#if there are errors

[beatus-amatoriae]

The Masquerade

[austin-friars]

New Project - Letters from France - Sometimes, love does transcend decades and well...hate

[burnt-up-stegosaurus]

okay I'm in my Peter Pettigrew posting era

I can't stop thinking about what drove him to the death eaters. was it a threat to his life? was it a threat to someone he loved? was it on his own foot?

because I feel like each option allows us to dwell deeper in different aspects of his characterization.

for example, if you take as true that voldemort threatened Peter in order to get him on his side, you get this cowardly character who is terrified for his own life and chooses self preservation before his friends.

does he feel remorse? regret? does he, years after the fact, wish he had been braver, as a true Gryffindor would have been, as James would have been, and stood up to Voldemort even if it meant his death?

does peter the coward wish to put himself in the grave he dug for his best friends?

or did Peter join Voldemort because of loyalty? did he threaten his mother, his family, some lover? did his loyalty to his loved ones outweigh the one for james and lily? did he have to look them in the eyes and balance who he preferred to lose?

and, perhaps the most interesting option, did he join voldemort of his own accord?

did he want to make something big, something for himself for once? we know he was shy, unpopular and awkward next to the rest of the marauders. we know he admired james with a passion.

did that admiration turn to jealousy over the years? maybe he decided james potter had had enough of everything. that he was done living in his shadow. that it was time for Peter Pettigrew to do something for himself, not for the marauders, to show them what he was made of.

there would be no recognition, of course. no more than that of james and lily when they realised they had been betrayed. no more than the horror of sirius when he realised little peter was not following them like a stray dog anymore.

now he would be someone, and if it had to be with blood on his hands so be it. he would do something big.

[colouredbyd]

Do you ever mourn the tragic lives of those youve never known? Those whose names you dont know? I sometimes sit and think about all the people who have been forgotten in history, people who have been lost to war and tragedies, love stories that have never been told, thoughts and feelings that have disappeared. I wish there had been a legacy passed down in my family, a library or archive of sorts with all kinds of books, journals, and letters. Thered be different versions of the same book, annotated by different people, my ancestors, their loved ones, or just complete strangers. How beautiful would it be? Just sitting there and reading the same book over and over again, reading what went through their minds as they read the same things, how differently or similarly they all felt about the same passage, Leaving little sticky notes or scraps of paper, annotating the annotations for the next person who will read it. Itd be like time capsules of departed minds and souls belonging to different generations. I would have loved to read about all the lives from different times, to see through the lenses of different people.

—Cheriya🍒

dalia analyses: archive of the past

i. the ache of the forgotten

"do you ever mourn the tragic lives of those you’ve never known?"

yes. i do. more than i can explain.

and i don’t think it’s strange — to grieve a life you’ve never touched, a name you’ve never spoken. because grief, real grief, is not always rooted in personal loss. sometimes, it’s born from empathy so deep it feels ancestral. sometimes, it’s not about who you knew — but about who they could have been, had they been given the chance.

i mourn fictional characters like they’re old friends. people i’ve brought to life through language and longing, only to watch them crumble beneath the weight of their own narrative. i have mourned the versions of them that never got to exist — the could-have-beens, the almosts, the timelines where they were happy and whole. i’ve spent sometimes nights crying over endings i wrote myself. ironically, for someone who writes so much angst, i can barely read it. i carry fictional grief like it's real, because in many ways, it is. the pain feels no less valid just because the person never breathed.

but it isn’t just people. sometimes, i find myself mourning places. entire histories. lives that unfolded without me — or before me. one of the deepest losses i carry is for a country i’ve never walked through: palestine.

my home, and yet a home i’ve been forbidden from entering. i grew up listening to my grandmother speak of its trees like they were family members. i’d watch her in the garden and wonder if she was planting things she once saw growing jerusalem. she’d describe the streets, the jasmine, the warmth of it all. and i, a child born in exile, would try to conjure it from the fragments of her memory.

i mourn my homeland every day. not just as a land, but as a possibility. i mourn the version of myself that could’ve existed there. the memories i’ll never make, the streets i’ll never know like the back of my hand. and maybe that’s what grief really is — the longing for a life unlived. the ache for something you were never given the chance to love firsthand.

to mourn the unnamed is, in my opinion, a quiet rebellion against apathy. it’s choosing to care — to feel — even when the world demands detachment. it’s how we keep humanity alive in a world that tries to sterilize suffering. because when we grieve people we’ve never known, we say: you mattered. even if no one else remembered you, i do.

and sometimes, grief becomes archival; we inherit it. it’s passed down not in words, but in silences. in what wasn’t said, in the pauses in our parents’ voices, and in the ache in our elders’ eyes. it lives in our blood and our bones and the dreams we can’t explain. and maybe, just maybe, when we mourn those invisible histories — the unnamed women, the forgotten revolutions, the silenced poets — we’re not just grieving, we’re witnessing and preserving.

we are, in a way, becoming the archive that never was.

because grief isn’t just a response to death. it’s a response to absence. to loss of any kind — even if the thing you’ve lost never belonged to you in the first place. even if it never existed.

so yes. i mourn. i mourn them all; the characters on the page, the children stolen by war, the love stories erased by time, the countries locked behind borders, and the versions of ourselves that never got to bloom.

because to grieve the unseen is to say: you were here, even if just in the echo of a feeling. and i will remember you.

ii. what we leave behind

"i wish there had been a legacy passed down in my family, a library or archive of sorts…"

i think about legacy often. about what gets left behind once a person disappears from the physical world. death is the one truth none of us can escape, the single guarantee in a life filled with uncertainties. and because of that, we are obsessed with permanence — with creating something that might outlive us. that might whisper, in our absence: i was here.

some people chase wealth for that reason, believing if they leave behind a fortune, they’ve done their part. others put faith in titles, accolades, family names, or written history. and while there’s merit in all of those things, i don’t think they’re what truly matters in the end. they may endure for a while, yes. but they do not heal. they do not soothe the child awake at night. they do not make someone feel less alone in the world.

but in my heart — and in the heart of this reflection, cheriya— i believe the most precious thing a person can leave behind is love. (as cliche as that is)

for me, the most valuable thing a person can pass down is love. it’s not glamorous or rare, but it is transformational. i’ve seen the effects of what happens when love isn’t the thing that gets handed from one generation to the next. i’ve witnessed it secondhand, felt it in my own family — how unspoken traumas become patterns, how silence becomes shame, how cruelty becomes inheritance. and it’s terrifying how easy it is to pass pain forward without meaning to. how cycles continue simply because no one had the tools or space to stop them.

i’ve watched people around me suffer not from their own choices, but from someone else’s damage. and sometimes, that someone else was carrying their own pain too. it’s not about blame; it’s about recognition, acknowledgment, and eventually — healing.

the truth is, love isn’t just soft words or good intentions. it’s hard work. it’s learning how not to repeat what broke you. it’s learning how to give what you were never given. and i want to be the kind of person who does that. i want to break whatever needs breaking, so that what comes after can grow.

i think a lot about my sister in this context. how we are each other’s mirrors, but also each other’s protectors. and how we both hold this quiet hope — this private vow — to change the narrative. to let our children, our futures, inherit something better. not richer, not grander. just kinder. safer and more whole. i don’t want to leave behind a vault. i want to leave behind a garden. i want to leave behind children who know they were loved deeply, truly, and every single day — and who then go on to love others the same way. i truly want to break the generational truama that has been passed on us for decades.

money comes and goes. titles rise and fall. stories are read and then forgotten. but the way you treat a child shapes their nervous system, their sense of self, their ability to trust, to connect, to live. love is the original inheritance. and its absence is the original wound. i want my legacy to be tenderness. i want my life to echo not in documents or portraits but in the warmth that ripples outward from everyone i was able to hold gently, even once.

that, to me, is the archive i dream of. not a shelf of books, though those would be lovely — but a life filled with love so real it becomes memory. and memory becomes teaching. and teaching becomes legacy. it is the most fragile, and the most eternal, thing we have to offer.

iii. remembered

"it’d be like time capsules of departed minds and souls…"

the thought of an archive — like the one you described — is so achingly beautiful to me. not because it’s filled with grand events or historical facts, but because it’s filled with people. with their scribbled thoughts and half-finished ideas. with their tenderness, their rage, their quiet observations. with the version of themselves they didn’t get to speak aloud but entrusted to the margins of a book.

to imagine generations adding their voices to the same page — agreeing, arguing, underlining the same sentence for entirely different reasons — that is a kind of immortality that feels deeply sacred. that is remembrance.

and yet, i can’t help but think: we often romanticize the past as if it were untouched by suffering. as if the people who came before us only lived beautiful lives worth preserving. but they, too, carried their own ruin. their own silence. their own heartbreaks that never made it into stories.

and i think that’s part of what makes the idea of such an archive feel holy — not because it would be full of joy, but because it would be honest. because it would allow us to witness people as they were: flawed, hopeful, frightened, resilient. full of life and tired of living, all at once.

and maybe we don’t get to know everything about those who came before us. maybe there aren’t letters or journals or scraps of poetry left behind. but the very fact that we want to know — that we mourn what was never passed down, that we wonder what their thoughts might have been — means they are not truly forgotten.

we carry their absence, and in doing so, we honor them. because remembrance is not about knowledge. it’s about care, about choosing to hold space for lives we never touched, stories we never heard.

some people will be remembered because of books written in their name. others will be remembered simply because someone, somewhere, still thinks of them with softness. and maybe that’s enough. maybe that’s what we all long for in the end — not a statue or a headline, but someone who remembers us not for what we achieved, but for who we were in the corners of our lives.

i want to be remembered for the way i loved. and i want to remember others the same way. even if all i have is a name, or no name at all. even if all i have is a feeling, even if all i do is wonder. that wonder is its own kind of archive.

note of remembrance

thank you, cheriya, for this beautiful insight — for placing into words a longing so many of us carry unknowingly!!

i hope, truly, that you will be remembered in the way you hope to be. as for me, i will remember you as someone who wrote with soul, someone who mourned with tenderness, and someone who turned absence into poetry.

if the heart is an archive, then your words are the annotations we leave behind for others to find. and in that way, you are already eternal, love <333

[duckbunny]

some fandom disagreements are like "I see your point but I think this other aspect of the narrative is more significant," and some are like "I don't think you can read."

[cimicherrychanga]

what is the FUCKING POINT then???

[baronboar]

How equal can a society be if some fundamentals are unusable by a third of the population? You can learn a lot about a world by looking at the little details, especially in furry settings!

[doe-prince]

Honey is a comic based on my run on clangen (lifegen). I think I'll slowly post it here on tumblr, but it'll update faster on Comicfury.

This is not a Warrior Cats comic! They're just cats.

[jicklet]

This is the little Ekko/Jinx moment that's been sticking with me:

Because on first watch, I expected this was going to be something negative. Ekko trying to defend why he'd been so hostile to Powder. 'You're not the kind of person who helps... because you destroy things,' or something to that effect.

But no.

oh

What a way to look at Jinx?? Even with everything she's done... He looks at this well-adjusted, 'ideal' Powder, and still thinks she's missing something that his Jinx has. The Powder that he knew was so determined to make something that mattered... it's a Powder who's content to play second-fiddle to the people around her, a Powder that settles that feels off to him.

And that ties into why he can't stay here. Our Ekko isn't the kind of person who settles either.

[musiciansandmonsters]

Mama’s here!!

I’m gay so obviously a Leyendecker inspired piece was bound to happen

[captorations]

i'm losing my fucking mind. a damn near perfect file in simcity 3000 was chugging along just fine and suddenly everything broke. tax income dropped by like 90%. i was getting warnings about low land value despite them being at their highest nearly across the entire city. baffled, i made a backup save and then let it continue for a bit and. i literally got fucking fired. i lost. i didn't even know you could lose simcity. and again, everything was still just as meticulously perfect as autism/adhd hyperfocus could make it (very).

the culprit, uncovered after significant investigation?

overflow error.

that's right. my land values were so high they looped back to zero. i got fucking nuclear gandhi'd. i was so good at simcity i literally broke it, i'm laughing so much. i think this means i won simcity, actually

[constant-stateofdenial]

[jojaxcola]

the jojamart mockumentary that constantly plays in my mind

[ next ]

[hrokkall]

We are so bat

[marigoldendragon]

I heard the cutest little story yesterday, I had to turn it into a comic 😭

And I have no idea if the characters have a cannon favourite colour, this just seemed to fit :P