#Introspection

[poemwav]

– Courtney Kampa (1987-2022) || from her collection "A Bright and Borrowed Light" which is available now.

[mo0ny-nyx]

In my personal opinion, chalking up female on female violence as ‘internalised misogyny’ is very insensitive especially whenever a woman talks about how their mother, friend, ex girlfriend etc etc abused them or was violent against them somehow.

No amount of patriarchal conditioning can make a woman to set up a fellow woman to be raped.

No amount of patriarchal conditioning can make a woman to pimp out their own daughter to pedo males.

No amount of patriarchal conditioning can make a woman to abuse her daughter.

No amount of patriarchal conditioning can make a mother kick her daughter out the house even though the step father was molesting her.

No amount of patriarchal conditioning can make a woman to abuse her girlfriend/wife.

No amount of patriarchal conditioning can make a woman participate in the trafficking of women and girls

You are just resounding piece of shit to even consider doing something like that, I’ve internalised a lot of misogyny in the past and never have I ever thought to do anything so heinous and violent to another women/girl. While I understand the sentiment of pointing out how the patriarchy has influenced women to a degree, those behaviors are purely down to a lack of basic morality.

[positivepuff]

[echoesoftheinfinite]

Part of the 'Wandering Echoes' collection.

[star-struck09]

Do you think of me as often as I think of you?

[enenkaydoodles]

Uncertain feelings in uncertain times after 5 months of being unemployed with no end in sight

[minimalist-quotes]

In the end, people always have a way of revealing who they are. You just have to give them the space and time to do so. No mask can be worn forever.

[miamaimania]

"Bjork" (1995) ◆ Blue-hour confessions on bedroom floor

[poemwav]

from "Having a Coke with You"

[emmathe82nd]

I’m glad Dan has been through enough therapy to realize this now. I think it’s very important to understand this if you want to understand Dan and his character and why the hiatus happened and why WAD was so important and why he seems so much happier now that he’s sort of accepted that he doesn’t have to keep up this battle armor all the time of being cynical and sarcastic and negative. In this “new era” he can just vibe and be whimsical and happy and be accepted and loved by us.

[aventurineswife]

AAHGH HI!

Can you write girl dad Aventurine, Sunday and Phainon ( maybe even Anax??) They give HUGE girl dad vibes.

Where the Light Falls Softest

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Anaxagoras x Reader, Fluff, Soft Domestic Moments, Family Dynamics, Found Family, "Girl Dad" Energy, Emotional Healing, Protective Father Figures, Slow Burn Romance Elements (Mild), Introspection, Parenthood Themes, Soft Angst with Comfort, Vulnerability, Tender Moments with Daughters, Light Humor.

Warnings: Mentions of Trauma & Past Abuse, Emotional Vulnerability/Mental Health Themes, Allusion to Death/Loss of Loved Ones, Mild Swearing (?), Parental Insecurities/Fear of Failing as a Parent, References to Found Family, "Renny" is used as a gender-neutral term for a parent in Anaxa's part for the Reader.

A/N: Yes, I agree.

Your daughter’s giggle rang through the opulent penthouse, echoing off the chandelier. Aventurine sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing a feather boa and a glittering plastic tiara that barely balanced atop his tousled blond hair. Across from him, your four-year-old sat like royalty, shuffling a miniature deck of cards.

“Okay, Daddy,” she said sternly, mimicking his dramatic cadence, “I draw the Ace of Cookies, so you owe me dessert after dinner.”

Aventurine placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “My own daughter… besting me at my own game. This is betrayal most foul!”

You leaned against the doorframe, smiling as he theatrically flopped backward. Despite the dramatics, his eyes never left her face for long. He studied her every reaction like a gambler studies the table—measured, focused, quietly awestruck.

Later that night, when she was asleep with her cards clutched in her hand, you found him sitting beside her bed, glasses pushed up on his head.

“She cheated,” he whispered, pride glinting in his voice. “Knew the odds and stacked the deck.”

You raised a brow.

“She’s definitely mine.”

But there was softness there too—a kind of aching wonder. Because despite all the chaos he’s dealt, this tiny person saw him not as a Ten Stoneheart, not as a strategist or conman or survivor.

Just Dad.

And that terrified and healed him, all at once.

The stars above the Astral Express shimmered with that quiet brilliance Sunday often lost himself in. Tonight, however, his attention was grounded—in the tiny fingers wrapped around one of his own.

“She asked if dreams are real,” you murmured beside him, watching your daughter rest on his lap, tiny chest rising and falling in slumber. “What did you say?”

He was silent for a moment, eyes reflecting the glass ceiling of the passenger lounge. Then, softly:

“I told her dreams are made real by those who carry them into waking life.”

Sunday looked down at the little girl who’d fallen asleep while asking him if clouds had feelings, if doves could talk, and if halos were heavy.

“I used to believe happiness could only exist apart from pain,” he whispered. “Now she laughs when she trips and falls, then gets up and runs again. That… disproves everything I once built.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind, your breath brushing against his wings. He leaned back into you slightly, voice lighter.

“She says her halo will be pink one day,” he added, with a rare smile.

“She said it’ll be made of marshmallows,” you clarified.

A soft laugh. “She’s rewriting the laws of divinity.”

Maybe, just maybe… that was the point.

The mornings in Okhema were gentle, kissed by light filtering through stained glass. You watched from the doorway as Phainon knelt before your daughter, a brush in one hand, ribbon in the other.

“Again, Daddy,” she demanded, holding a braid over his head. “Like this!”

Phainon, eternal hero, undefeated warrior, slayer of Titans… squinted at the braid like it was a battlefield puzzle.

“Under, over… left loop, right—”

“No!” she corrected sternly. “Like I showed you.”

He gave her a mock grimace, pressing a hand to his chest in wounded pride. “Young lady, your father was not forged in the art of plaiting/braiding.”

“Then learn,” she said simply, climbing onto his lap to show him. “You’re good at learning.”

Your heart ached at the sight—this radiant man who carried prophecy on his back, now humbled and honored by a child’s trust.

Later, after the braids were done and she skipped off to show you, Phainon turned to you with a quiet blush.

“I’d face Nikador a thousand times before facing her disappointment.”

“She’s got your spirit,” you murmured, fingers entwining with his.

“She has yours,” he corrected, eyes shining. “Which is why I know she’ll never fall.”

“I will only ask once,” your daughter declared from atop a chair. “Why is the moon not jealous of the sun?”

Anaxa looked up from the scrolls, quill held aloft, his expression flickering with something between shock and joy.

“…That,” he said slowly, “is a beautiful question.”

“She thinks like you,” you added from the kitchen, barely hiding a smile.

“I didn’t teach her that,” he replied, walking toward the child with almost sacred reverence. “She—she synthesized it.”

He scooped her up and carried her to the garden you’d planted together—an unruly, radiant chaos of color. There, he crouched beside her and placed a petal in her palm.

“The sun and moon,” he said, “do not envy each other because they illuminate different truths.”

“…Like you and Renny?” she asked.

He faltered—then pulled her into his arms. “No. Your Renny and I illuminate the same truth: you.”

That night, after he put her to sleep with stories of stars who debated the nature of dreams, Anaxa sat beside you, unusually silent.

“She is… untouched by dogma,” he finally murmured. “Her questions aren’t weighted by fear.”

“She is free,” you said, placing your hand over his.

He looked down at it, then kissed your knuckles. “Then I will rewrite every doctrine to keep her that way.”

[parasolladyansy]

A little art therapy as I realized how my creative phases were like the water cycle 🌧️ If you’re also in a bit of a creative “dry spell”, this one’s for you.

PS: thanks so much for all your support / input on my artist’s block post. Just seeing your response helped me sketch out what I’m gonna do for the next couple of comics. I may not make my deadline, but it feels a lot better to have a plan. 🩵

[echoesoftheinfinite]

Echoes, The Murmurs of Lost Souls

[star-struck09]

I fear the sadness will consume me alive one day.

[longreads]

Bread and Honey

In her thoughtful new essay, Diana Saverin reflects on the necessary ingredients of a marriage, and how it's important to ensure that over time, we remember to braid the bitter with the sweet.

I once read an article describing that the way a couple tells their story predicts their future, from how satisfied they are in their relationship to whether they stay together in the years to come. In the study, couples who told their meet-cute as if a stroke of fate and luck had led them to each other, who were enthusiastic and loving in their recollections of the past, were much more likely to remain married.

The idea stuck with me, that the stories we tell create—or at least reflect—the lives we live.

Read the essay.