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Something something Eddie telling Buck “this doesn’t change a thing between us” when he came out vs Pepa telling Buck “I didn’t get here by pretending that things hadn’t changed, I got here by embracing that they had”

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Little things that feel like spells:

the sound of wind in trees like they're whispering secrets

old keys with no doors to open

puddles that look like portals if you stare long enough

half-finished poems tucked into coat pockets

dusty attics where forgotten memories nap

candlelight flickering like it’s trying to talk

tea leaves swirling like they’re casting fortunes

cloudy days that turn the world into a watercolor

finding feathers in strange places like a bird witch left them behind

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everyone needs a nostalgic hidden creek where u go to remember who u are and where you’ve been

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depression does this neato thing where it makes you too lethargic to do anything and as a result you constantly let people down around you which, shockingly, makes the depression worse and you are expected to claw your way out of this hole by yourself while it keeps getting deeper so as not to put anyone out or make anyone uncomfortable. and then the hole starts to feel like home

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Jeppe Hein | Mirror Labyrinth

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hermes in hadestown is the exact opposite of an unreliable narrator. a tortured narrator. a little *too* reliable. incredibly aware of exactly what is happening at any given moment, vaguely spoiling it for you in the beginning, despairing every second of it. but ultimately motivated to continue to tell the story over and over and over with a smiling face for the sake of the audience, and for the sake of the characters themselves, singing it again to keep them alive. knowing how it will end, but singing it again so that the cycle may restart and eurydice may come back to life. enduring the misery of it all, over and over, holding the knowledge of what will come to pass but continuing anyway to see orpheus happy just one more time before it all goes down in flames again.

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oranges & cranberries

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Sometimes I have to remind myself that's it's ok to have days in bed

It's okay to not want to speak because it takes too much energy or hurts too much

It's okay to be upset that you're missing out of things because you're unwell

It's okay to need help

It's okay to accept help

It's okay to let yourself be in pain or exhausted and to stop pushing through things and just rest

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“I don’t want to be a burden” you’re more like a relief, a gift, a blessing actually

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symptom journal quilt by Nicole Jones Studio

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New fic! Disabled Buck and some fluff and comfort!

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summary: He brings his attention back to him, looking down at Buck on the bed. Eddie stares a little, his eyes lingering as he looks at Buck with those soft, brown eyes that make Buck aches, even right now. “Care to share?”

“Share what?”

He gives a sharp nod to the stash on the nightstand.

Buck’s eyes widens and he literally grabs onto the covers, bringing them up his chest like a child scared of a monster in a movie, “You want to smoke?” he asks, incredulous.

Eddie tilts his head to the side, a cocky smile on his face, “You think It’s my first time?”

“Isn't it?” Buck’s voice goes high, almost comical.

“You’re cute.”

He waits a moment, looking over his nightstand, as if the pot might mysteriously disappear out of nowhere, “You really want to?”

or : buddie getting together while being high 🍃

this fic was requested through the @911actionforgaza fundraiser

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Buck has gotten to live and die in that hospital, but not in the way it usually goes. Yes, he’s lost and gotten his pulse back in there, he’s wandered its hypothetical hallways while in a coma, he’s broken through glass to finally breathe on his own and return home. But he’s also watched his sister get married, and he’s also kissed a man. His man. The place where he almost lost it all exactly a year ago,,, becomes witness of the way he finally allows himself to live.

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FOR MY LOVER

from the archives, made sometime around early 2020 for my senior thesis. poem is by dallas clayton, embroidery by me. i kinda like how the face disappears into the sun, just like everything else.

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alone on the pavement and the paint’s getting muddier

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“Things don’t have purposes, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What’s the function of a galaxy? I don’t know if our life has a purpose and I don’t see that it matters. What does matter is that we’re a part. Like a thread in a cloth or a grass-blade in a field. It is and we are. What we do is like wind blowing on the grass. […] We’re in the world, not against it. […] The world is, no matter how we think it ought to be. You have to be with it. You have to let it be.”

— Ursula Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven (via exhaled-spirals)