#metaphor?

[miles-obriens-endless-torment]

I can almost guarantee this wasn’t the TNG writers’ intention, but I see a lot of myself (as an autistic person) in Data’s constant self-analyzation and simultaneous refusal to admit that he is capable of these emotions everyone else is feeling. Something about Data being seen as robotic, both by himself and others, but the audience sees him make illogical decisions and act like a human often. I’m not eloquent enough to express it fully atm, but yeah. Data.

[lifenconcepts]

Check it out y’all

The divine wolf in body of man

[thatsbelievable]

[zerosocialskillz]

Looking at the ULTRAKILL tag like it’s my morning newspaper

[m-pennanti]

Being asexual in today’s society is like a bunch of people asking you which cheese is your favorite and you tell them you’re allergic to dairy but they make you try every type of cheese to figure out which one your favorite is anyway (spoiler alert none of them are)

[hairbrush9]

the republicans just place two full glasses of water on the back of each hand of every sitting democrat in the house and senate and only. if the dems move too quick the water will spill onto their clothes and it would be really inconvenient. The dems could just spill the water and get back to work, but it’s much easier to justify doing nothing to avoid minor inconveniences to themselves so long as its at the expense of their constituents. 

[the-fae-folk]

Door without a Way

In the trees there is a door. It lies off the path and deep in the darkest places of the forest. It is carved of rowan wood, with detailed patterns that repeat ad infinitum across its surface. Stare at those patterns for too long, follow the map they make across your mind, and you will be lost for ever. There is no handle, but there is a knocker. You cannot go through of your own volition. Someone else must let you through from the other side, provided they hear your frantic knocking.

You are frantic because, of course, you are being pursued by endarkened beasts and monsters with glistening teeth that would like nothing better than to devour you. You must escape. So you bang the knocker, praying that someone will hear. All the while aware that no benediction has yet fallen to you from the other side, from some savior’s lips.

The door is placed between an apple tree, for immortality, and a Pomegranate tree, for Death. There is no door frame. The door is held by the roots of the tree and the bush. It cannot open, for there is no threshold, no postern. Liminal space lies all around, instead of in the door where it belongs. When the door is the destination, all other rules are held in suspense, suspended. If only once again the door can become the journey and not the destination, maybe then will the world right itself and the door will be able to open. The frame will be restored and the transitory lanes will once more lie within.

Someone will hear your knocking then, and you will escape when they open the door.