if I was rich I would buy all the life-size pokemon plushies.
if I was rich I would buy all the life-size pokemon plushies.
btw this blog is on like low activity for the month of December but I’m here for dms and discord stuff!!
‘clair de lune’ by debussy but you’re wandering down the halls of your wealthy reclusive uncle’s grand and empty mansion trying to find who’s playing the piano because you haven’t seen another soul for weeks except your reflection in the mirror (youtube)
You never really knew how to be yourself, distancing yourself from your own existence - standing outside of the house even as the storm closed in. You are going through the motions of everyday life, uncaring except for the toughest storms. Each one feels like the one - the one that will finally be too much for you. Somehow it isn’t - it never is (except the last one). And as the people around you pick their lives back up and move on, barely bothered by the storm, you still carry it in you - one foot in your life and one out of it. And when they’ll ask about you, asking questions about your future, your plans, your dreams the only honest answer would be “i don’t know, i never thought i’d make it this far”.
also despite the catharsis in it, lyric doesnt like to sing in front of crowds because they consider it to be something very personal and that’s hard to do when they’re in front of people they might know. if lyric wants to yell into a mic they go out of their way to go to a bar with a live band for karaoke or open stage or something similar where nobody knows them, change their entire outfit, and put in all the effort of keeping their anonymity only to leave immediately after.
“Why do people always talk about wanting
‘room to entertain’? What the hell does that mean?
I didn’t buy a house to entertain guests I
bought it to have a place to sleep! Who is buying
houses to have room to entertain.”
Being affirmed and nurtured by others is a central requirement for you to feel safe. This means you can be slow to warm up to other people, which is difficult because what you most need from them is their warmth. Yet you know how to be vulnerable: to let down your defenses and accept that you need another person. This lack of pretense is a valuable trait, and ultimately more endearing than the macho efforts others make to deny their childlike sides.
You like clarity and intelligent simplicity and you get frustrated at messy thinking. This can make you seem unreasonably pushy to some, but it is actually a virtue: you are motivated by a horror at pointless effort and a longing for precision and insight into how things and people work. Your ability to synthesize and bring order is essential in producing thinking which is truly helpful.
One part of you dreams of giving yourself up – perhaps just for a while – to a hero or mentor. In the right circumstances you can flourish by letting go of your ego. In your inner life, reverence plays out as a willing submission to your own conscience. In the outside world, you might get frustrated searching for something worth believing in – a country, a person, a company – but you will always be open to feeling respect, admiration and wonder.
You are good at making decisions; you have a clear sense of what needs to be done and what others should be doing. Played out inside yourself, this tendency drives you to value willpower and self-control. You may be accused of bossiness. But acting on your desire to dissuade, restrain or guide is often appreciated by others – who might secretly like a clear direction, and some firmness.
Part of you is gripped by the fear that you’ll launch into something and completely mess it up. The upside of this is wise caution: people are indeed often too rash, whereas you know, by instinct, that holding back can save you. Probably, you feel shame and self-disgust a bit too much. But when you do feel in your element, you act with a wisdom and sensitivity never found in people with thicker skins.
@mageshot liked a starter
“ Someone had been killed down there. ” an alarming statement that should not be said by a man who had never introduced himself. The man was dressed in black , built like he never missed a day at the gym & a gold chain around his neck. What topped it was the swept back , wavy red hair passed his shoulders. He looked groomed & IMPORTANT , but just who was he ?
“ do not go down that street.”
⇒ They’re holding their keyring in one hand with each key between their fingers so the backs of the metal create a comfortable pressure against the thin skin, nearly walking head-first into an alarming bulk of a man who they would actively have avoided in any secondary setting on account of him looking like the kind of person who held grudges, and Lyric looking exactly like what they were: a frustratingly over-worked young adult with their hair fraying in its untidy bun and their jacket discolored where the sleeve touched a puddle of bleach. There is a beat of silence before they look briefly down the street in question ( it’s completely dark, except for maybe one or two streetlights, but neither of them offer any help from where they’re standing. ) before looking back at him ( and they don’t really want to look at him. there’s something intimidating about it. they steel themselves and put away that fear. ) and chewing their tongue.
“Did you… call someone?
✧*:･ﾟ| UNLIKE many others, from Siebren the question comes laced with concern and a furrowed brow. A secret he’d like to be PRIVY to if it came with the promise of a healthier Ghoul. Though, of course that would be near impossible even if the youth wasn’t amnesiac, as he’d hardly be able to look anywhere without seeing any sign of scarring or violence.
❝YOU do appear as if you could have been burnt. Is it a fear of yours? If so, I will ensure that any lights are CONTAINED in your presence.❞ Suspicions abound, of course, but a flicker of wide lilac hues in the direction of the stationary security camera keeps him from PRESSING too hard. ❝There’s a chance still that your true memories are suppressed by false ones, but I don’t want to think of that as a POSSIBILITY … ❞
“A little. I can’t hold it because it hurts.
Why can’t you hold some things?”
⇒ Their finger pushes the little piece of paper harder into the tabletop until it leaves a residual impression on the flesh of their finger, reminding them when they dig their claws into their palms too hard and it leaves jagged, crescent marks in the skin that sting. They remember a lit Bunsen burner sitting on the on the steel countertop with its flickering blue flame, so tempting they had reached out to grab it without thinking only to scorch the ends of their fingers and reel back, shrieking. They turn their gaze to Sigma again, his curious and cautionary head-turn, and make a curious chittering in the back of their throat. They would not ask so many questions of anyone else but Sigma seemed to have all the answers
“True memories? False memories?
What does suppressed mean? Is it bad?
How do you know what memories are true ones?”
arcitraditore said: “i had something i wanted to ask you.”
⇒ Buccellati is a dignified man; a vicious man. With his suit pressed so firmly every crease becomes a hard edge of painted light, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like braces for his forearms, uncaught strands of hair cutting across his face in the harsh light from the window. They think he could never be comfortable with not trying at all ( they feel it more acutely in their arms where they ache, pulled taunt against their sockets with their blood rescinding, their limbs are knotted and locked with coarse ropes and they can’t feel their hands. ) as the dust hangs suspended in the air like time slowed, gravity betraying them both when they have gone so numb in a dark room that the sound of a phone ringing in another room is like a knife in their ear, like many tiny explosions ringing against their skull. If they try to move too much the pain spreads to their nerves like ants under their skin consuming them alive; their focus will spin out of control and they’ll twist and topple over though they are sitting down. Three days has been a life sentence and their pupils become pinpricks of black in the center of their eyes as the sun comes through with its raze feeling like both a cold foreshadowing and warm mouthful of cotton regrets—-their skull is screaming as they shake on their axis trying not to pull against the rope that has ground itself into their ribcage in the quiet. ( What-ifs were condemning questions. There was no shorthand method to bypass their crucifixion if he did not approve of them here; they aren’t sure if their arms have been encroached upon by necrosis or if he has removed them entirely. He did once, in the beginning, when they wouldn’t stop snarling and thrashing. He left them on the floor to sweat it out while they panicked with their heart like a jackrabbit running in their ear and their shoes scraping against the floor; there was something disorienting seeing their limbs separate from them, six feet away. The concept was enough to send them reeling. ) They’re trying to convince themselves this struggle goes both ways: he’s not getting any useful information out of them and they aren’t going anywhere, can’t even do something as satisfying as set fire to themselves so the last line of informants burns with them and he has to return to that young boss empty handed. Maybe his wounds would burn as badly as their muscles do now. That would be half of what they think he deserved.
Their lips are cracked, desert stones with jagged edges caked in red glass for their blood as they swallow the thickened concoction of their saliva and find no relief from the halos of stars stemming from the rays of light through the uncovered windowpane. If they kept their eyes closed in the quiet they could imagine they were listening to something other than the muffled cicadas outside and their own breathing for hours on end, fingers curling and breathing ragged. Their skin was soaked through like a piece of tissue paper, easily torn by the vicious usurping of their thoughts by the morning sun. There is a ringing in their ears from all the silence. Their head is lolled back and it strains their neck as they try to keep their pulse in check against contrition, conditioned to their guilt so that it might gut their stomach and spill everything out of them. Beat everything out of them.
They are the only one left.
“I don’t know anything.
I don’t know how many times
I have to tell you that.”
⇒ This anger is self-medicated by exhaustion. Their voice is the most ragged they have ever heard it to be, barely scraps of what it was, rusted without a drop of water–could fork it and their blood would be thick oil spilling out of their throat as they repeated that manta: I don’t know. I don’t know. Nobody would believe that. Not even they believed that and it was the truth—they didn’t know. They had never been trusted with an ounce of information about the rest of the Narcotics team that couldn’t be beaten out of some dealing punk who holed up in all the wrong places: information got around like the plague; if you didn’t want someone to have it you shouldn’t say it in the first place. Those rat bastards got into every corner of the house including theirs. The man in front of them was not so lowly but he still had marching orders to unbury all the secrets in them, like they were a graveyard of other people’s stories he had been searching for, and if he puts his hand near their mouth they’re going to bite his goddamn fingers off before they die. ( and they feel like they will die. if he ever lets them out of this chair they’ll never feel their arms again. they aren’t sure they even have them anymore. ) They swallow against the craggy cliffside of their throat and try to wet their split lips with a dry tongue. ( —–wait. they already thought that. they try to wiggle their fingers but they can’t tell if its working. ) The light of the sun strikes their tissue and runs along their nerves like a telephone wire, fills them with sub scattering that makes them glow red around the edges as they breathe wheezy and labored. The collar of their shirt is yellow from sweat, their skin feels like sunbaked clay still soft on the inside and filled with dirt particles. It is gritty and agitating; they try to shift to scratch their shoulder against the back of the chair and it spears them through with sharp pain. They go a little more limp in the knots. They think they’re shaking trying not to lose all composure and posture in themselves.
“Why don’t you ask me any fun questions?
Like my favorite color.
Or what I’d like to be dressed in
when I die in this fucking chair.”
Anonymous said: Some people know suffering they would never wish on their worst enemy. What is a suffering you do wish upon others?
“That is… …”
⇒ Their hand flexes and curls into itself slowly. They feel the pad of their thumb against the outside of their pointer finger, a residual warmth they hadn’t recognized before thinking about their own hands—-and they must, to answer such a thing, for how could they make any decision without first knowing it themselves? The skin of their hands is dry, their palm tender when their nails bite into it simply to have the sensation, to hold it between their teeth and remember that they feel things, that they are alive. That every other person they meet is alive, full of their own experiences and woes: no matter how many times they have been cast aside or broken bones their pain is that of every other living person. Think of the thick, clotted mass of blood where their heart was, built upon the webbing of grief when their brother was stolen from them violently, when their mother withered in her grief until her hands were like will branches so thin and bowed they could hide beneath them every summer as if they were a curtain separating them from the outside world. They stand in the stagnant water of their hatred which flowed from between their sand white ribs, colored with the blood of their father: they inherited all his rage and none of his gentleness because they buried it with their mother’s white dress when they sealed her coffin up and laid it to rest in the dirt. They have walked a hundred miles in bare feet that left bloodied footprints on their path. Everything was blood soaked, was pain, was the burn of being and being unlucky.
I don’t want anyone to suffer unnecessarily.”
Anonymous said: You are so strong and I am sorry that it appears I underappreciate it at times. I only wish to see you safe and living the best possible life. The life you and many others of your kind deserved. I love you as my own child. I love you.
“… … I don’t know if I’m strong the
way you think I am. What is the difference
between true strength and strength
built out of fear? All I know is how to
grit my teeth and endure, but if you
can see strength in that I am inclined to
⇒ Others of their kind… what would become of humanity when the fire burned out? Would there be peace in the dark? Could they go quietly? And they wondered if he would live, still, at their side. There is still so much they must endure.
“… … I care about you, too. I’m sorry
if it does not always appear that way.”
this concludes ur Dogma Status Update