atlas; paralyzed

Hufflepuffs are honey and flowers and the soft autumn sun. They’re knitted jumpers and scarves and soft tan boots. They’re fresh air and nature, the sound of birds singing. They’re rolling down a hill in the spring, grass stains on your knees, daisy chains in your hair. They’re waving at someone across a crowded room, bright smiles and laughter. They’re coming home after a long day and seeing your family. They’re playing fetch with your dog, your cat weaving between your feet. They’re fluffy socks and song birds and kraft notebooks with hand drawn patterns. They’re throw cushions on a bed, a tiny cottage surrounded by wilderness. They’re the ground beneath your feet, the air that you breathe. They’re the light you chase when you thought you’d never see the morning. 

Ravenclaws are leather bound books and overstocked libraries. They’re waking up at two am to google that thing that’s bugging you. They’re journals with half the words crossed out, scribbles and ink stains and missing pages. They’re stretching when you’ve been hunched over all day, rolling off the edge of a bed, burrowing in blankets. They’re torch light and held breaths and reverent whispers. They’re the entire night sky and everything beyond it; the embodiment of the universe. They’re desperate searches and hidden castles and ghost stories by firelight. They’re the mystery of a dark corridor, the force of a whirlwind. They’re the excitement of discovery, the rustle of crunched up paper. They’re the last whisper before you fall asleep. 

soaking up sunlight as though it were honey and liquid gold.  it feels as though it softens the edges of your form, the light, the warmth, until the border between you and the air and the dust and the water are indistinguishable

the quiet moments in the dark, alone.  the walls enclosing you dissolve into the emptiness of your room, and sometimes, in that silence, something holy fills that space.  personally, i’m not sure what

It is okay, he has forgotten me anyway.

Speed paint commission of Tuteur for Vin.

angels texting each other at 3 am “i miss the sky” and “do you remember what it was like to hold the world in our jaws because that feeling feels further and further away every second”

angels in classrooms, angels taking the bus, angels at grocery markets, angels in art studios on friday nights, angels at coffee shops, angels in bookstores, angels working minimum wage; people shiver when they pass by, or they stare too long from across the room and their eyes sting a little because there’s still power there, mortals can still feel it, even if they could never put a name to it.

fallen angels with a righteous sense of justice, still too good to know evil, not sure what’s right or wrong anymore because this world is not dichotomous; there is no easy choice. modern angels with guilt and regrets, what that must mean on a divine level. angels with glowing palms and golden eyes, the remnants of a god too big for any room. 

not crying for weeks and weeks on end til one day breaking down over something not actually worth getting upset for

not being able to tell if your feelings for people are platonic or romantic or if you’re just lonely 

instead of caring too much not caring at all about anything 

not being able to process anything going on in your life and when you try your brain stalling out

losing your train of thought every five seconds so when you try to have a conversation having to pause and remember what you were trying to say 

word vomiting