#existential shit

[anurabuni]

And when the sun finally takes the earth back,

There will be a moment where my body's warm again.

[wanderingsquirrelgirl]

of comfortable worlds

the warm feeling of comfort whenever i'm watching the d20 crew do their thing. you know, the thing where they make themselves and each other and everyone else laugh and cry and feel safe for being exactly who they are at all times. that thing.

and thats the kind of comfortable feeling i'm chasing constantly. launch me into your world that hates capitalism, social hierarchy, and religions only pushed onto the populace to seize power (which is all of them). let me live in your world that is full of pansexual, pan-gender joy. i'll laugh and cry and be vulnerable with you there, and nowhere else. i'd do anything for that kind of comfort.

i know even they don't live in those worlds, though. i know we're all struggling out here in the real world, and it sucks.

still, i'm so grateful to them for creating the comfortable one.

[beastcpu]

Professions I always wanted to have the skills for but lack discipline to learn:

- concept artist

- dancer

- game developer

- comic artist

- software engineer

- animator

- product designer

- archeologist

- smith

- mechanic

I could go on but ill cry

[yumberry]

someone trying to be Deep™: you know, happy endings are just lies, everyone dies and nothing matters in the end

me, a depressed fucker who lives every second trying to escape those exact thoughts: oh you don’t say

[mistressofmoonlight]

December 25

The first thought that came to her mind was that the rule stating that hot air rises was bullshit-- if anything, it was colder on the snow-frosted shingles of the roof than it was at ground-level.

(That is a lie; rest assured, it is the only one to be found here. She had many thoughts before, after, during, around, within, and without that “first” thought, but that single thought is what took precedent in her mind while everything else jumbled around her subconscious like the agitated atoms of gas molecules in the great wide container called The Universe which were, in the case of those found in her present vicinity, comparatively un-agitated and the air comparatively cold.)

She lowered herself down to lie against the slanted roof. She shivered at the touch of the snow, and a worry arose that a wet spot might form across the back of her jacket and the butt of her jeans-- a worry was quickly drowned by a sea of more (or less) pertinent worries. From just underneath her back came the slightest vibrations of music, mostly the low tones of Bing Crosby or men who clearly wanted to be Bing Crosby. The lyrics were completely muffled, but a few strings of all-too-familiar melodies could still be made out.

She took in a deep breath and, upon exhaling, watched the fog from her mouth ascend to the cloud-hidden heavens. She breathed in again, then out again, then in, but a little too sharply, a touch unevenly, and the fog sputtered from her lips. She closed her eyes, and the next breath was a forceful sigh.

“God damn it,” she said. After a moment, she added, “It’s so fucking cold.”

From between the clouds, the eyes of the sky that could see her among of the millions that could not turned to look down (relatively speaking) at her, and the sky said, “There is heat just below you. If you seek it, rise, and you shall find it.”

She blew a stray strand of hair from her face and watched the thin cloud of her breath rise to meet its brethren. “Nah, I’m... I’m fine.”

“Do you find fault in it?” said the sky.

“I-- sorry, find fault in what?”

“The heat. It is possible that you do not find the current level of agitation in the air acceptable in the confined location you have left.”

“No, no, the heat-- it feels fine in there. I mean,” she sighed, “Physically, it’s-- it’s fine.”

“For what do you expose yourself to that which you are not designed to sustain?”

“I just-- look, man, I just don’t wanna be down there right now.”

The sky was awkwardly silent, but the vibrations from the building below continued, which was, in many ways, far worse than silence alone.

“My aunt and uncle showed up to the party,” she said, “And, you know, everyone was like, ‘Oh, it’s so nice to see you! It’s been so long! How’re the kids?’ And they were all smiling and laughing and digging in to this fucking egg salad they brought-- egg salad. Egg-fucking-salad. My aunt and uncle bring fucking egg salad every goddamn year to Christmas, and everyone always eats it-- like, the only ones who don’t eat it are me, obviously, and my cousin, because she actually has some fucking sense, I guess-- but couldn’t they, just once, bring, like, a glazed ham or something? You know, something people like? Or is being likable just too low on their damn radar because everyone else showers them with love anyway?”

A breath’s pause.

“And I guess I shouldn’t be so fucking-- I dunno, ungrateful for it, because I sure as hell didn’t bring anything, but I’m not expected to, and bringing that egg salad is... It’s almost as bad as not bringing anything. I mean, I fucking showed up. I put on a smile. I hugged a billion people. That probably took as much energy and time to do as it took them to make that egg salad.”

“You feel the work you perform is undervalued,” said the sky.

“I mean, I guess? That’s, like, a bigger issue.”

“The impulses of your brain are firing off in more directions than what is normal for brain activity. Your mind is cluttered and unclear.”

She ran her hand down her face, eyes closed. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me.” A sigh. “I blame that fucking song.”

“What song?”

A pause. “There’s this... Christmas carol, I guess, that comes on the radio every year. It’s stuck in my head. It’s just really annoying. It’s hokey and old and supposed to be a ‘classic.’ I thought Bing Crosby sang it, the bastard, but I think it was just some dude who sounded like Bing Crosby. Probably some imitation.”

“Tell me about Bing Crosby. You seem to have a distaste for him.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it.” She put her hands behind her head, feeling the melted snow in her hair with her palm and the powdery snow on the roof with the back of her hand. “He was this dude from the... Fucking... The 40s? Or somewhere in there. He sang fucking everything. Christmas carols. TV specials. Love songs. I guess people liked him because he had this cool, relaxing voice or whatever, but he was also a fucking womanizer and a prick. So then all these other dudes, who were probably also womanizers and pricks, start making bank off Christmas songs by singing like Bing Crosby, and the whole thing just feels so hokey, y’know?”

She did not know if the sky knew, but the whole expanse of interconnected clouds seemed, almost, to nod.

“Anyway, I don’t think Bing sang this one, but he might as well have. Like, when it came on, my cousin actually said, ‘Is this Bing Crosby?’ Actually, she says that to every Christmas song that comes on. She’s the only bearable thing about this party.”

A pause. “Would you sing it to me?”

“What? No, I’m-- I’m a crappy singer.”

“As am I. I sing through frequencies of sound created by the slightest of collisions of matter within my form, often too soft to be detected. Otherwise, I sing through colors outside of my control, given to me by stars beyond my reach whose light is ancient and arcane enough to grant me sight so I may gaze down at you. You would hear this particular song if you listened, but I do not know if you would like the sound as much as the sight. Most often, you hear my singing in the melody of raindrops, the crash of thunder that follows behind the lightning-- the brightest light I make myself-- or in the percussion of hail. You may hear my voice on the wind of the gale. I do this in hopes of granting you many things vital to your life and comfort, but I fear that the destruction inherent taints the song, and for that I am unsure of the quality of my singing.”

She looked wide-eyes up to the stars, then turned her attention to the clouds, feeling that to be more intimate. She saw that snowflakes had settled on her eyelashes, and they reflected the light near her eye like minuscule crystals. “O-oh. Um... Wow. I...”

She sighed. Then, she sang.

“There’s... No place like home for the holidays... ‘Cause no matter how far away you roam... When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze... For the holidays you can’t beat home sweet home.”

She gulped down the following lyrics and some cold night air. The vibrations underneath her seemed to subside.

The air was silent.

“They were, uh... They were playing that right before my aunt and uncle walked in, and all I could think about was... Was when my cousin came out to the family half a year ago, and I overheard my uncle talking to my aunt about... About her. About those “fucking dykes’ and how they ‘ruin everything’ and...” She grit her teeth. “Other things. Like he had any fucking right to talk about her like that. Like he has any fucking right to talk about my cousin like that. And then he walks in with his fucking egg salad, and everyone smiles, like there wasn’t someone in the very same house who had tried to open up to her family, her loved ones, about something important to her and was met with nothing but disdain from this one motherfucker who’s only good for egg-fucking-salad!”

It wasn’t until a few moments later that she realized she was seething and sitting up, her fists clenched and red and cold and digging into the shingles on either side of her, yet she was still staring at the sky.

“... I have that song stuck in my head, and I’m thinking, God-- I don’t even have a home to go to. There’s a house, sure, and maybe I’m ungrateful because I’m not satisfied with that, but a home is different. The closest thing I have to a home is my cousin, and I don’t get to see her all that often anymore because of her college, and when I do see her, I’m surrounded by these idiots who don’t support her-- who don’t really support her. And, y’know, I don’t even know who I am. I’m questioning myself too. Would they support me if I was different? You--” she took a sharp breath-- “You said earlier that I’m not designed for this weather. What the fuck am I designed for? Who designed me? Why is it so hard to fucking design myself?”

Her face fell then, and she wiped away at cold, wet streaks that had begun to descend down her cheeks. She choked down something between a yell and a sob.

“Look at me.” She did. “I am here. I am here, just above you, in every direction, always. I am a being just as I am a place just as I am a protector. You seek a home. Know that I hold in my grasp a limitless number of potential homes for your choosing. When you have the chance, you may explore to your heart’s content until you find a home that suits you. Until that time, know that you are under my protection, and I shall be your home, if you would let me.”

A pause accompanied by a growing smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I... I think I’d like that.”

“You are not a being of any one design. The code that forms your body is one matter. I am unsure of what designed that code if anything, just as I am unsure of my own design. Your soul is another matter, as are your thoughts. You may feel helpless in controlling your thoughts at times, but know that your actions and your actions alone determine your design.”

Smiling wide, she lay back against the roof, watching the clouds roll past and reveal the remaining stars, and a wave of warmth rolled over her.

“... Is the egg salad that bad?”

She snorted. “Oh, dude, you have no idea.”

[kariemthesupreme]

i forgot when i don’t smoke weed as much the intense as dreams start coming back... not having nightmares like i use to but my subconscious mind is still going thru it’s own turmoil... last nite i swore my dream was reality until i woke up, i was so grateful when i woke up cause i realized reality had such a great redeeming quality to it... although im not convinced im seeing all there is to this reality but that’s another post for another day...

[ourinquisitorialness]

You know…it’s taken me till now, but I think I finally understand why “validation culture” sits so uneasily with me.

It’s because in life (especially as an adult but sometimes as a kid too) there won’t always BE someone there to witness and validate you, your identity, your suffering, your hard work, your dreams, your existence.

And most of the time it’s not even because you have no friends, or because no one loves you. You can be dearly loved by good people and still lie awake at night wondering if any of it matters – if YOU matter.

Sometimes, being human is lonely and frightening for no reason at all.

I know the intent of “validation culture” is ultimately a good one – people care, people worry, people relate to one another, and they want to do whatever little they can to make being human LESS lonely and LESS frightening. To help others feel more okay in their own heads.

But I think maybe the idea of validation culture (at least as I’ve observed it on websites like this one) also implies something a bit dangerous – that you NEED validation from other people, that it’s okay to RELY on validation, because if you can’t get it elsewhere you can always get it from strangers on the internet.

But one day you’re going to feel too old or too tired or too SOMETHING, and strangers on the internet aren’t going to be enough. Maybe you’ll be 27 like me, or maybe you’ll be 16 or maybe 42, but someday I think you’ll get there. And it will be better for you, then, if you’ve learned how to live without validation. If you’ve accepted – really accepted – that you don’t NEED it. That you can live without it, even thrive without it.

I’m not saying it’s an easy thing to learn. I’m also not saying that it’s Bad or Wrong to draw comfort from an online community, if that’s what you need today or tomorrow or the next day. Only you know what you need. But what I’m saying is that, as soon as you are able, I think you should try to learn to exist without validation – even though it’s lonely and even though it’s frightening.

I’m trying to learn it now, and I have to tell you, I wish I’d learned it sooner.

[memesandexistentialshit]