cosmic disturbance @write-the-night - Tumblr Blog

literally though if you feel like your life is slipping through your fingers and every day goes too fast… try doing hard things, not just taking the easy route, like reading and making art and exercising and cooking a meal from scratch and journaling, doing these things without distraction, without being absorbed on a screen… the time will stretch and you’ll be reminded that life is long and beautiful if you make it so.

i'm afraid that sometimes love might just not be enough

#please let us get through it #personal

milksockets

joan steiner in art to wear - julie schafler dale (1986)

artndetails

moving far away to a sunny place.

cottageaesthetic

is this me or was this Armani privé F23 look (on the right) clearly quoting 1993 fall Vivienne Westwood (left)? since VW is the fall icon and it's been 20yrs since the show and they might have wanted to pay homage and commemorate Vivienne?

im having a moment let me know if anyone else sees this or im making random connections

#maybe this is haute couture lore #LISTEN #i do actually think they were paying homage but i cant find press coverage of it #why am i so interested in this? ask my neurodivergence idk either #armani #armani prive #vivienne westwood #haute couture #couture #f23 #fw23 #fw2023 #fashion #fashion week

is this me or was this Armani privé F23 look (on the right) clearly quoting 1993 fall Vivienne Westwood (left)? since VW is the fall icon and it's been 20yrs since the show and they might have wanted to pay homage and commemorate Vivienne?

im having a moment let me know if anyone else sees this or im making random connections

#maybe this is haute couture lore #LISTEN #i do actually think they were paying homage but i cant find press coverage of it #why am i so interested in this? ask my neurodivergence idk either #armani #armani prive #vivienne westwood #haute couture #couture #f23 #fw23 #fw2023 #fashion #fashion week

cottagemoridollynatural

https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/333055334957307996/

https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/333055334957310764/

My ko fi

Artemis is still inside my head.

I ask myself who I can give your eyes to. Not to the captain, I could never. The hand he's missing is stained with not yet spilled blood - that soon he will spill himself. The metal hand which will replace it, stiff and useless, just lets the blood slip off. What does it matter? A soldier with no right hand cannot wield a weapon, then he is a soldier no more, then he is a man no more, then he is useful no more. He can only lock himself up in temples of gods he does not believe in. He can only live halfway narratives while knowing time is ticking quick and anxious towards the day of the final reveal. They made the innocent guilty, so the innocent made the sin his own and used it as payback. Since the day he arrived in town everyone was always staring. Glued to his skin. He scrubs seawater all over himself and hopes the salt can fight the poison in their eyes, although the poison was already inside him to begin with, and he was never innocent after all. This is what rage leads to. He was just waiting for a chance.

The night streets smell like mud and the sweat of the men washing dishes in the back. Artemis does not want to go home or perhaps she's just wasting time. How could I ever give anyone your eyes? There's too much beauty and too much suffering in them and I fear I might lead your bloodied purity into a world of things that are dirty and rotten.

Grey sky of eternal summer - always about to burst into a storm that will never come. Was this the future of the legendary Berenice? What did her eyes see before she died? What did her eyes see, through the foggy curtain of the afterlife, through the stone grave? The luxury of a burial which the brother of the lake will never be granted. The luxury of having already passed the veil, before the earth's walls cave in and lock around your throat and cut off all oxygen and sever your trachea like scissors ridding the garden of weeds. Is this not the way it goes? What would it otherwise be, the meaning of the end?

Who, if not mankind, if not Artemis, The Unfit, if not the captain with unloyal blood, if not a mad and forgotten soul - who, if not them, is the poison to get rid of to let the world breathe? The road to a long and peaceful future is ignorance. Questions, doubts, even the silent rebellion of those who are unable to fit in, these are all sharp rocks on the road to a happy ending.

None of them wish for immortality. They do not feel enough fear to be happy fools. Isn't that where you find happiness, in foolish ignorance? Isn't that the key of the shepherds of the Church? Sheep will follow you joyously whether you lead them to a cliff or to the gates of Heaven. How to lead a sheep that's broken in half, that sees evil and doesn't fear it, that sees evil and embraces it as indivisible part of the self? How to lead a man who in anger and vengeance hides behind false patriotism and, in exchange for his hand, will set a whole realm ablaze? How to lead a woman who does not fear madness or irrationality, who does not beware of ghosts, who wears a shaved head and filthy clothes and still summons the souls of history not yet erased? How to lead a soul with no body, that lives in the eyes of visionaries, that clings onto what's left of itself but lost its body in the space between worlds? The Collector guards the doors since always and forever, but the soul's body was left in the same past they've been trying to hide. Did it maybe lose it in one of the circles of hell, when hell was still home? Did it maybe lose it on a pyre like the frail priestess of hope? Did it feel burning flesh or was it hunger, or was it simply the wall they built to keep them inside and to keep themselves outside? I wonder if the soul ever saw the river. I wonder if The Collector knows about the boat and the Master of Death and his companion, and about their already past journey, predicted but never spoken, if it knows about the frail priestess on the other side of the river, welcoming boats into the harbor. I wonder if it knows about the phoenix mark burnt into the skin and about century-old battles, of worlds that still know nothing about the end. I wonder if the man in the mirror and Berenice and The Collector all live in the same unclear non-place, no man's land corridors, streets dripping from a world into another, quiet enough to go unnoticed, not enough for everyone not to notice. Artemis, the captain, the madwoman. Berenice, the man in the mirror, The Collector. Then Echo, the twin demon. Are they all perhaps two sides of one coin? Is it maybe the union of the future-past, of the wait of an apocalypse that already happened, which will join the misaligned ends of space and time in some sort of logic? And if you follow the wheel, if you go around it, you will see that the past follows the future as much as the future follows the past and then, maybe, there is no present in the graveyard.

#my writing #world on fire #writing #personal #art #excerpt from a book i'll never write #poetic prose #poetry #writer #magical realism #books #bookblr #artist #philosophy

virtuallyinsane-dark

Photo by Fidan Nazim qizi

Do you remember writing your will when you were fifteen?

Drawers, printed sheets. I can touch death with the tips of my fingers. It's a dark, sticky feeling. The same way you imagine quicksand as a kid.

It never stops raining.

Two hours laying on one side, two hours on the other. What did I dream about? Forgive me. They spit their own original sin all over you and try to convince you the mud and blood they're sinking into was your making.

I can't think. Tomorrow. In two months. Next year. There's nothing to prove my existence. Is this the kind of permission I have been waiting for?

I can't sleep. The sky is making me short-circuit. Too many conflicting faces live in the corners and once the house is empty we're all shouting into space.

I can't, not tonight. I'm busy watching the world go on without me.

I hope the rotting things inside my veins never come out. I hope he never sees them. I pray he sees everything and loves me anyway. It's not an easy thing to feel. I love you, I'm scared. What am I supposed to do with this? It was so much easier when others didn't matter to me.

The Church's cemetery is inside my head, Artemis is inside my head, the lake, your skin, pale water, this isn't rain.