, when my bones were still strong and my skin was not yet marred by the scars of time, I went wandering about. Through the green forests and over the great grey mountains. I saw unbelievable creatures big and small, fast and slow. But one day the earth under my feet gave way to a seemingly bottomless pit. I fell quick and landed hard. My body was aching but my mind was screaming. No light touched the bottom of the pit. No light, no hope. So I sat there, for how long I can not tell, but in these dark hours the gods send me a signal. Without warning a mushroom started shimmering with a greenish glow. At first the light was weak and sparse but just like a spark of fire would ignite a whole forest, did the glow of the mushroom enlight the cave. The glow spread into an uncontrollable wildfire of natural beauty. The pit which once was a hell of Halfseen shadows and eternal midnight transformed itself into an ocean of bright neon colours and abstract shapes. I could not believe this wonderful miracle was anything but a godsent sign. So after I climbed out of the hole with bloodsmeared hands and badly scraped knees I sweared an oath to myself to protect this cave like my own heart. Therefore I have since studied the valley's Flora and have passed this knowledge firstly onto my children and now onto you, my dear younglings. You may never forget to care for what has saved me and appreciate every season of newfound beauty in the time of bloom. Because I am certain that if you care for the plants they will gift you time and time again with the power of their healing essence .

These were his exact words. Never changing, always the same, like a rock in the shore. An unswayable truth to believe in when times get rough. We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of an exceptional adventurer, scientist and most importantly an exceptional person. May we never forget his kind words of wisdom and the unimaginable deeds he fullfilled for us. His family. May you rest in peace.

We love you grandpa.

And we always will.

[kleeklutch]

[rikusqueenofhearts]

[balillee-deactivated20260220]

happy pride month to country mama lynn and country mama lynn only

[iampattonsanders]

Someone give this woman a damn crown and medal

[applejuicewerewolf]

Happy pride month to country mama lynn and ger gay son only

[rabbitheartedfool]

aint it crazy how many people realize they're queer when they have the language to express how they feel and a support system to encourage self exploration????

[wardenaristraith]

I never stop enjoying reading this. Literally everyone's lives improves.

[ya0ishi]

Ancient legends say that if you reblog this on June you get 110% gayer and stronger

[lady-byleth]

"you'll never find another man like me" and I told him that is the whole point of me leaving him

fucking brilliant

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Lets Go Lynn. Happy pride to this amazing Woman.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Auf meiner kleinen grünen Kugel

Auf einer kleinen grünen Kugel mitten im Nirgendwo, da lebe ich. Rundum nur tiefstes Schwarz und unendliche Leere, aber nicht hier. Nicht bei mir. Denn der kleine blaue Bach, der unaufhörlich meine kleine Heimat umkreist, spendet allem Leben hier Kraft. Jedes noch so kleine Pflänzchen, jeder noch so riesige Baum wird von ihm beachtet. Alle bekommen das Gleiche. Aber nicht nur er, auch die Sonnenblume auf der Wiese vor meinem kleinen Haus erhellt meine Heimat. Sie ist die schönste, die bezauberndste und hellste aller Blumen. Ihre Wärme hält mich gesund und tröstet mich, wenn ich einsam bin. Das knallgrüne Gras unter meinen Füßen fühlt sich weich und stützend an. Seine Art lässt mich herumtollen. Fast wie ein Kind. Ich liebe meine Heimat, das muss ich sagen. Alles was ich je kannte ist hier und ich könnte mir nichts besseres vorstellen. Trotzdem. Trotzdem gucke ich manchmal nach oben. In das nichtssagende Schwarz meines Horizontes. Ich frage mich manchmal, was wohl dahinter ist. Verpasse ich etwas? Sind da noch andere? So wie ich? Mit ihren eigenen kleinen Kugeln, oder bin ich etwa allein? Wahrscheinlich, aber manchmal, nur manchmal ist diese tiefschwarze Leinwand einfach zu einladend, um sie nicht mit den Farbklecksen meiner Fantasie zu bemalen.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Preperation is key

The small ship lands next to the markets of Nat'zeke, while one of the planet's suns is burning brightly over the green atmospere. It's pilot gets out of the vehicle onto the marketplace. They wear a black leather jacket, with loads of pockets (some obvious, others hidden under multiple layers of clothes), an old green T-shirt, black denim jeans (old fashioned and ripped but otherwise intact) and old leather shoes with more clasps than is good for them. Their ash blonde hair is sticking up from their sculp into all directions, ignoring all known laws of physics. Green sharp eyes adorn their features and acentuate the smug grin on their face.

Vendors scream all over the place, selling their goods. Spices fill the air and colours in all shades cover the buildings. But the young pilot ignores the turmoil and steers directly into a dark corner shop. They walk casually to the register and ask for "the yellow mungus frog as dessert". The Gorblin behind the counter asks "How many?" "17.784" is the direct answer, given by the pilot. The tall Gorblin reaches under the dark shimmering desk and pulls out a small round device. The employee activates it with a push of his left thumb and a hollogram appaers above it. The hollogram shows a picture of the rarest BRX Rifle on the market and the pilot's green eyes seem to glow even in the darkness of the shop.

[crossdreamers]

Berel-Beyle: The 19th century Jewish transgender man from Krivozer in Ukraine

Rabbi Daniel Bogard tells the story about the 19th century Jewish trans man called Berel-Beyle.

He writes:

Think trans-folk are new? I’d like to tell you the remarkable story of Berel-Beyle, a Jewish man who transitioned in the shtetel in Ukraine in the 1800s.  #ARainbowThread 

[A shtetl or shtetel was a small town with a large Ashkenazi Jewish population which existed in Central and Eastern Europe before the Holocaust.]

But first—go and buy Noam Sienna’s incredible work of Torah, “A Rainbow Thread: An Anthology of Queer Jewish Texts from the First Century to 1969”. It’s where I’m pulling this text / hashtag, and it is an essential piece of Torah in any Jewish library.

Before we can tell Berel-Beyle’s story, we need to jump to the 1930s and the so-called Nazi Olympics, because the American press was evidently in an absolute tizzy over athletes who kept going over to compete in the women’s games, and coming home as men! 

One of the people reading about this “whole new trans thing!” was an old Jewish immigrant living in Brooklyn named Yeshaye Kotofsky, who was having none of it with the uproar, and sent a letter (in Yiddish) to the editor of the @jdforward telling the story of Berel-Beyle.

You see, back in Yeshaye’s shtetl in Krivozer, “everyone knew Beyle, the girl who sold herring….a tall redhead…sturdily built” who presented as “not quite a woman, but also not quite a man.”

Beyle’s father–Yeshaya writes–took ‘her’ to all sorts of rabbis looking for advice on what to do…until Beyle turned 23, left for Odessa, and met a professor who helped Beyle transition to Berel (or “Berel-Beyle”, as Yeshaya calls him), and changed his life. 

In an powerful affirmation, our friend Yeshaya (writing in the 1930s!) says that when Berel finally returned home, “half the shtetl ran to the bridge to greet her, or better said, to greet *him*.” In fact, from this point on, Yeshaya *only* uses he/him pronouns for Berel.

So what became of Berel-Bayle? This is where Yeshaye’s letter makes me cry. Because in the 1800s, in this Jewish shtetl in Ukraine, the community of Krivozer took Berel in, treated him as a man, and welcomed him home. 

The men of the community taught him to lead the prayers (something only men would have been allowed to do then), and they all celebrated together when Berel-Beyle finally married his old girlfriend Rachel, who we are told was “a nice girl." 

Yeshaye–and remember, he’s writing this in the 1930s, talking about the late 1800s–ends his letter gorgeously: "In our shtetl,” he writes, “Berel-Beyle always had a good name as a fine, upstanding Jew." 

Also: do you have trans/gender expansive/lgbtq+ youth in your life / social circles? Let them know about our new week-long sleep away camp http://campindigopoint.org!   ***we will make it financially possible for any kid who needs camp to be there*** 

Photo of Ashkanazic Jews in Jerusalem 1885 from the Independent.

[nyctoheart]

My intention isn’t to BOSS people around. But people who don’t create on tumblr really have to understand that if creators stop posting here, you won’t have anything else to like but maybe memes. If you want content to circle around to your dashboard… you have to pay it forward and reblog. That is why this website is dying. The Ban is not the only reason.

[nyctoheart]

And its like…. people dont even fucking realize how special tumblr is

Tumblr doesn’t have verified checkmarks. Tumblr doesn’t have an algorithm to you show ❝The Best Stuff❞. Tumblr doesn’t display how many followers you have. Tumblr isn’t obsessed with subscriptions. 

Tumblr is an even playing field compared to websites like Twitter, Instagram, and Youtube. Which means its up to us, the users, to spread the word of people we enjoy– the way the internet should be.

I’m not asking you to reblog shit you don’t like. I’m not asking you to reblog everything out of pity. But when you see a post you genuinely like, reblog it.

[tywvin-archive]

I think so many people mistake the ‘you should reblog’ message with ‘I’m greedy and all I want is notes’ when it’s really not at all like that.

When creators say they’re discouraged from creating because their posts get no notes, they don’t mean they will refuse to create unless their last edit reaches at least 1k notes. What they mean is that the effort they’re putting into creating something purely out of inspiration and the need to share their passion and creativity with the world is being consumed and forgotten, just like it is on Instagram. Tumblr has changed from having an even reblog-like ratio, or even twice as many reblogs as likes, to being another social media where users consume content instead of sharing it.

We’re not trying to force you to reblog everything or want you to fill your blog with things you don’t like. But Tumblr is built on reblogs and likes. This is not a fast-food company where you can order something, consume it, and then throw it away. The very base of this website is sharing, as opposed to Instagram. Here, likes don’t give our posts exposure, reblogs do.

Notes are not the problem, the fact that you want new content without supporting creators is. So yeah, don’t be surprised if creators stop creating because nobody wants to share their creations.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

The queen's power

She slowly glides down the stairs.

The room grows quiet, the music stops.

All eyes rest on her.

She is enjoying every moment of it, I just know it.

She strides forward with the power of a fiery dragon and the regalness of a timeless godess. Her every step is accompanied with a single sharp click of her jet black heels and its ressonance is cutting the frozen air. Her crimson velvet dress shows off her perfect long legs as well as her beautiful creamy back. Golden earrings ardorn her round ears and the colour of her dress is reflected in her dark lipstick. On top of her raven hair sits a golden crown decorated with the most beautiful diamonds I've ever seen.

It sits there as if it belonged.

As if it was a part of her.

[sublimefacedgentleman]

Of hell and knights in shining armour.

Now.

Now is the time to shine. Or die.

Everybody is watching me. I feel their burning gazes on my back. I feel their relief at not being chosen for this already doomed task.

I know that I will have to choose my wording carefully, because of the Gamemaster.

Yes the Gamemaster. Always attentive and ready to strike with his knife of a tongue. I saw him standing in the shadows of the furthest corner of this room, always ready to critisize me by subtly insulting every aspect of my very being.

As I reach my destination, every muscel in my hands is trembling. My Fingers reach for my assined weapon for this battle. It is of the brightest white and as soon as it hits its target it begins screeching in a almost demonic way.

I let it slither over the smooth surface and feel my dread like a cloud in my head and a stone in my stomach. But still, I continue with my grueling task.

After a while my work is done. I step back and wait for the ineffable judgement of the Gamemaster.

To my ultimate fortune I was saved. Not by a fellow fighter, but someone noble and trustworthy. Their voice booms over everything and no fighter would ever dare to disobey their command.

My knight in shining armour.

My saviour.

The school bell.