Friendly Reminder That You're Really Powerful

some people say they wish the adventures they had were real and that they lament the lack of it and i cannot help but think if it were real i would not survive and maybe i am only meant to tell the stories that they live and when brick heck said "i think there are two types of people: those who are meant to live, and those who are meant to read about them, and i am the latter"

maybe i am the latter

every day is just can i be in love who will i be in love with it is so difficult but i know it has felt so easy i love you i love you i love you i love you i love people i hate people i love the world the world is despicable it is too much maybe it will all be okay if i fall in love it is horrible the world burns but can i— can just i be okay

passivity

what are you waiting for? someone to grant you permission? the perfect and permanent emotion? a shooting star to magic away every problem you have or have ever had? alright, wait away then. but no one is going to live your life for you while you wait to become someone else.

-user @pollen

what's the thing you're most proud of doing in 2024? there has been a recent movement in the recommendations i have been receiving across my media consumption sites. (not the professional ones, just public sites). even though i've been off most social media for a while now, towards the end, i'd been receiving more and more stuff that just said: leave, take a break, breathe. the very nature of hyperpersonalisation states that i could be watching things that none of you have ever reached through endless scrolls. when any of those creators ask: “what is your hobby?” and before you can "answer" them, they quickly add a caveat. “media consumption is not a hobby!” and maybe it's not. but why?

what did you do this year? my friends asked me as it ended, and i paused for a second. what had i done? then i remembered, i've started writing a blog (semi-regularly), i've tried to start learning the ukulele, and as i string this thought process along, i've started realising: it's just action, isn't it? you have to choose to do it.

what question does the trolley problem pose at its core? would you choose to take one death on your conscience, or let five deaths simply happen, as deaths do? are you strong enough to make that choice within a split second? now, consider the inverse: are you willing to take action, choose to do something that's going to improve you as a person that's not simply passive intake of media, bearing the cost of effort? and if the choice sounds obvious, why is it so hard?

what do i want to say? i'm not always sure. maybe i just want to tell all of you: there's nothing like the feeling of having done something well, so please do it as much as you can. maybe i just want to tell all of you: i will be very proud of you if you try. maybe i just want to tell you: i care about you. i would be very happy if you were happy with yourself. you got this. i'm here for you.

for what is- what is art, if not the blood of our souls

nice to meet you too !!! my aforementioned irl has started reading it so i'm waiting for him to get partway along so i can then start i'm very comfortable letting him find me fanart so i'm at no risk of getting spoilered

HAVE YOU READ WORM HAVE YOU HAVE YOU

HI YES I HAVE!!

meditation media

even though it's so inextricably linked to spirituality in the way i perceived it at first, i've begun to wonder of meditation and how i'm performing it. up till recently, it'd been a while since i'd been lost in a piece of art, the way i used to spend most of my time as a kid: buried in a book, and it's beginning to happen again, to my relief. art just horrifying enough (requiem for a dream) or perplexing enough (it's what's inside) or just weird (kinds of kindness) have been engaging in a sense i'd forgotten how to feel.

i'd call engaging with such art a weaker form of meditation, provided a certain degree of 'artiness' to the art as well. we see parts of ourselves in characters we see, and it teaches us things about us. would i have felt the same paralysing fear arjun felt on the battlefield? very likely, indeed. would even the geeta have helped me overcome it, could i have killed family for dharma? who knows! i was part of a conversation about reading the mahabharat at a certain stage of life (not mine), and the introspection it provides you with through the characters.

i have learned many things about me through art, it is awfully convenient to have people who are very good at verbalising feelings do the job for you. even though there is nothing new under the sun, and to a certain extent, i agree, there's always a new combination of existing stories that finds a nerve you didn't know existed. the bones may be the same, but the skin always morphs and changes and adds a certain quasi-citrus freshness to any story. maybe one day i'll graduate to actually introspecting, but for now, i'm very thankful for art for being my gandalf through middle earth.

i would 100% have done the same (i haven't heard of this game)

fun fact about me:

when I was a kid doing the "they loves me, they loves me not" it didn’t take very long for me to figure out that I should only pick flowers with odd numbers of petals, buttercups being my most frequent pick.

And then I felt like that was cheating so I picked flowers with numbers of leaves to many for me to bother counting, daisies, and then i went back and forth depending on my mood.

my heart is lost adrift in a sea far from land oh, what I would give to float to a beach astray

there lies no comfort here out in the cold vastness of the water oh, what i would give to find a land to lay on

shouts to the sky are futile no god rescues me but to be honest anyone who would save me would be no less

Which superpower do you think suits me the best?🥸

i noticed you asked everyone this so im going to say the ability of charm; to convince people to do the things you ask them to

A Waltz of Powers

Love Hurts as Nothing Else

Hearts lie heavy,

Always weighted down,

By the grief, and love, and beauty,

A gentle sunrise on a small town.

So has Syrae's,

He knows no love without pain, or hurt

For him, it is eternal.

No one without the other.

A rainstorm on a winter night,

Fog clouding eyes on hills,

Tears, flowing, a constant stream,

That is how he lives his years,

A nightmare or a hellish daydream.

The stream never ceases,

Relenting only when the other stream,

The stream of power

Is let loose,

With its wake of destruction to follow.

The world is fortunate the stream lies in his hands,

For it would long have been dust,

If it was any other.

A Chance at Recklessness

A landscape is called barren,

When it lies devoid of life.

If that were true, Autumn would be no less.

A person whose soul was more extreme

Than the driest desert,

Or the highest peak.

In a world of beauty to the eye,

She is blind,

For nothing can be beautiful that is not appreciated

And nothing can be appreciated that does not deserve it.

Autumn is loath to believe anything does.

Many objects are loved, in this world,

As a soft rainbow in a sunny sky,

A chirp from a bird in a quiet night,

Or a gentle breeze in the midst of summer.

None appeal, to the stone that is her heart,

She would simply call a diamond,

For what beauty can the most beautiful object see,

When there is nothing more so than itself?

Love From the Heartless

There has never been a time,

Where Autumn and Syrae

Have not loved each other.

It is an absolute truth.

Does the sun rise each day,

At dawn, as clockwork?

It would be foolish to ask,

As it is known, that it does.

Does water quench thirst?

Or fill the sea?

Does a lion hunt a deer?

Nobody would dare to ask.

It is the same, with the two of them,

Because there has never been a time,

When Autumn has not been at Syrae's side,

And he at hers,

It is known.

Most Stories Never Wish to Begin

They who are known,

they who are envied,

For being known from a story,

Are often envious of those not.

It is rarely a boon to be seen,

To be known in such a way,

That a mere mention of your name evokes the thought of you.

Oh, to be forgotten.

Syrae desires for joy,

Good, in the world.

There is rarely ever enough,

Through his eyes,

And all he can ever do is try,

Him against evil.

It feels so, that it is only ever him.

The force of good has always been too small,

Yet it oft prevails,

So is the force of it.

So is its power.

So is his.

The Inevitability of Inevitability

As inevitable the victory of the kind is,

So is the rise of cruel.

It is as thorns on roses,

Always present, ready to prick,

Only sated with the taste of blood,

No lesser than a bloodthirsty beast.

And so, however much so Syrae would wish otherwise,

It rises.

Much to his disappointment, and chagrin,

It grows.

And his is the only power strong enough.

Souls, and hearts, full of life,

Laughter and joy and smiles,

Are what he prizes most,

Light prevailing over darkness.

That is the cost of being kind,

Kindness tested in forges with more heat than the sun,

And more difficult than wars,

For if there a hundred swords,

Made of the strongest iron,

Not one will refrain from drawing blood,

None, but a human,

Forged in no furnace,

But the furnace of life.

Destruction, Unimpeded

It is usual for life to grow,

Thrive, in its settlements,

Fester, until it simply is,

The place inseparable from the living.

And just as usual for it to be destroyed.

But even the tallest of trees,

Is no adversary,

For it is but ash in the wind,

Simply a victim to flames blazing,

Crawling up its bark.

Fire makes its own path,

Burning through even the thickest of bushes,

And the toughest of trees.

It has no opponent strong enough to withstand its power,

None powerful enough to face it down.

But one crafty enough, its victory over the flames guaranteed,

A flood to the ignited fuel,

But when it is not present,

Nothing can survive its wrath.

And as half the world burns down,

The water too far to attempt extinguishing,

Syrae's heart hurts.

It hurts too much.

Guilt and blame,

Regret flaming in his heart,

For even if his stream was no flood,

It was the best there was. He was the best there was.

And he failed.

The Fierceness of Betrayal

Oft, swords in the back sink in deep to the hilt,

Blood spews from the chest, tears from the heart,

Until there are no more tears to cry.

Regret is often strongest during this time,

As is anger,

For how would one feel,

To turn eyes to a hand holding a dagger,

Sunken deep into flesh,

To see a smile made stronger by love,

Love they had given themselves.

Syrae knows not,

Of the pain heading his way,

The tears his eyes are yet to shed,

The blood he wishes he had shed from his own chest,

A pound of flesh he would pay,

If only to save hundreds.

Regret to flare of his own ignorance,

And anger of the loss of trust,

Both not far in his future,

Eyes to see a familiar conniving smirk,

Throat to gasp at the surprise.

Sweet, Sweet Blood

Autumn wishes, against all hope or luck,

That it could not be so,

That she did not feel so.

But she did.

It was a quaint pleasure,

To sink a blade into deep flesh,

See a drop of blood dribble out,

And then a flood pour through.

The joy on her face shone bright,

The eyes twinkling with sharp sadism,

For it was only her who smiled,

As the screams rung through the night.

Unrelenting.

It was only when she tired of smiling,

That she set him on fire.

Her stream of fire. As was Syrae's of water.

A Waltz of Powers

They dance for hours on end,

Her flames a stinging barb into his life,

A stark warning of death,

One he cannot ignore.

He stands strong,

His face tinged with weariness and despair,

For how do you unleash upon one that you have loved,

That you have given your heart to,

That you have trusted?

She harbours no such fear,

No such regard as he does.

Who is the better person,

The one with a conscience,

Or the one without?

For if the latter wins,

They do so without honour,

But in the end,

Is honour really as important as life?

Or is it nothing but dust in the face of the enormity of life,

The possibilities it holds,

The beauty it encompasses?

They waltz for hours,

Each step a perfect match,

Each move directly matched by the other,

A waltz to be admired, to be watched.

A waltz of powers.