metaphysicpareidolic

[metaphysicpareidolic]

I stopped calling myself a pacifist when I heard Gandhi told women they should not physically fight off their rapists.

I believe there is such a thing as a non-violent fist. I believe the earth is a woman muzzled, beaten, tied to the coal slinging tracks.

I believe the muzzled have every right to rip off the bible belt and take it to the patriarchy’s ass. (Lines 5-13)

Andrea Gibson, "Etiquette Leash," Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns

[metaphysicpareidolic]

[metaphysicpareidolic]

A Dream where Richard Madoc Gets what he Fucking Deserves

TW: Brief flaying metaphor

The thing is, deep down, he knows. 

You can see it in his eyes — not furtive or nervous, but steady as they’ve always been. Gazing straight forward, boring holes into everything still, because nothing has changed. Sometimes we watch him through the mirror in the soft-lit, fresh-smelling bathroom when he is digging the filth out from under his fingernails, and he looks up into his own eyes, sees us seeing him, and then looks straight past us. 

Sometimes he’s smooth, sealed-up, barely emerged from the tar-pit of adolescence, all clean inside except for the amniotic fluid he hasn’t managed to smoke out — you can smell it on his breath sometimes, still. And sometimes he’s a bundle of crows feet, wrapped up in raven wings, a thespian and philosopher, all of history unfurling out of the pockets of his tweed jacket. And sometimes he’s a fine spiderweb of cracks, a gaunt and hollow spectre, howling from all his holes and pockmarks, digging and digging and digging until the water runs black, not red. 

We have seen the black of night and it is not this. 

It is the black of candle soot. It is the black of burnt all the way through. It is the black of a dilated pupil, fevered and sweating. It is black in the way only holes can be. 

He is a man of holes, after all. A connoisseur. 

At last, here is the dream. 

Today is a special occasion. He searches in his walk-in closet for the raven wings, the tar-pit, the tweed jacket with the ocean in its pockets, and he finds nothing. He swaggers his way down to Hell, naked, sooty and sagging, dripping on the aged brick, the walls of eyes seeping into the manifold of his skin, every pore, every break, every hole. They sweep and search, digging under his fingernails, collecting samples. When they’re done, they put it back — nothing gained, nothing lost, as it should be. In the mirror over the sink, we watch him pick gristle out from between his teeth. The filth drips down into the bowl like a nosebleed, coagulating in the drain until it overflows all over his shoes, over the tiled floor. Stinking of it, he crawls back up to the surface, and Hell, for once, has gone quiet. 

In his tastefully naked home, he looks straight forward and sees the filth. It’s an acrid film over the hardwood floors, stretched out on his bed like a dream of a morning after, thick and clotted in the bathtubs. The housekeepers have long since given up on cleaning it — they don’t come around anymore. With pinpoint pupils, he searches. In the empty closet. Under the sinks. In the kitchen cabinets. He doesn’t find the little boy. Even under the bed, nothing remains but a little sooty handprint, half-smudged-out by a housekeeper or by his own hands. We watch him through the windows as he straightens up, unfolding, his bones scraping as they rearrange themselves into the facsimile of structure. 

Sometimes he dreams of being skinned alive. He imagines the knife slipping under, a clean incision from groin to sternum. He imagines the degloving of his fingers, the nails shedding away, the bone chipped at the fingertips. He stares straight forward into the mirror, and raises the knife to see what it feels like. He smiles, all crows feet, and drops it into the filth in the sink, forgetting the housekeepers will never come again. 

The desk is clean. He opens his computer to find a dead, black screen. He plucks out a few choice lines of dialogue, sends them off to Earth like he means them. Soon he will have another bathtub to collect filth. Another house to store them in. We watch him from the desk drawer, where the pen sits, full of clean, black ink, shiny and perfect and worn, long ago. He does not glance downwards. 

Can you hear it? It’s still there. It’s always there. It’s always been there. A dying dream, weeping softly from the drawer, from the drain, from under the bed. We ache for it. 

We have seen everything, and yet we still cannot understand why. We believe in walls of words, raven wings, the ocean, and being wrong, and all these things. We patch the cracks with them when suffering bores its holes into us, we let it curl up inside us, comforting, unbroken and unknowable darkness. We peer down into the drain. There’s nothing there. The dream in our lungs pulls us back. 

And as for him, we have seen everything. The pen sits heavy in our pocket. We walk down the gravel path to stop by the potted fig, listen to the blight crawling beneath the bark. From this distance, it’s easy to see the way the walls of the house bow inwards, closing in. The sound seeps out from the holes where the filth turned to rot. 

Can you hear it? It’s beginning, if you’re burnt enough to listen. If you want, you can hear the scraping. Soft as fingertips, at first. Then the bite of nails. Then the grinding of bone against unyielding hardwood. A floor that digs back. Hell stays cold, clean and untouchable below. 

The ocean roils inside our brain, inside our chest, inside our stomach. We turn the corner, away from the house, away from the filth, away from the weeping and the memory of Hell under the floorboards. With a great sigh, we open our inky wings. We leave him alone in his dream of walls that watch but never see, floors that taste but never swallow. High in the white sky, we look down upon the world of filth, not yet burnt all the way through, black with holes and hungry blown pupils. 

And in that, we dare to see words. Words, black as night, and blacker still. 

They whisper of oceans and believing.

[metaphysicpareidolic]

heres how they can still work it out on the remix

[metaphysicpareidolic]

failstate

[metaphysicpareidolic]

evil viktor (+ a bit of jayce) as textposts [2/?]

[metaphysicpareidolic]

This is how that scene went right

[metaphysicpareidolic]

Clean version of a comic I drew in history class

[metaphysicpareidolic]

they've never had sex

[metaphysicpareidolic]

glorious evolution 🦋

[metaphysicpareidolic]

[metaphysicpareidolic]

Talking to myself out loud like a point and click protagonist

[metaphysicpareidolic]

yeah i’m disappointed but not surprised in the slightest that our pet millionaire tumblr chatbot bezos meatrider turned out to be a rich old fuck. i’m glad to see some people looking at his stuff in hindsight. honestly the fact that a 63 year old man with an 18 million dollar net worth regularly uses tumblr to interact with his fans is weird enough to start with

[metaphysicpareidolic]

My medieval and ancient ancestors watching me trying to charge my laptop and connect to WiFi: Ah, yes, she must feed her magic mirror on the telluric current and summon the spirits of knowledge from the aether.

My ancestors watching me proceed to doomscroll on Twitter: Alas! She is beguiled by the cruel babblings of the demons within the mirror; soon she will descend into melancholy from the things she has witnessed.

[metaphysicpareidolic]

Pinterest Art Base Inktober Day 7! When Dream gets out of his box they're all fucked tbh (I have no idea if this is what this prompt means but I did it anyway so shrug)

[metaphysicpareidolic]

man who opened a parenthesis he forgot to close 4 years ago is tragically unaware everything he's said since has been an aside

[metaphysicpareidolic]

He's my babygirl,my wife ,my one and only.