Your love is like whiplash—it comes in with the rain, it blows the doors wide open. When you fall in love, it is sudden and hard and immense. It is powerful. It is earth-shaking and world-ending. Nature is a force, and that force can be destructive if you're not careful. See how the world is doused in gasoline and set on fire—your love consumes, your love takes, your love burns. You're hot and cold all at once, a hurricane and a wildfire bound together in skin, and when you're in love, it can feel like it's eating you alive from the inside out. When you love, it is with everything you have because it is everything you have. Be careful, darling, because not everyone survives the storm.
TAGGED BY: @miidnighters // thankies~!
TAGGING: @schattenwerfenkeineschatten, @id1eyouth, @doyl1st, @handspike, @troublesomecousin, and anyone who wants to do this~!
TAGGED BY: @joyousdefunct // this is so cute omg
TAGGING: @escapedartgeek, @bruisedconscience, @eldritchsign, @blckfckinmsk, @unpossession, @troublesomecousin and anyone else that wants to do this!
TAGGED BY: Stolen from @troublesomecousinTAGGING: @parvumchao, @hangtenn, @ontrgt, @thehollyverse, @id1eyouth, @bruisedconscience and anyone else who wants to do this~!
Here’s a dining table, here’s a set of plates. Here’s your heart, red and bursting with love. You have tried to love people all your life, but no one seems to understand you. Your own mother perhaps forgot to teach you how to protect yourself, maybe people whom you trusted chose to look the other way when all you wanted was a hand full of love. All you want is someone to take from you, all you want is someone to dig in your heart and eat it and kiss you afterwards - bloody and red. You want them to tell you that you are what they have been looking for, you want to be the one who ends their hunger.
PHILO | A KNIFE CALLED GRIEF
You have left your house, you have left those people behind, but what are you going to do about the memories which have taken root in you? You can run but not without them. You want someone to sit with you on this cool marble floor while the sun burns everything. You want them to cut your rotten heart and theirs too. You want to sit with it in front of you, let them see you with all your flaws, which haven’t been your fault but you have been made to believe so, and you want them to love you anyways. Because you know you’d do that for them.
TAGGED BY: @troublesomecousin // i'm gonna kill u dead lOOK AT THIS
TAGGING: @bruisedconscience, @id1eyouth, @parvumchao, @wornclean, @filthystill and anyone else who wants it~!
He obviously doesn't look like he has a lot; his truck is old and rusted in some areas, his clothes are a bit outdated and sometimes stained or holey, and if you've seen where he lives...yeah.
So the question is; why doesn't Philo spend money to live more comfortably? Or use his cash more in general? Hits and the various odd jobs he does pay pretty well, certainly more than enough to keep one man with simple tastes satisfied.
Philo does not believe he's worth it.
He's grown too accustomed to living as he does to ever level up. In his mind, the fact that he has anything is in itself a triumph. For example, he owns a couch! A comfortable one! He probably got it at a tag sale and there are few nicks in the fabric BUT he has something of comfort. That alone is much better than he had before.
Could he afford to get an even better couch? Yes. Will he? No. Not even when this couch is on its last leg. He doesn't feel like he deserves anything new, like it's finery would be wasted on someone "like him".
The only things he owns are things people have given him as gifts. And even then, he probably tried to 'Oh, no! You shouldn't have really!" until they insisted he takes it.
Another question comes up after the first one; why do what he does then? If he doesn't feel the need to have so much money?
Because he needs to feel useful. And this is the only thing he feels he's good for. Also, he doesn't exactly have a proper education, papers, or a resume at his age. This isn't exactly the job market for him.
That being said, he will spend money on people he cares about. Mainly on food, because growing up he was starved at one point so he's very big on sharing food and eating out with people!
WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE: The mask makes an impression, that's for damn sure— It's some sort of woven fabric, not exactly a soft, thin thing like cotton but maybe a more burlap that's been treated in some way to make it more solid. Below the neck, he looks like he stepped in from a boarding school in the early 1900's. It's the casual three-piece suit in the colors of old-world academia. It's the loafers that he's polished and pressed so they have a luxurious shine. There's no good reason for him to dress that way outside of just enjoying looking spiffy and having an excuse to wear a gaudy tie.
When the posh sleeves are rolled up it's a different story— tattooed sleeves that hide a myriad of scars. Calloused working hands with hard knuckles from repeated abuse. Nails that are stained around the edges with blood.
If you're one of the rare folk who can see behind the mask...there's another one under there. Face paint is his best friend these days and he's gotten used to painting himself up. It's a less-than-artistically done skull, all black and white. And a mop of mousy brown hair that sticks up at all angles plus a short stubble.
WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE: Canvas. You ever smell canvas? Maybe even those raw, brown ones. New fabric and paper and old book smell...but fresher. Smells like smoke occasionally when his nerves get the better of him. Smells like...the inside of a Doritos bag. Or some other Frito-Lay concoction.
WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE: Yuck. Skin is sweat-slicked half the time— his job is very laborious. Lots of exertion. Under the mask is a bit sweaty too. Don't ask him if he's hot under there, leave him be. Mouth is stale, cheap beer at times. Blood on other occasions. Leftover smoke. Teeth-rotting sweet and sour from some gummy he ate. Punch in the mouth from some weird kombucha he made.
WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE: Sounds like he should work in IT. Medium pitch and no, he does not pitch it down when he's doing his job. You get the IT guy who's going to tell you about his cats. Slight nasal tone at times, especially when too tired to articulate or when whining. Has a lot of 'z' sounds— it's not he's it's he'z. Words run into each other at times, mainly when excited or monologuing. Not loud at all really...quite soft-spoken...his voice trails off at the ends of sentences. If you ever need someone to very clearly whisper, he's your man.
WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE: Philo is a product of pain in every respect. Grab an arm and its taut muscle over bone. The years of having to forcibly kick the snot out of his peers have resulted in lean muscle. It's not a punch with his whole body into it, it's just straight-up clear and calculated bone directed at your face. Reach under that mask and the stubble scratches. Under the polished outfit are more scars and you'll notice more how some bones haven't healed right. Back humps a little from all those nights in the cage and you could run your finger down his spine and feel every bump of vertebrae. Hands are rough and calloused— mostly thanks to his work. He's used to how it bites at fabric and no one wants to hold his hand for long.
Actually, no one wants to hold his hand so...it's fine.
TAGGED BY: stolen from @devilmass <333
TAGGING: @survivics, @rennisaturate, @bruisedconscience, @vitalphenomena, @dogtccth, and anyone else who'd like to do this!
The VHS begins with static before fizzling into the picture— all that's seen at first is a blur of a gloved hand fiddling with the placement of the camera. Once satisfied, the figure attached to the glove steps back, now coming into focus and illuminated by a small desk lamp. The figure was clad in a smart shirt and slacks, adorned with a patterned tie...as well as donning a pair of leather gloves and a burlap mask with a crudely stitched mouth. "Hello world— ah, maybe not world. This is mainly for me— Hello future me! And anyone else that finds this video diary. Probably law enforcement. Or a burglar. Or a really nosey teenager."
There's a slight leathery squeak as he settles himself in the nearby office chair, getting himself comfortable for the spiel that was about to follow. "This video is purely for my own benefit and self-healing. My therapist actually recommended that I journal but I've never been a big fan of writing— I'm a talker. Definitely a talker. The first memory I have is my teacher telling my mom that I don't stop talking in class. I was transferred outta that class— not 'cause of the talking, actually, I think I ate another kid's science project..."
"But back to therapy— Apparently the act of writing things down is so that we can allow ourselves a safe space to evaluate our thoughts and feelings about certain events in our past and present and assess them in a logical way. It also gives one an outlet to be their authentic self, able to express their full range of emotions and reactions due to outside forces." He flings the brochure he was reading from over his shoulder. "That's a really long-winded way of explaining it but I'm hoping that talking about things on camera will have a similar effect. I explain what's happening and say my piece and then can watch it later and realize that I'm being an asshole about it or that I'm overreacting or that I'm completely valid in those thoughts—"
His fingers snap as a sudden thought hits him. "Aw, I shoulda... started this with an introduction— okay, okay, let's rewind this. To start off, my name is Philo. You say, hello Philo, it's lovely to meet you— I have a last name but I don't use it so we'll consider that a moot point, m'kay?" Gloved hands tug at the edge of his mask. "I have, uh, some issues with, uh, my sense of self...and identity...and rejection too I think— I've got issues, but wearing the mask helps. I realize it's sorta scary looking to most folks but, uh, I don't care. All the mirrors in my apartment are smashed in. I can't...look at myself for very long."
The mask is readjusted, the only indication there was a real person underneath being the bright eyes peering out from each eye hole and the flash of a grin from the jagged mouth slit. "The mask is also good for anonymity, which is very important to me. And to be fair, I could have chosen to wear a less frightening mask. Any mask would do really...but this one is a little freaky and it helps with my job."
"My job is...oh, fun fact: my therapist knows what I do for a living but he's non-judgemental, which is something you want in a therapist— In tax terms, I am classified as a freelancer. Which is just another word for mercenary. I do what people pay me to do, within reason." He takes a moment to cross one leg over the other, clasping a gloved hand on his knee. "Liiike I don't harm animals. Doesn't make sense to me. A dog is innocent. If they bite you, you probably messed with them and you should really look inward and reflect on yourself as an individual."
He shrugs. "But if you want me to, like, shoot someone in the head, like, yeah I'll do that." He nods. "But I don't do it maliciously, which I think is a good thing. Says a lot about me as a person I think." Philo's quiet for a moment, sitting pretty and jiggling his foot as he thought about his next words. "I've done a lot of...illegal things in the name of money. I don't really feel bad 'bout some of it. Stealing? Odds are I'm stealing from a bad guy or a rich guy who's probably bad and that's fine by me. Beating someone up? Listen...if you get involved with dangerous people and don't at least learn some Judo, I'm pretty sure that's on you." He had an unfair advantage but that's neither here nor there. "Exotic animal smuggling? Well, how else are the elite gonna get their Kinkajous? I'm providing necessary services here."
Philo pauses to rub at his clothed chin. "Hmph, I haven't...haven't really...mentioned my thoughts and feelings and stuff yet, have I? It's all work, work, work with me, huh? Okay, well, I'll tell the lovely viewers at home about what I just talked to my therapist about...for posterity."
He leans forward now, initially silent as he thinks back on the aforementioned session. "I thought it was a funny little anecdote, y'know? I remembered when...I was, like, twelve and I had a growth spurt and mom started with the, uh, the cage? It was...putting kids in a cage is something I wouldn't do for my job, just for the record. But mom, uh, she just...she did it for free I guess." There's a bark of bitter laughter. "She used to...she used to tell me jokes. When I was really small...not sure when I went from, uh, to being her son to...to whatever she thought I was."
Philo's leg jiggles. "Well, she used to have me fight other neighbor kids. I got...I got hurt a lot. And then if I didn't...win, I'd have to spend the night in the cage. I mean...there were definitely other kids there so it seemed...like that was just something we had to do. Just boys will be boys sorta thing. Beating the ever-living snot outta each other— World, I dunno if you've ever slept in a cage overnight but it's not...definitely not fun. You've gotta...kinda crouch. And your thighs go numb. Knees still hurt when it rains 'cause of that shit."
He abruptly stands, the office chair swiveling slowly behind him. "Y'know, I think that...think that's enough. More than enough. I gotta...gotta stretch my shitty knees. How do I—" He's fiddling with the camera, cursing softly under his breath when he can't figure out how to stop. "Okay, then, we'll just—" Philo stalks out of frame, the sound of rustling coming from just off-screen. "I'll figure this out!" Is heard as a far-off cry.
He comes back with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing both to be heavily tattoed— he's also got a golf club and looks ready to swing. "FORE!" The picture fizzles out with a loud CRACK on impact.
Hometown: Matane, Quebec, Canada
Birth Date: January 5, 1979
Orientation: "I like anyone who can deal with the whole mask thing. The bar is sooo low."
Height: 6'3"
Pets: Cool Whip the Bunny
