i really do not enjoy drawing them but i have got to practise backgrounds. this is a battle i'm gonna win

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i really do not enjoy drawing them but i have got to practise backgrounds. this is a battle i'm gonna win
The recurring line of poetry, for whatever reason despite it's lack of relevance, during ST5 (especially this past week) that has been playing over and over in my head has been:
We said we'd hate to grow dead-old. But now,
Not to live old seems awful
It's from a poem called 'Wild With All Regrets', which was written by Wilfred Owen, but dedicated (or rather addressed?) to Siegfried Sassoon (who Owen was in love with)
The poem is about the impacts of war. It is a chaotic dramatic monologue written from the perspective of a soldier (Owen himself?) commenting on his stay in hospital of boredom and regret, and lamenting the life he never got to live
How does this relate to Stranger Things, you might ask?
At first I wasn't sure. Wild With All Regrets is one of my personal favourites of Owen's poems, so it was only natural for the line to be floating round my head in the first place
But now, after Vol 3, I think it's even more important
The message of the line contextually is "We said we'd hate to be old because being elderly means weakness and loss of human beauty. But now, after the war and so many young men dying, not to be able to live to the point of being elderly is a worse fate than dying young and beautiful"
The contextual/actual motivation changes for the ST fandom, but the core of the message stays the same:
We said we'd hate to see a major character death. But now,
Not having a sensical major character death seems awful
Or:
We said we'd hate to have Byler as a result of a loss of El. But now,
Not having Byler as a result of a loss of El at all seems awful.
Or even:
We said we'd hate to have a complex, out-there ending. But now,
Having the most predictable ending instead of a complex one seems awful.
Plus I mean. Wilfred would've hated that ending too. RIP Wilfred Owen, you would've loved Byler Endgame and Mike Queerler
Guess who gets to meet Samuel Roukin next Friday
working out, especially alone, gets... boring. to say the least of it. with no one around, it lets john set up his phone, putting on a playlist that seems intent on running through maroon five. it's only a matter of time before he's off the machine, running a hand through his sweat soaked mohawk, letting a laugh pass his lips. he reaches for his water bottle, downing a good chunk of it, before snapping it closed and staring at it as the chorus to this love hits. fuck it. no one's around. he stands, holding the water bottle like it's his personal microphone. with a sway to his hips; he starts at it.
"this love! has! taken it's toll! on me!" a full spin with a wide grin. "he said! goodbye! too many times before!" shaking his ass, getting down low to the floor, struggling to keep laughter from his voice. "an' his heart is breakin' in front of me! an' i got no choice cause i won't say goodbye a-ny-more!" he gets himself standing back at his feet before going along. "whoooa-oh-oh! whoooooa-" it's in that moment he turns to the door to the gym, spotting a spectator.
"oh - oh." it all comes to an abrupt sudden halt. his face is burning - and it's definitely not from the workout exertion. paused mid dance step, balanced on one leg, the other in the air awkwardly. the water bottle is still in front of his lips, and his mouth left slightly agape, blue eyes wide in complete embarrasment as the song goes on in the background.
talk about awkward.
open ; soap caught in the workout gym singing - works for anyone who has any business working out or visiting a gym.
silently cries about camila x camila or lauren x lauren
UM, I realize that Pottermore emails come from now until like September but I'M STILL ANXIOUS FOR ME EMAIL
gimmie gimmie gimmie gimmie gimmie gimmie. please.