Welcome To My Chaotic Haven!

You can't be a hellenic polytheist and be transphobic.

You can't be a hellenic polytheist and be racist.

You can't be a hellenic polytheist and be anti-imaginate.

You can't be a hellenic polytheist and be a nazi.

You can't be a hellenic polytheist and mock ANY of the gods.

You can't be a hellenic polytheist and hate ANY of the gods.

Pick a side. The gods or hatefulness.

I was a perfectly wrapped package, organised and orderly. Until you upended my life in the most beautiful and chaotic way possible. I am now left with the aftermath of the storm, trying desperately to pick up the fallen pieces of my heart and forcing the damned thing into its cage, where it belongs. My hands turn bloody as I claw at my chest, forcing it in, fighting, raging, screaming, crying. Saltwater mixes in with the concoction that is blood and tears. Rivers of it run down my hands, soaking me in my blood and ruination. For you are my ruination, my salvation too. You are everything and nothing to me, but at the end of the day, you are nothing but a name. 

The syllables feel foreign on my tongue. I have whispered it, screamed it, roared it to the heavens too many times. It is embedded in me, my very soul. If they carve me open, all my organs will have disappeared, and only your name will remain, etched into my heart with a knife. Crude and bloody, yes, but it is a truth that must be said. For that is what you did, and the world deserves to know how a monster can also be angel. The cruel dichotomy of it all, I sigh to myself. The pain and pleasure, the hatred and desire warring within me as a storm brews. 

You are an angel of ruin and of death, though I did not realise it at the time. I was enamoured and I did not listen. Love creates madness, they say. No, I respond, It does not. It simply awakens it. We all have a dormant insanity sitting inside us, waiting to be unleashed. Lethal and mesmerising in its ruination and chaos, just like you. 

It can kill but also heal. Though the latter is harder, it is still possible. But have you ever seen a madman who is good? Who does not wish ruin, death, and destruction upon us all? For there sits evil inside us, too. Some have more, others, less. But that does not mean that it can be ignored and left to fend for itself. It must be exercised like any other beast, any other creature. It must be tamed and kept on an iron leash, controlled with a steel arm, lest it bubble over and explode like acid. Like vitriol, which I have become an expert at spewing. I never wanted to, not really, but it was something that simply happened. I realise now that this was most of my life. Nothing was truly decided by anyone, least of all me. 

AND/OR: I grew up with stories of the Gnomes (house spirits) who get annoyed when the home or room is untidy and hide things until you clean. So I clean for the Gnomes— I have designated Gnomes for each room I use (I have roommates): the Bathroom Gnome, my Bedroom Gnome, etc.

Give your friend a neolithic burial

Exactly

I’m so glad this post is finally reaching the people it was meant for; weird little kids who liked playing history and death

I'm serious. Please write it. If you need a sign to start, continue, or whatever is inbetween, this is it. Go do it.

I spent the past couple weeks indulging myself in some BookTok recommendations. While some were indeed good (Kings of Sin, my beloved), some were just...I don't need to finish my sentence there.

I DNF'd some books for the first time since I read Lord of the Flies (sorry Golding, you put me to sleep with your descriptions) and I powered through others in hopes that they would eventually get better. The general consensus I ended up getting was that I could not understand for the fucking life of me how these books got published. The writing in some of them was no better than that of a 2010s teen writing Maximum Ride fic on Wattpad for the first time, with the characterization abysmal enough to match.

I don't want to knock any specific author or book here, because I will concede one thing: they finished their books. They got them published. They're successful. For that, I commend them, because I'm still on my way there myself and I can't take that away from them. Jolly good show.

But that brings me to my point: if they can do it, YOU absolutely can do it too.

If some of these Amazon and NYT bestsellers can have prose on a Wattpad level with characters that have enough poorly-written cognitive dissonance to make Deadpool or Walter White jealous, your fleshed out, deeply intuitive, and remarkably creative epic can sit right alongside them no problem. Whether you're writing the next GoT or a romantic slice-of-life, there is a not a goddamn thing on this planet stopping you from rolling up with the big dogs.

If these guys can do it, so can you.

So, stop telling yourself you can't. Stop letting other people tell you you can't. Stop comparing yourself to these authors who, respectfully and bluntly, can't write for shit (or at least need to fire their fucking editors, good lord).

WRITE YOUR DAMN BOOK. PLEASE. WE NEED IT.

There’s this guy that sits in front of me who you would think is a conservative redneck bc his entire aesthetic is southern lumberjack w boots and denim and hats but he’s actually one of the most inclusive and anti trump guy I’ve ever met and today he wore this hat that sums up his entire personality and I’m screaming.