It is terrifying.

The idea of having no one who you can call yours.

Sometimes you feel like you have a best friend, and that sort of fizzles out too. Either you or them finds a partner to be whole, together with. Or you don't have a family you can call your own, no mum or dad or brother or sister whom you can be your fragile self around. Or a team of workers (a rare thing to find an office family now that we are digital nomads) to wake up to and make meaning together, or a clique of monstrous, like-minded friends whom you can catch the wave with. Sometimes it's hard being in a relationship with your own partner because there is no such thing as a perfect fit; just spells, potions, and acts of kindness.

Vriksasana or the tree pose is one of my favourite balancing poses among the asanas. Where you keep your one leg firmly pressed onto the ground like a tree, with all the pressure on your mound as your toes taper out like roots. Your other leg is bent and dug firmly into your pelvis, with the feet resting on the other thigh. Tall, absolutely straight, balanced - unfettered by the wind and

You go shooting up towards the sky with your body stretched upwards. Open eyes, relaxed smile, a straight elongated back.

This would be what you call a steady, graceful stretch, upward, outward and very much inward.

The thing about certain people who grow up without a home, is that they are naturally built to please anyone who offers them one; to serve, to want to belong to, to fill this gigantic void of this lack of identity, to feel worthy, to feel connected, valued, and seen.

To be angered by the uneven playing field on a daily basis. To shut up and bulk up. Try their best to be nice inspite of the exclusions, norms, stigmas, and questions; despite the endless self pity.

Real independence is the real acceptance of one's alone-ness. This is hard. It only sinks in when it sinks in. A straight back is the key to life. Inner posture - outer posture.

To truly accept that it's you who's got your own back. It's you who gets yourself into your messes. It's you who gets yourself out of them. You are your own bend, rise, flow and fall. Self-damnation, self-salvation, self-liberation.

100% a movement of your own mental and physical muscles.

To not expect.

To not hold on to.

To gently let go off things that are not meant for you.

To love anyway.

To give the benefit of doubt.

To be free and give freely.

To not be bound by memory.

These things sound hard but actually they're the lightest things one can do for oneself and others.

The ideas of love, loyalty and belonging. Such are engulfing. Wonder what would happen if I allowed myself to expect such and manifest such. Would I be setting myself up for failure? The key is to not expect in return I suppose. Singular, tall, free, and bountiful.

Still transitioning in my process. I've come a long way since being overly attached to friends, lovers and ideas. Finding myself less attached to labels. Find it funny how you get a different reaction about who you are from different people, all vastly different in their idea of you.

Makes you realise how impermanent and how illusive 'you' are.

   Yor has spent the first few years without even a hint as to whether or not anything had become of his actions, if the death under gun and fist and light and dark was worth it all. One, two, three years until the first word of shadows passes to him in a run down bar. Attention turned on full towards the source, curious with a need to know if they were what was being said. So then, the shadow searched. 

   Far and wide his travels take him in attempt to find those that call themselves Dredgen. Curious to hear that they took to it, sparked some sense of amusement, that which died upon their weapon of choice. Mimicry of his own canon. They would never get it quite right to his satisfaction. Secret mentions of a meeting thriving with those so dark comes to pass and there is no hope to find them, he either will or won’t, hope doesn’t exist.

   Though, find them he has. A pack born through a careful dance where anyone could falter within a moments notice. He wonders to what degree they are following what he meant to have shown, through a man born through fire of hate and vengeance- what has happened to that very same Light. A question pondered just briefly when the meeting adjourns. 

get to know your local drifter stan

I have a very very VERY illogical fear, and it’s whales.

it comes n goes sadly. it’s rlly the only time i play crucible too fsdjkg

He's not seen nor heard a lick of information about Shin in a while. Thought that perhaps, the man had been snapped up by some terrible thing out in the wilds. Those Dread were aptly named. Maybe he had met his match, finally (though that begs the question of whether or not Yor was his twisted match, not that he had tried to find out).

"Calling out to you like a bad dream, are they," he asks on the tone of sarcasm. It might be hard to find in that deadpan voice ebbing out from beneath the half-mask. "Here you are to answer them."

He has yet to feel threatened by Shin Malphur. Everyone else thinks the renegade is something to be afraid of, a ward against the supposed evil of Darkness. What would happen if they learned the truth? That Shin Malphur was just as lost as the rest of them. Another game to play, as he dangles that metaphorical carrot before the mouth of the beast of burden.

CASCADE FALLS, MAINE. There’s a memory that tugs at the periphery when she’s here; like a word on the tip of one’s tongue; there, but not. A whiteboard wiped clean still shows the shadows and smudges of past writings, and so too does she. She looks at these parts, and the crunch of leaves beneath her boot stirs a similar echo of a memory in search of her target. The smell of a campfire that she encroaches upon also seems familiar. And the spike of adrenaline and fear as a twig snaps nearby -- even that feels like something experienced once before.

The remains of the camp are sifted through with a careful eye. Already vacated; but still the fire smolders. Another name on the list of those who had razed Sanctuary Hills, and another name still not crossed off. It’s when a shadow peels itself out from the cover of flora that Quinn turns and stands: the picture of nonthreatening, with hands splayed out. 

   Time had passed between them within the blink of an eye, final moments being that of molten fury long since overdue and a lasting sense of why. Even for all his wrongness there had been a right hidden just beneath the surface; he can only wonder if the kid had figured it out. The question lingers right beside guilt with the taste of everlasting copper as he chases the renegade’s trail.

   Eyes glittering dull green peer up with profound curiosity towards that of a dilapidated building, peppered with green and beige from endless years of nature’s reclamation. Fingertips brush absentmindedly against an empty holster, and just briefly does he consider the fact that Shin may very well have the dreaded weapon- Thorn had not crossed his mind for some time, not after the whispers faded. If it was around still he could no longer feel its forsaken call and for once, he is thankful.

   “Certainly,” Yor responds. “I doubt even the oldest of those calling themselves gods can say they are not ignorant of many things. There is simply too much to know, an ever expanding universe filled with life and unlife that which creates its own knowing and unknowing.” 

   He shrugs and stares at Shin with profound curiosity. What prompted such a statement, he wonders. Thoughts of things that have yet to be answered, unasked questions lingering along the inner linings of his head-

   “Or are you meaning to be less general, and speak of your cult?”

   A laugh now eases out of the twisted man, sitting low in the back of his throat. If that was the case then he has no intention of helping clear up anything. No, that would be too easy, and he wants nothing more than watch Malphur figure out things in his own time.