i don't have a single original thought

the failure(s); the many loves of the vampire lestat

short form writers look at people writing 100k+ fics as though this is some sort of talent given as part of a fae bargain, that the commitment required shows some sort of ungodly mental fortitude.

so far I have had lovely conversations on @vaguelyviolet amazing fic (if you like hucklerobby - pls check it out!)

i reached out to a german punk band* to thank them for their work, show them the art i was making inspired by them and asked for future shows of them and i got a lengthy reply from the singer... and its been still one of my favourite things that happened that year

*Goldzilla is a punk band from Berlin, who makes incredible music. Their songs cover topics from transphobia, nationalism, militarism, annoying straight endocis dudes, liberal pseudo activism, german politics and right wing attacks in Germany. They can be a bit whimsical at times (love that) and their music is really catchy... so check em out!!!!

i just now i got a reply from Peter Gelderloos on Substack after i simply thanked him for his work. and it feels really insane... just simply because in my mind they are such an insane impactful and important person in modern anarchist writing and action. like he has his own Wikipedia article kinda big. plus their big catalogue of anarchist books. idk just feel weird to have contact to someone who is so inspiring to you and has such a huge impact on your worldview, while living so far away

examples:

the closest thing to real soulmates you can find

we fought in the same trenches and have a warrior's bond that carries over into every stage of life

friend i sit next to in every class and pass notes to/whisper to constantly

academic peer/colleague that i respect and have a little intellectual crush on

neighbour in the same apartment block that i say hi to on the stairs

neighbour across the street who i wave at every morning and evening

we're regulars at the same bar

Nasturtiums -  Stanisław Wyspiański , 1903.

Polish , 1869-1907

it’s been 9 years since i wrote this. i was experiencing 24/7 anxiety so badly that i needed serious medication. these days in the back of my car is an “emergency party box.” when people admit they no longer really celebrate their birthday; i tell them to put the sash on and queue up kesha, we’re going bowling or something. these days i can’t spin around without finding something i am enamored with. these days i list 3 things i’m grateful for before i fall asleep. you’re probably one of them, just by virtue of you existing.

at the time i wrote this, i was suffering through a severe panic attack literally every night. i tortured my brother with constant 2 AM calls just to hear someone else breathing, because i couldn’t be alone in the silence.

i rarely wish i was still 23 even though ironically i had more hope back then. what i can tell you is this: i love the same way, but bigger now. i’ve worn the velvet cape to several business meetings. i spent thursday in a crop top without caring what my stomach looked like.

i told her i like her; i often dress as a witch. i still got glass in my foot this morning. i’ve kissed maybe a thousand people since then and met a million more than that; passing like the shadow of a hammerhead in trains and planes and buses.

i saw you, beloved, there, maybe, on platform in south station. you didn’t speak, but you said: i struggle to give the nothing meaning. the nothing fills up everything. it is just loud and yellowed panicked silence. i can’t stop shaking.

on the roof, birds curl together against the chilled spring wind. the sky outside of the craft store was an iridescent pink. the nothing already had meaning; you are giving it meaning by witnessing.