bug

🍄 the basics… 🍄

Howdy! I’m Bug. I’m a queer, nonbinary artist obsessed with all things goth and sociology :)

This blog doesn’t really have a theme, but most of my posts relate to:

Mental health & self compassion

Subcultures (especially goth & gremlincore stuff!)

Random personal interests 🙃

My writing

My silly little Bug thoughts (shitposts)

🦇 some interests… 🦇

PLEASE interact if you share any of the same :) I’m always lookin for more homies on here 🙃

Music (top genres: goth (particularly dark post-punk), hip hop, R&B, classic rock, grunge, metal, emo, alternative)

Sociology (my main areas of interest are self & identity, queer theory, disability studies, stigma, power, and subcultures)

Writing (I mostly write songs & poetry)

Horror media

The LGBTQ+ community & discourse

Tattoos

Spirituality

Goth subcultures

Gremlincore stuff

🌘 boundaries… 🌒

DNI: zionists, p*dos / apologists, transphobes / homophobes, racists / xenophobes, ace exclusionists

Also I will not fb if you’re a minor

I also try to put TWs in the tags for potentially triggering content, but if I missed something that you think should be given a TW please let me know and I’ll do so :)

📜 tags 📜

my post - a post I’ve made / added to

my writing - creative writing written by me :)

my photography / my face - pretty self explanatory 😅

bug thoughts - shitposts / random thoughts

today’s vibe - a little prose poetry / creative writing project where I try to make the mundane a little more magical :)

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U can also find my other blogs @writelikeathief (writblr) and @milkandhoneywitchcraft (witchcraft / spiritual blog) 🙃

The scent of melted cheese on ham and bread, cinnamon loaves, and coffee cloak around me, trailing like fingers up my spine, bringing my heart into soft embrace.

The world is pale and grey today, the remnants of rain leaving winking puddles in its wake. Yet the wind cannot reach me now, sitting at a bar with lukewarm coffee in my hand, as I am transported back home, but it is one I’ve never known. For a moment, the clouds break and the sun smiles through the mist.

I cannot recall a time where I partook in ham and cheese and fresh-baked pastries and almond milk. But it is familiar, safe, and soothing, and I am become a child watching the world through rose tinted windows.

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I’ve been realizing recently that home does not reside in the walls of my domicile, where lies the tattered remains of my childhood pillowcase, my clothes which whisper tales from adventures long past, and

It lives in the laughter of my best friend, warm and bright and soothing like cinnamon dusted on morning cappuccinos. It hides in the crease of the smile of my love, the voiceless assurance of safety on long and raining winter nights. It rests in the relief of the hug when reuniting with my sibling, the one who showed me that family extends far beyond the bonds of blood.

My home lies not in where I return at the end of a long day. It is rather made from the pieces of my heart that each of my loved ones hold.

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My therapist told me two months ago that I was in the midst of my dark night of the soul.

I woke up this morning feeling hopeful.

I fell into a canvas today. Oil on paper and fabric, cracked, dried and fluid as though the world itself faded into its background. Old blood and gold expanded their many limbs out to me and two figures began to detach from the stretched linen, turning and dipping and swooning until I become lost in their trance.

I know not how long I stood, watching their dance. It is love, it is sex, it is betrayal, it is heartbreak. It is beauty and terror melded into one. Tears welled in my eyes.

untitled work from the Odonata series by Will Julsing, 1997

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The fog rests light and low in the air today, close enough that I might dance my fingers through it like locks of hair lain in loose braids for protection. It whispers of rain, yet slivers of sunlight remain and peek behind their veil.

My mornings are made of frozen feet on gravel paths and muddy rivers, of shaggy coats and black toques to shield against whipping winds and the fire’s dwindling embers.

Its smoke melts with coconut in my hair as I stand at the head of a small shelter, a dozen tiny faces look up at me whilst I proclaim the prompts of the day. We write in silence, minutes yawn and stretch before fleeting into the designated time to share, and then to our remaining activities for the day.

God, how lucky I’ve become.

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The walk back to my apartment amidst the November night’s frost reminds me how much change a year can bring, and how much more remains the same.

Much like last winter, my fingertips prick betwixt the familiar clash of cold air and warm blood beneath. And much like last year, I know not what my future holds.

Unlike then, my responsibilities have changed. I find myself a teacher now, tasked with instilling the same love for the arts as I had in my youth. And I have grown independent, perhaps for the first time in my life.

What’s more, unlike then, my home is no longer where I sleep, but rather remains in the feeling of your hand enveloping mine, the sparks in my stomach when you kiss me, and the feeling of belonging.

Where fear for the future once gripped my throat, my chest, my core, there now rests a seed of knowledge—of security—that everything will work out as it should. As it always does. As it always will.

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I did not sleep last night, and spent my morning listening to the world slowly wake and rise from slumber, the sun masked behind fog and the gently falling rain.

It all crescendos in sleepy unison—a few wrens and chickadees noting the first hints of light and dissipation of the fog. As the sky stretches and melts from black, to purple, and finally a damp misty blue, crows and gulls begin to join in announcing the night’s conclusion. The first cars of the day commence their journeys with them. First one, the sound of sluggish tires parting shallow puddles, followed by a long interlude of birdsong and the sentimental smell of trees and morning dew.

Time flows, and more begin to pass. The sky turns to bedsheets, and the birds, the raindrops, the wheels fill the air with music. I wonder about my part in this song, but I am not preoccupied with the answer.

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