With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept

Sometimes I hyperfocus so hard on something, I forget I’m a person until someone interacts with me. I feel like some wild animal seeing a human being for the first time. I’m like “oh yeah I’m supposed to speak and stuff”

random video essays i like

pathologic analysis; themes of a dying classic - a video essay

heroism in futility; pathologic, the void, and the hero narrative

the manga that breaks people

evil queens: a gay look at disney history

monsters in the closet - a history of lgbt representation in horror cinema

the complex problems with mental illness in fiction

elon musk

the ideology of the marvel cinematic universe

zootopia, umasou, and the failures of racial allegory

sinbad and the death of pirate cinema

brave was a disappointment

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it a thousand more times: No piece of dystopian fiction has ever been a prediction of the future. They are observations and criticisms of the present. 

I want to be with you behind the scenes, before coffee, before the sun, when your hair is a fright and your skin is still dented by the mattress seam. I want to touch you then, when you’re prickly and unshaven, when you’re half dressed, or less, when you’re unmade and distracted and every bit yourself. I want to see you getting yourself ready for others. I want to live in that place. I want to be with you, behind the scenes, knowing I’m not one of the others.

Peregrine (via youreyesblazeout)

The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

the one-two punch of “eat your young” and “damage gets done” is so fucking underrated btw. this really raunchy, visceral callout of war profiteering and the people in power who sold out future generations for the sake of capital, followed immediately by this soaring coming-of-age anthem about waking up into the harsh reality of the world we were handed, being expected to bear both the consequences AND the blame, the feeling of powerlessness and the deep, aching nostalgia for a time when we didn’t have to constantly reckon with such a bleak existence

Yesss, beautiful, so beautiful! I love this dearly. <3 <3 <3

Kingcup - Youth, innocence, dawn - Bog/Dawn :3

There’s abrightness about her that pulls, likethe lure of the sun’s first warmth after a cold winter. And there’s frost inhis veins and frost on his bones but one note of her song and he’s lost, lostall over again, drawn and held and wrapped in an innocence that hasn’t touchedhis kingdom in long years. She thaws the cold, melts the clinging frost, and for all his attempts, for all his preventive measures he can’t help it (can’t help falling, tumbling, crashing, helpless once again, how did this happen, how did he let this happen?)

He’s old,gnarled and dark where she’s a new sprig, a pale, rosy morn, and it’s not right, it’snot natural. It’s the potion thatmakes her eyes curve the way they do, with a pleasure the sight of him shouldn’tpossibly be able to evoke in anyone. But in thedark he can pretend, just for a moment, that she sings with sincerity; that thesmall, delicate hands reaching for his do so with a desire beyond thewhims of a magic potion.

It’s not thetruth, but then the truth has always hurt him. This is better. She is better, more so than he could ever hope to be, and so he keeps her, this bright sundrop; keeps her in the dark and keeps her for himself, andpretends that her light is meant for him.

Dreamed I was swimming with fish, then I jumped out of the water and flew with the birds, then I fell and turned into a rock, then I grew into a tree.