I hope to arrive to death,
Late,
In love,
And a little drunk
~Atticus
Claire Keane
h
noise dept.
will byers stan first human second
Cosmic Funnies

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Product Placement
Jules of Nature

JVL
Misplaced Lens Cap

tannertan36
taylor price
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Love Begins

Kiana Khansmith
Sade Olutola
cherry valley forever
ojovivo

shark vs the universe
Cosimo Galluzzi

seen from United States
seen from Brazil

seen from Brazil
seen from Spain

seen from Chile
seen from Spain

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from United States
@the-teacup-dragon
I hope to arrive to death,
Late,
In love,
And a little drunk
~Atticus
There was a big ol' bumblebee out by my swing set today who landed on this tiny flower barley bigger then him. And this tiny flower flopped over and the bumblebee plopped right to the ground, but he got right back up and landed on that flower again. The flower bent over, but he stayed just fine.
I want to runaway again.
Not to something
Not from something
Just
Away
my spark is dimming and i don't know how to light it again
Change
I hate it—
the way my routine forgets me, the quiet where my friends used to be, how the places I loved exist now only in memory.
I hate change.
They say it helps you grow, stretch into something better— but it feels like the opposite.
It feels like loss.
Like a knife turning slowly in your chest, like air slipping just out of reach, like a random Tuesday collapsing under the weight of yesterday.
Nostalgia hits sharper then— sudden, unforgiving.
Oh, how I hate change.
I desire to be described as fiercely alive
Things that give writers anxiety
- When they write
- When they don't write
- Being asked what their book is about
- not saving before closing a word doc
- Life in general
Hiraeth
There is a single light in the garden.
And that makes no sense. The moon is new, resting one more night before returning to shine, so the fairy lanterns and blooming flowers should be the only glow.
But this, this is no summer light casting flickering shadows across the form holding it.
For a moment Roselyn thinks its a ghost;
A soul trapped between this world and theirs;
Between the past and the present;
Between the night and day.
But the ghost standing in the garden is not a ghost at all.
Ghosts don't leave footprints in the soil, carefully left between flowers.
Roselyn opens the door, the cool night air wrapping around her, far colder then it should be this deep in the summer. But, perhaps, now that the sun has set, her flowers dimmed, winter has come.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she calls.
A mouse scurries up their arm to perch on the lantern, nose in the air as if already asking where it is.
The not ghost doesn't say anything, only stare at her a moment longer, blinking speckled galaxy like eyes. Slowly, finally, they break the stillness with a nod, wolf like ears twitching. The mouse chitters.
"Come in, dear, out of the cold." Not that they could be cold, with the raven feathers wrapped around their shoulders. Roselyn steps back inside to begin the familiar motions of making tea. They blow the lantern out and hang it by the door, their steps silent. Roselyn notes that it's only a cloak, dusted in blue.
Their ears droop,
their tail drags,
the world heavy.
She can feel their eyes carefully tracking her from the doorway as she brews the drinks.
One for tea.
More then enough camomile.
Just a bit of lavender.
One for cider.
A pinch of clove.
A stick of cinnamon.
"Sit," she commands gently, placing two cups on the table and doing so herself.
A teacup shaped like a rose.
A carved brown mug, glazed in frost.
They do.
And give the mouse a cracker from a plate on the table.
"Drink, dear. Perhaps it will lead you home." They wrap their hands around the mug, their nails more like broken claws, cobalt paint chipped.
"I do not know where home is. I don't even know where it was."
"Mayhaps, this will remind you."
"What if I do not wish it too?"
An ear pricks up.
Roselyn sips her tea, searching for what to say.
"Why?"
She finally asks.
The mouse puts his tiny claws on her finger, cracker gone. She gives him a sugar cube.
The fire crackles.
"Because I don't believe I ever had one."
Roselyn sets the teacup down. Home, is many things, different things, to different people.
Comfort.
Safe.
A place to hide.
Family.
When it is lost, you never stop searching for it again. She offers the mouse another sugar. He happily snatches it from her fingers, but instead of scurrying away he settles on her hand.
Her home is Hanata,
the Manor,
her garden,
her cat.
"Home can be as simple as a cup of tea, or-" she reaches across the table to set the mouse on their shoulder "- a mouse by your side." They turn their face to the mouse, who runs his nose against their cheek. The Wolf's ears perk as yelling echoes from deeper in the Manor.
Someone must have been caught cheating at uno again. They really should reconsider game nights, they never end well.
That reminds her;
she was getting popcorn.
She doesn't keep popcorn in her kitchen.
Amelia has it stored away in her pantry.
Oh, well. This is where she's supposed to be.
They don't say more, all that's to be said, said.
The Wolf lets the mouse drink from their cup-
He nearly tumbles in-
before setting it down and standing.
Roselyn does not ask where they are going, does not ask them to stay. They are welcome to, of course, but it seems the woods are calling, the lantern next to the door lit once more.
The Wolf's journey is lonely.
And all she can offer is a cup always waiting in the cupboard for their return.
Roselyn wraps her shawl around herself, stepping off the porch, meeting the Wolf in the path.
They tilt their head, not quite in thanks, but it is enough. The mouse squeaks goodbye as they leave the garden behind, the only thing left of them dusty footprints of bare feet and a lipstick print on a mug.
"Ma'Róisín?" a honey voice calls from inside.
"Out here, my love."
"You've taken your time to get popcorn, I got worried," Hanata says taking her hand. Roselyn lets her shawl go, a warm summer breeze playing with her hair.
"The Manor had other ideas."
"Oh?"
The lantern light fades into the shadows.
"Just a Wolf passing through."
I don't want a knight in shining armor.
Give me a bard
with a sword
worn boots
twinkling eyes
and a story to sing
I will be your rogue
with a dagger
dark cloak
a smirk
and a voice to join yours
How to Write When You Don't Feel Like Yourself
There are going to be days (or weeks, or months) where you sit down to write and feel... disconnected. From your voice, from your characters, from your ideas. Like the person who used to write your stories just packed up and left.
They didn't. They're just tired. Here's how to keep writing anyway:
Lower the bar (Until it's on the floor) You are not here to write something brilliant. You are here to write something. A paragraph. A sentence. A single line of dialogue. Movement matters way more than quality.
Write around the story Don't force it. If you can't write the scene, try: ⋆ A character ramble / journal entry ⋆ A conversation that won't be included in the final draft ⋆ A list of things the character would never admit out loud ⋆ A messy summary of what should happen Engage with the story from a different angle.
Borrow a voice until yours comes back No, not with AI. Read something that feels close to what you want to write, or watch a scene that captures the tone, then write immediately after. Not to copy, to reignite your instincts.
Write the emotion, not the plot. What is your character feeling in this moment? What are they afraid of? What do they want but won't say? What's being kept from them? The emotion leads, the plot catches up later.
Stop trying to "feel like a writer" first. You don't write when you feel like a writer. You feel like a writer because you write.
You are still a writer, even on the days it feels distant. Especially then.
I have been informed that I'm a little bit bonkers
It is winter/and my heart hurts/I'd like to lay in the snow/under the heavens/ watch the stars fall/and let it fill the cracks with frost
The sun will wake me in the morning/until then/let me be/let me mourn/let me regret/for I'll know better next time
Perhaps the frost won't melt til spring/but that's okay/I'll return/I just need a moment/to belong/only to me/to the snow/to the stars/no need to wait for me/ but if you do/please know
/I won't be the same/
“The heart was made to be broken.”
— Oscar Wilde
“…the sad part is, that I will probably end up loving you without you for much longer than I loved you when I knew you.Some people might find that strange.But the truth of it is that the amount of love you feel for someone and the impact they have on you as a person, is in no way relative to the amount of time you have known them.”
— Ranata Suzuki
“I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.”
— Melissa Cox
I don't think I'm meant for great things.
“Sometimes you have to lose your mind before you come to your senses.”
— Unknown