#and the pain and joy of loving someone with dementia

[sassysnowperson]

Sass Talks Books: Thank You for Listening, by Julia Whelan

Basic Plot: An audiobook narrator, who doesn't record romance books (anymore - she needed to break into the industry somehow), is given the financial opportunity of a lifetime...recording a romance book. It's a dual narration book, too, which means working with another narrator. Her recording partner quickly becomes one of the best perks of the project, warm and funny and *real* feeling, despite the fact they've never met. (They've never met, right?)

My thoughts: I really enjoyed this one. The author IS an audiobook narrator, writing a book about two audiobooks narrators, and I listed to the audiobook...narrated by the author. I thoroughly recommend that reading experience, by the way. There's a lot of little moments with the two talented voice actor characters slipping into different accents, talking about tone and inflection, and it's an absolute delight to hear the narrator delivering on the script she wrote for herself. As for the story itself, I'm not far enough into the romance world to know if this book deviates from the romance novel beats enough that it's drifted out of the category, but I can say that it was absolutely charming and enjoyable. And, that the changes made dulled the edges of the parts of romance I bounce off of the most while absolutely being a very loving send-up of the genre. The connection between the two people was very real, but it wasn't the only (or even, I would argue, the most important) relationship developing and changing in the book.

Every character felt connected in a complicated web of love and relationships with other people - it was a joy. And it was used to explore some toothy things that I normally don't get in a book this fun - grief, regret, how you deal with the losses you can't get back, how you rebuild a life. It stayed warm-hearted and kind as a book, but it didn't shy away from real fights, insecurities, and pain.

A handful of warnings to go along with that: the MC has lost an eye, and deals with ableism, and some negative self-perception. There's some diet-culture-based disordered eating for the MC's best friend (not displayed as a good thing). The MC's relationship with her dad has some brutal fights where there's emotional manipulation happening. There's also a real look at the complications of dementia - discussed below.

The protagonist's relationship with her grandmother is a key point of the story, and the grandmother is dealing with encroachment of memory loss and personality change that comes along with dementia. This part surprised me - I work with older adults in long-term care and lol, was not expecting that my professional life would be relevant to the situation. The author made a few errors with the care system in California (where our grandma is based, and where I work). But frankly, only a few, and the way the dementia progressed wasn't one of them. It was good, and heartbreaking, and one of my favorite parts.

Wow...I wrote a lot about this. Suppose that makes sense, considering it was my experience of the book itself. I expected something light and fun, and while I got it, there was depth there too that was a very welcome surprise.

[myechoecho]

Perfect Marriage Revenge, ep 7

It gave me great joy to see Jung Wook and Yoo Ra's little stunt announcement didn't go as planned. Most of them called it out for what it was (adored the "if you go as low as them you are just like them).

Do Guk told the truth: Jung Wook's been using that lame leg as an excuse his entire life. The man has a limp and needs a cane to walk. I don't know what the leg looks like or what other lingering pain/physio it might need, but overall on the horribly disfiguring totem pole, it seems pretty low. Add in the fact that he is the eldest son of a powerful company, surely he could have found someone who accepted (or tolerated) his leg??

Jung Wook really cannot control himself. Do Guk told some truths, in an level tone and Jung Wook is the one that grabbed Do Guk. Grandma really has the power in that family.

Yi Joo probably should have held on to her temper and not said anything about not being the fake one but I love how Do Guk was like Yoo Ra is not worth engaging.

Cheering at Yi Joo turning the tables around on Jung Hye and using the same sort of tactics that Jung Hye used to do on her, forcing her to play along in front of the reporters. I'm not sure what that painting has to do with the secretary or why he wanted it but I'm enjoying what we've seen of them working together. LOL at Yi Joo teasing him how he used to stare at the painting.

I like that Yi Joo has hidden her grandfather away from Jung Hye, but I don't think that some one who supposedly has dementia and is in a home for it can make decisions about his company's shares.

The ex is such a weasel but I also see hints of him eventually breaking with Yoo Ra and maybe siding with Yi Joo. Still the nerve of him going into Do Guk and Yi Joo's home and finding the contract. (also Do Guk do you not have any security??). Grandma is the only one who seems a bit objective because she accurately points out that while the marriage contract is a bit weird, the fact that Yoo Ra and Jung Wook somehow have it and shown it to everyone is worse.

SCREAMING at the domestic scene. Yi Joo ate without a thought! The look on Do Guk's face because he automatically went to test her food and she just ate a huge bite before he could. The trust she has with him. He also tells her he's proud of her, and asks what's changed but she her only answer is to take another bite and a smile. The sex must have been real good.

What's more, she considers Do Guk's place THEIR home. Where it's safe, and she can come to heal if she's hurt. She doesn't even really realize what this means about her feelings for him. But I also love that while she's focused on her revenge, she also doesn't leave out Jung Wook and Teaja group.

Also, they are dressing Yi Joo and Do Guk in similar colours the closer they get to one another:

I adore that Do Guk laid it all out for his mom. What they did to Yi Joo and what they continue to do to Yi Joo via the staged fight and news article. His mom is so outraged by what is being done by Yi Joo's family. Do Guk begs on his knees for her help which apparently is only the second time he's asked for a favour. She refused the first time so I wonder what that is about.

Still his mom needs to see Jung Hye for herself. Jung Hye showed her through the house when she came to visit, which his mom definitely understood why. She can also tell that Jung Hye is excited for what is happening to Yi Joo. Cackling at how his mom deliberately misunderstood Jung Hye when she their son and daughter should break up. I also think it was a bit of a test which Jung Hye failed. I love how ruthless his mom was in saying that she was not going to just let others get the divorce they want. She has a stake in that marriage - Yi Joo promised to get Do Guk to come back to Teaja. Which blindsides Jung Hye but it's also something that she would understand a mother wanting/scheming about. (though Do Guk's mom is not shady or murdery).

Last thought - good for Yi Joo for doing the paternity test to confirm that she is the leigt bio daughter.

[niennandil-me-writes]

Ouroboros

CN: gore, consensual/romanticized violence, cannibalism, dementia/rabies analogies, exposed organs, can be read as suicide

[Commission for @noxachi. Qin belongs to them.]

These things are true: The world is ending. The world has been ending for a while. The world is at the culmination of ending right now.

These things they know: They are each other’s world.

Everything else has fallen away like the meaningless background noise they had slowly realized it to be. No places, no time, no sound, the only thing they perceive is the other’s body, and the other’s voice in their head, calling them closer, whispering sweet words of desire and desperation. They have forgotten how to talk. They have forgotten a lot, but nothing that matters.

You’re mine, Teo says, and it sounds like Make me yours.

I am yours, Qin says, and means Be mine.

An outsider would have taken them for human beasts, driven to madness by the approaching apocalypse, now lost in an endless fight where they viciously attack each other until one lies dead on the ground, body torn and broken while the winner devours their flesh, only for them to rise again after a while and immediately resume the fight. They might have thought, rather foolishly, that this behavior was motivated by a mutual hatred.

Someone who knew them would notice the awe in their eyes as they look at each other, the joy beneath the sadism in their laughter, and the love with which they cradle the other’s corpse in their arms, and that the desire that makes them rend and chew and swallow each other’s flesh is a deeper hunger than anything bodily. 

That person might weep at seeing them like this, maybe remembering what they don’t: Who they used to be. What they lost. That they are now so far gone they are not even aware of the world ending.

This onlooker would be an even greater fool, unable to see what they see, feel what they feel, twice even, once for themself, then for the other. And what do they care if the world is ending, when their world is ending and beginning anew every time one of them falls?

Theirs is a love language written in blood and yelled in screams and gasps and moans of pain. Their embraces so close they leave scars. Kisses so deep they taste of flesh. A love so greedy and so selfless, giving each other all of them and taking everything as well, not being satisfied until they are utterly, completely, one.

To him they are the altar he’d pray at, and the deity he’d pray to, if he’d ever been a religious man, if he cared about anything but Qin. To them he is their executioner, the knife that slits their throat to sacrifice them, to drink their blood and eat their flesh. And at the same time, he is their pet, their puppy, their attack dog, who they feed of their own flesh, who bites their hand, and who obeys their every command, no matter if that command is kill, or die for me.

They are no longer running away, he is no longer chasing them. Too strong is the desire for the other’s touch. Together they are sprawled on the ground, him pinning them down, them pulling him closer. His fingers find their way into their hair, tangling and tearing at the matted mess that used to be the color of moonlight but he has turned into a blood moon.

Teo, Qin calls for him, and he remembers that that is his name. He looks down at them, into their eyes, and then he is drawn towards them as if by gravity. His mouth smears bloody kisses over their naked skin, trailing black veins barely visible beneath the blood and gore. Kissing becomes biting becomes tearing and rending flesh until his teeth meet their bones, and they both moan with pleasure. 

Now their hands are in his hair, even dirtier than theirs, guiding his head exactly where they want him. He follows obediently. Their fingers wander to his face, scratching his bearded jaw while he chews on them.

Puppy.

From them it sounds just like his name. 

Closer.

He puts his hand to a wound and slips his fingers inside them, caressing them from within. He can feel the pain he inflicts, blood gushing from his own body just as much as theirs, but only when they utter a whimper does he join in with a soft scream. There’s nothing in this world that makes him feel what doing this to them does.

Closer!

Two hands in a big wound on their stomach, and he starts ripping them open. Exposed organs in front of him make his breath go heavy. He can feel something fall out of himself, and onto Qin, blood and viscera mixing. They are one.

I love you.

Neither of them knows which of them said it. It doesn’t matter.

Their hands reach for his chest. Nails digging under skin, ripping aside flesh. He whimpers as they hold his heart in one hand, looking up at him in a mix of delirium and fascination.

He cups their chin in his hand. Tilts his head in question. There are no words left to him. There is only them.

This… you are so beautiful. A smirk splits their face. Their fingers play with his heart. I wish this moment would last forever. 

He trembles from their touches and words. Takes their other hand in his and kisses it, then bites off their finger. They giggle. They understand.

Then they say: Let us end now, sweetheart. Like this. In this perfect moment.

I love you, Qin. This time, it does come from him. I am yours. And he leans down, so they are skin to skin, and teeth to flesh. Rending and tearing, chewing and swallowing.

Devouring. Being devoured.

Until there is nothing left.

Until there is only them.

The world might end tomorrow.

Qin and Teo end today.

[rockislandadultreads]

November is... National Long-Term Care Awareness Month!

Eldercare 101 by Mary Jo Saavedra

An easy-to-understand guide for caregivers in a post-pandemic world who are adapting to the rapidly changing lifestyles and care needs of elders. The care and wellbeing of our seniors is paramount as we move out of the worst phase of Covid 19 and back to a more stable landscape, that is still subject to the vagaries of aging, illness, and capabilities. This updated edition of Eldercare 101 has been expanded to include pandemic lessons, climate change impact on senior housing and relocation, new medical and technological advancements, new housing trends, multigenerational living, Zoom memorials, brain health, legal needs when you have no children or family, isolation and more. Using her Six Pillars of Aging Wellbeing framework, Mary Jo Saavedra and a variety of expert contributors explore the needs, desires, realistic circumstances, opportunities for healthy and safe aging, and end of life care … something we all need to think about at some time or another.

Floating in the Deep End by Patti Davis

With the heartfelt prose of a loving daughter, Patti Davis provides a life raft for the caregivers of Alzheimer’s patients. “For the decade of my father’s illness, I felt as if I was floating in the deep end, tossed by waves, carried by currents, but not drowning,” writes Patti Davis in this searingly honest and deeply moving account of the challenges involved in taking care of someone stricken with Alzheimer’s. When her father, the fortieth president of the United States, announced his Alzheimer’s diagnosis in an address to the American public in 1994, the world had not yet begun speaking about this cruel, mysterious disease. Yet overnight, Ronald Reagan and his immediate family became the face of Alzheimer’s, and Davis, once content to keep her family at arm’s length, quickly moved across the country to be present during “the journey that would take [him] into the sunset of [his] life.”

Empowered by all she learned from caring for her father―about the nature of the illness, but also about the loss of a parent―Davis founded a support group for the family members and friends of Alzheimer’s patients. Along with a medically trained cofacilitator, she met with hundreds of exhausted and devastated attendees to talk through their pain and confusion. While Davis was aware that her own circumstances were uniquely fortunate, she knew there were universal truths about dementia, and even surprising gifts to be found in a long goodbye. With Floating in the Deep End, Davis draws on a welter of experiences to provide a singular account of battling Alzheimer’s.

Mashed Potatoes in My Salad by Eunice L. Sykes

Mashed Potatoes in My Salad is foremost a love story. It is a poignant tale of a woman, who, after several unsuccessful, toxic and abusive relationships, finally finds the man of her dreams under unlikely, risky, and daring circumstances. What she had not anticipated, though, was being a caregiver time and time again as he endures serious illnesses - including a devastating Alzheimer's diagnosis.

This is her complex, multilayered story of ambition, drive, romance, endurance, resilience, loyalty, survival, love, and joy. Her lessons learned will inspire and motivate you to be all that you can be and to live your best life better.

The Caregiver's Companion by Carolyn A. Brent

People today are not only living longer, they are also living sicker—making aging and caring for elderly loved ones more complicated than ever before. In this extensive guide, caregiver advocate Carolyn Brent outlines a step-by-step process so caregivers know what to do and what to ask in every situation that may arise, including:

• Signs that your loved one needs more assistance

• What to look for in a retirement home

• Caretaking in your own home

• How to ensure wills are in order

• How to manage difficult family relationships

• Ensuring you are getting the help and care you need

Brent leaves no stone unturned, provides personal stories and scenarios for context, and includes other references and resources in this complete guide to caregiving.

[philosophicalbrat-blog]

LIVING WAKES and GIVING ME FLOWERS BEFORE I DIE

It's a notion that is fancy and intended well, but is only part of the story that we often take for granted.

When someone is getting closer to the end of their life (I use EOL at work, so please forgive me if that comes out) there are many issues to be noticed. We have a society where people are often separated from those they love, and it is often exasperated by old age or severe ailments and need for higher levels of care. A vast number of people change drastically when they are old and nearing end of life. Senility, dementia, Alzheimer's disease, and other memory breaking diseases take away some of the function of the brain and warp a character into someone different from whom we knew. Cancers can sap the life of a person, cause extreme pain, and deform a person into someone who is possibly already changed by age. Those and more things come to mind when I think of how it seems easier for someone to become isolated towards the end of their lives. It all makes the connection thinner as the weight on their body becomes visibly more diminished.

I get a bit of joy in my heart hearing people pursue the notion of celebrating a life before they are gone, but in practicality there are often elements that are missing. It can be too little too late for many. They can have a divide that is insurmountable, and put on a face of trying to appease another without actually fulfilling the purpose of the act in the first place. If you have been to a memorial and seen someone who was nearly absent from the life of the subject, but they put on a face of concern and mourning, you should not be surprised to know they can show up in these pre-death settings as well. Then we add in the elements I previously mentioned and it gets a bit more theatrical than cathartic and healing.

If you really want to celebrate a life when it is being slowly diminished, please consider assessing the picture. If you see there is someone caring for the person you care about, and this person is tired, hurting, worn out, or losing their good temperament consider offering a form of respite. Give them a break. Give them some care and support. Your loved one will be much better for that consideration. Or perhaps you can adopt a form of village support with others who are just outside the care scene. That is a lot nicer than throwing a bunch of flower deliveries or notes of consideration in cards at someone who needs more immediate support. Don't forget those notes, but the assessments and awareness can hedge regrets and offer more than you know.

And lastly, please don't forgo the memorial after death if you were already doing some pre-death commemoration. There is a reason and purpose for that as well. Those of us who continue and go on after someone's death are given something important in those memorials. It isn't until someone is actually gone, when the reality hits you like a piano crushing you in a cartoon fashion, that you can really understand what the loss means. Memorials are currently for the survivors. Pre-death rituals can be as well, but they are inherently falling short because we have not been absorbed into the pain and reality until the person is gone. So you can do both, but please at least do the latter.

[alllinesarebeautiful]

Day 329 Art Meditation, May 23, 2023

It’s a piece of a dream come true! I’m so thrilled and grateful to be asked to create a Blue Green version of my All-lines-are-beautiful Happy Dots art that are in my Print Store. 

So, new art in my Print Store - follow the link in Bio. 💚💙💚💙

The dream part is I want my own Heart-Art (red/orange/blue/green/pink) to expand outwards, beyond limiting thoughts or beliefs of how design “should be”. I love that the wave of Blues and Greens expand out of my other colors, in motion even within the stills. 

The other day I found a @TED post about a photographer Tony Luciani @ynotphoto256 who started using his camera to create photography about his 91 year old mother who had dementia. Over the course of 4 years they made art together. The art shows his frustration too. Two of my favorite quotes:

“Mom loved the process, the acting. She felt worthy again, she felt wanted and needed.”

“Dependents want to feel a part of something, anything. Give them a voice of interaction, participation, and a feeling of belonging. Make the time meaningful.”

I’m so grateful for this art-story because it’s through the Art that there is Meaning and Connection. And the hardest part - taking the Pain and creating Beauty, Joy, Meaning.

This is what my art is for me, out of the loss, creating meaning, purpose and connection for myself, knowing that someone is out there manifesting me and my Art. Staying connected to my Inner World and believing enough in it to bring it outwards.

It’s what I wish for with my art, a kind of healing, truth, and new way of expressing ourselves, because we are so blocked - this goes for me too. Fear at every turn, and Tests of courage which push me to ask if I want to keep doing this. And by “this”, I mean being authentic, knowing how much of my younger years I sold my authenticity out for some kind of temporary comfort.  Love, Anne

[fraener]

2/8/23

i might be able to get rid of my uterus. i think i need to think about it more but i cant imagine how much stronger and healthier id be without it. my anemia wouldnt be so dangerous, id have so much less pain, i wouldnt be bedridden for like half of every month anymore. for the first time someone’s being attentive and im not used to it at all. the possibility seems completely unreal in the same way that moving to another country seems completely unreal or. well. i cant think of another good analogy. i think most things might be like learning to drive, and learning to drive might be a bit like learning to whistle or swim or ride a bike; itll be hard but not impossible, and things happen whether i believe in them or whether anyone else believes in me. i feel like the ptsd maybe has literally given me brain damage, i feel like my life is so incredibly small and all of the smallness of it is totally fabricated. i cant hold onto the fact that anything can happen for more than a few seconds unless the anything that can happen is something horrible. what if it was something good? what if it was something that seems impossibly good? i think im scared to have a real attachment to my life because so far its been painful and i keep getting bad news about my life expectancy and future. i dont want to get early onset dementia, i dont want it to be possible for me to get pregnant. i dont want to live through a world war. i dont want to have to work a normal job. i want to live a meaningful and colorful and bright life. i want to be loved for what and who i am. hans told me he loves me just now. i think it didnt stir my heart too much because im still scared, but also because i already knew. i feel really secure in this relationship on a base level but i know i need to work through my surfaced insecurities and anxieties about being myself and voicing my needs and everything. im still learning and working through things. i feel like im awash in a huge grief and relief right now. my life is getting better and i dont know how to process that through anything except crying and being scared. im working on it. i need to let myself uncurl my fists and romanticize things again. i want to enjoy things and see the magic in life again. ive been fighting against it so hard. i wonder if the ocd is keeping me so hard on the straight and narrow because im so scared to experience joy and have it taken away again. if i dont enjoy anything then its a lot less scary when everything gets taken away. what goes down must come up, what comes up must go down. i think if i can integrate myself into that rhythm again ill be ok. so far ive experienced a lot of death and change this year, so i know i can do it and undertake change joyfully. 

[lindamilesauthor]

Cultivating Strength and Compassion as Caregivers of Dementia Patients

Transcending The Happily Ever After Myth

By, Dr. Linda Miles

Joseph Campbell wrote that "the purpose of life is to find joy amidst suffering." Successful couples manage to be happy together much of the time despite Life Challenges.

Once upon a time, over two decades ago, my husband and I wrote a book together called The New Marriage: Transcending the Happily Ever After Myth. The main theme of our book was the ability to let go of myths about marriage and embrace reality—When We read fairytales to Merritt, the granddaughter, we changed the ending. Instead of saying the couple married "and lived happily ever after" we'd say, "they began the work of making a good and happy marriage."

 As a psychotherapist, I have been inspired by the work of Stephen Levine and his work with the terminally ill. He writes about "sacred spaciousness" so that patients and caregivers can make room in their minds for the pain and the grace of the moment. I now know firsthand how heartwarming and heartbreaking it is to care for a cherished family member suffering from a chronic condition. Robert, my beloved husband of 33 years, has advanced dementia. He often doesn't recognize me. Just today, he remarked to me, "You look familiar. I have seen you around here quite often. "He may not know me, but I know him.

This is the last chapter of a long love story.

Recently, we renewed our vows—a reminder and promise of togetherness till the end. It helps me find strength by seeking and creating moments of joy amidst suffering. One night before Christmas, when I walked into the bedroom, Robert looked up and told me he had seen me at work many times. He added that he found me smart and attractive and wanted to marry me. What his mind did not remember, his heart still knew. My heart still knows.

His memory, in part, was true; we had worked together as colleagues at a mental health center decades ago. He could not remember that we were already married and had been for decades. I joyfully said yes to this second marriage proposal; we renewed our vows in the company of our family, with our pastor's son performing the ceremony. Robert could not stand, but his longtime friend supported him from his medical school days. So much grace surrounded us that night.

One night after the vow renewal celebration, Robert seemed to know who I was and became protective. My husband had been healthy and worked as a psychiatrist for most of his life. He seemed to think he was protecting me because he told me that I needed to go find someone else because he was now "ugly and dumb." It hurt me that he would feel like that about himself, and I reassured him that I would never leave. With the help of the family and Hospice, we have been able to keep him at home. I am grateful that I am healthy and can care for him. 

My adult son saw the toll that caregiving alone was taking on me and offered to move his family from Virginia to help. Having his family here has brought so many moments of joy and opportunities to practice sacred spaciousness. Robert loves having family around. Merritt, the granddaughter we read about relationships, is now pregnant with a great-grandchild named after Robert. She calls weekly from Chicago. No matter where the conversation with Robert takes them, she sounds interested and responds appropriately. Recently, he believed that we were at a campground and she went with the story and ask him all about the tents. Later, I pretended to escort out a wild turkey that he imagined was in the room with us. I later laughed with the family, because there was no way I would get near a wild turkey! I live the lesson that humor can be like a gentle rain that carries away some pent-up tension. I also have good friends who understand my situation because they are also caregivers. I can call them at any hour to vent, share my feelings, and, finally, to laugh.

Being chronically ill can be a heavy burden—too many people can attest to that. What fewer people mention is that caring for a chronically ill loved one takes its toll, too. The caretakers of those who have dementia or Alzheimer's are often referred to as the "second patient" because of the intense physical and emotional demands of this type of caretaking. It's easy to feel burned out, worn down, psychologically distressed, or even resentful when motivated by guilt, a sense of duty, social pressure, or greed. On the other hand, caregivers who combine duty with the desire to show loving-kindness and genuinely protect the person they care for are those who experience fewer negative emotions. Such caring is associated with positive feelings, positive brain chemicals, including oxytocin and dopamine, and the increased likelihood of reaching out to others for help and support. 

The National Institute of Health cites that the majority of caregivers enjoy the positive experiences that foster togetherness with their loved ones: shared activities, bonding, spiritual and personal growth, increased faith, and feelings of accomplishment and mastery. When duty and desire are aligned, there is increased fulfillment and reduced psychological distress. Caretakers of those with chronic conditions—just like chronic patients themselves—can individually become better or bitter based on their capacity for loving kindness toward themselves and others.

A happy and sustainable relationship bypasses fairytale notions about marriage and happens when two people deal together with the vicissitudes of life. Although it takes work, resilience, faith, compassion, and the conscious choice to confront—and not run from—life's challenges.

To overcome these challenges and find purpose in life, it is important to celebrate life together. I find many moments of light as a caregiver for my husband. And its life-affirming, hope-igniting, and heart-warming to pursue and celebrate love as this lasting light. It is easy to give and receive love when the going is easy, the sun is shining, our cares are few, and the romance is fresh. It is harder— fulfilling—to share love when the road is littered with challenges, the day has darkened, and time or trouble has made us (in the words of Yeats) feel old and grey and full of sleep. But that is where we find true love, the love that is consciously cultivated brings opportunities for transformation of the mind and spirit. As I write this, my husband peacefully sleeps, and the door is open to our wooded backyard on a beautiful day. I take time to mindfully experience the miracles around us and feel gratitude that the love of my life is still beside me.

Dr. Linda Miles

[newagesispage]

                                                                        MAY                 2021

The Rib Page

*****

George Takei is sweatin’ with the oldies. He stars in a fitness app for gay seniors, Bar Belles. It was his April Fool’s day joke.

*****

Fox will bring us Crime Scene Kitchen on May 26 with host Joel McHale.

*****

Joel Hodgson has launched a new kick starter to create a new independent season of MTS3K, The goal is $2mil.

*****

Bob Odenkirk will release: Comedy, comedy, comedy, drama: A Memoir on Jan. 18 2022

*****

Leslie Jones will host the 2021 MTV Awards.

*****

$3 mil was raised for Next for Autism with help from Conan, Kimmel, Charlize, Chris Rock, Jack Black and Sarah Silverman.

*****

Have ya noticed that Gayle King looks great in yellow.

*****

Some people are not too happy that Elon Musk will host SNL on May 8. Miley Cyrus is the musical guest.** Musk tweeted: Let’s find out just how live SNL really is. Cast member Bowen Yang tweeted back, : What the Fuck does this even mean?

*****

Oh Seth Meyers: Every time I see the sea captain on your show, I miss him so much!!

*****

There is a spotlight on Foxconn which made a big splash for Trump at the start of his presidency. The company has done a lot of nothing but still gets tax cuts. Homes were demolished, roads were widened to nowhere and money was spent. Wisconsinites are upset that this big business is just folly and a big glass orb.

*****

Mike Lindell is a kook but he did try to appear to be a good sport on Kimmel.

*****

When will weed be legal on a federal level? When will drug testing for employment be illegal? We hear so much about personal rights with the gun laws and vaccines and masks. What about the right to do what we want with our bodies when we are not at work. Think of the administrative costs that could be saved if we just removed drug testing. Our experience and work ethic should mean more that what we do with our free time. This is not a problem at all companies. There are places in this country where it is near impossible anywhere in your area to get hired without a drug screening. One joint on a random Saturday night could keep someone from a great opportunity. A person in pain who reaches for an edible might miss out on the job that saves their lives.

*****

NASA sent the first flight to another planet. The Mars flight made history with the 30 sec feat.

*****

What? The Menendez brothers are popular again? From the Ramsey case to the Manson murders or Bundy, it all comes back around again.

*****

The Lizzie Borden house just sold for $2mil to Lance Zaal of U. S. Ghost Adventures.

*****

Quarantine and so much television et al proves one thing, the pharmaceutical and insurance companies have way too much $.

*****

Trump told everyone to boycott Coke and is later seen drinking diet Coke.** Trump sent out a statement about how bad the Oscars are. They threw it right back in his face. ** Federal agents have searched Giuliani’s Manhattan apartment. It stems from the 2 year investigation into activities in Ukraine.

*****

X-VP Pence is said to have pressured the Navy to reinstate former Mo. Gov. Eric Greitens. Greitens was accused of tying up, blindfolding, taking explicit photos of and blackmailing a woman.

*****

There is a crisis in schools with the lack of civics and history being taught.

*****

Hulk Hogan was hit with a chorus of Boo’s at his latest event.

*****

The latest sexual harassment news: Matt Gaetz  is being looked into for sex with a minor and sex trafficking.  Bill Barr opened the investigation.** Tom Reed has been accused of sexual misconduct by former lobbyist, Nicolette Davis.** Marilyn Manson has been sued by Game of Thrones, Esme Bianco for sexual abuse.

*****

What is going on with Bank of America? I am hearing from multiple people that often they do not get their statement in the mail. Is this a bad Postal service? Is this bad business practice? How many late fees had to be paid because of this? Not everybody wants to pay their bills online.

*****

Jack Hanna has revealed that he has dementia.

*****

Tiny Tim : King for a day is a new doc I must see. The film contains footage shot from Warhol’s Factory. There are excerpts from Tim’s diary read by Weird Al Yankovic and the story of how Tiny’s friend, Bob Dylan wanted to make a film with him.

*****

Lindsay Lohan’s Father, Michael has been charged with 5 counts patient brokering and 1 count of attempted patient brokering. This is an apparent scam of steering addicts into rehab for cash.

*****

Aaron Sorkin and Paulina Porizkova are dating. Pete Davidson and Phoebe Dynevor are dating.

*****

JB Smoove has a new podcast brought to you by TeamCoco.

*****

Hey.. People working on the new Law and Order: Organized Crime….. TOO MUCH MELONI!!

*****

*****

Zach Avery, actor, was arrested for his participation in a $690 mil Ponzi scheme.

*****

President Biden has restored aid to the Palestinians.

*****

MLB put up a wall in Georgia but the Masters stayed.

*****

Hank Azaria has brought Brockmire to a new podcast.

*****

Tommy Chong isn’t allowed on FB because of his weed posts but they allow an imposter to use his name to sell weed.

Pennsylvania is trying to push thru 14 voter suppression bills.

*****

Joe Manchin. Ugh!!** Marjorie Taylor- Greene has let go of her America First caucus.** Ted Cruz has allegedly used $154, 000 of his campaign funds to buy up copies of his book to boost sales. This is an old trick but still illegal.

*****

For the first time, The Carter Center became involved in a U.S. election. They published videos and live webcasts as well as deploying observers across Georgia.

*****

Most health programs in Uganda, Nigeria and Ethiopia have resumed after Covid.** Tom Vilsack from the Dept. of Agriculture has announced the USDA will provide assistance to 30 million kids.** It is sad to me that we have to entice people to vaccinate. Football games, Church’s and shot for shot in bars?? Really? Saving the lives of others should be enough. WTF?

*****

Alec Baldwin, Alec Mapa and Kelsey Grammer are shopping around a new comedy that ABC decided to pass on.

*****

Chauvin was found guilty.

*****

Days alert: C’mon Ben, calm the fuck down! Don’t prove how out of control you are like everybody thinks. ** Xander is so funny right now.** How many people will Kristen be and how many times can one person melt down?? **Bring Carrie back!! **Jackee’ seemed a bit nervous in the beginning but she is fitting right in. More!

*****

The SAG awards came and went. With the Trial of the Chicago 7 winning best ensemble, Michael Keaton is the first person to be in 3 best casts for SAG’s.** Other winners include Viola Davis, Chadwick Boseman, Daniel Kaluuta, Youn Yuh-Jung, Mark Ruffalo, Anya Taylor- Joy, Jason Bateman, Catherine O’Hara, Schitt’s Creek and The Crown.

*****

The Oscars were held on April 25. It was a bit of a yawner and why would a show set themselves up for an awkward end?? There was a commercial from P&G right before the broadcast that stated, “ Widen the screen so we can widen our view.” Nice sentiment.  Mank had so many noms and only 2 wins. People looking their best to me were Leslie Odom Jr., Glenn Close, Riz Ahmed, LaKeith Stanfield, Colman Domingo, John Batiste, Mia Neal, Questlove (gold crocs and a mask!), Desmond Roe, Travon Free, Trish Summerville, Marlee Matlin, The Lucas Brothers, Andra Day, Carey Mulligan, Amanda Seyfried, Nicolette Robinson, Regina King and Margot Robbie. Laura Dern looked like Big Bird, there were just too many feathers. Tiara Thomas had feathers but they looked great.  Angela Bassett had some power sleeves and Tyer Perry looked like a little boy.  Hooray for Emerald Fennell for her win for original screenplay but not sure about the dress. And Viola Davis?? Dana Murray?? Ashley Fox?? Hmm?? Winners seemed to have trouble getting to the stage. They often refused the steps or the walkway and sort of climbed up the side. I did love the intimate setting and it did remind me of the old clips of years before. Sound of metal and Ma Rainey both won. Tyler Perry and for the first time, an organization, the motion picture and television fund, took home the humanitarian award. I was thrilled to see My Octopus Teacher win for Doc. I loved Crip Camp too, that was a hard category.  The acting winners went in all directions.  Many critics complained that the films were real downers . Nomadland won best picture. Michael Moore put it best I think. Of the films this year, he said, “They force you to look backward with 2021 eyes.”

*****

Why the Fuck do we need a militarized police force?

*****

R.I.P. victims of the multiple mass shootings, victims of police shootings, the crush in Israel, Cosette Brown, Midwin Charles, DMX, Paul Ritter, Ethel Gabriel, G. Gordon Liddy, Buddy Peppenschmidt,  Prince Philip, Anne Beatts, Diane Adler, Vartan Gregorian, Monte Hellman, Jim Steinman, Michael Collins, Michael wolf Snyder, Johnny Crawford, Eli Broad and Walter Mondale.

[reginaldvonspiffington]

The Curse of Creativity by Richard V Kelly Jr

(disclaimer: This piece is edited by the author’s daughter posthumously. No new words were added, only passages deleted or rearranged)

1. The Wrong Kind Of Creativity

At the advanced age of 59 I found myself in a hospital psychiatric ward full of dejected people. I had reached the point of near catatonia, almost unable to interact with the world, unable to sleep, barely able to speak, spending all day in bed staring at the ceiling. My diagnosis was “Major depression with psychotic expressions”. 

Before this, I had composed symphonies and film scores. I had written textbooks, short stories, magazine articles, and half a dozen novels. I had sculpted in wood. I had written the code to create educational and artistic Virtual Reality and Artificial Intelligence applications. I had helped design a new school for creative kids. I had made educational films, created animations to teach Chinese, and written courses in every subject from neural networks to cryptography to architecture. 

Most of my existence had been spent in a world of ideas and imagination. My mind had been a sparkler, shooting off scintillas in every direction: fragments of music, lines of lyrical poetry, drawings, sculptures, computer programs, virtual worlds. But that life was gone. And here I was lying in bed fixated on the light of a bulb leaking in from an air vent.

I was still inventive at this point, but it was the wrong kind of inventiveness, the frightening unacceptable form. I had broken the membrane that separates playful imagination from gibbering lunacy. I still made up stories in my head, but they were all dark, bleak, lugubrious tales. The vent I was staring at obviously led to a parallel world where “they” were watching my every movement. I could feel the heat emanating from the wall, a form of thermal ray designed to cook my brain and mold my behavior. I had progressed beyond the creative person's liberation-from-the-mundane to the disturbed person's liberation-from-the-real.

There was no sense in moving from the hospital bed. Movement didn't matter. Nothing mattered. There was no future. And all the things I had created in the past seemed like a colossal waste of time. What was I thinking writing books no one would ever read and composing music no one would ever listen to? What was the point of that? Or anything else?

* 

The disease I was suffering from, depression, is astonishingly common. Almost 10% of Americans are taking anti-depressants right now. In fact, anti-depressants are the most prescribed drug in America. Almost 20% of women between the ages of 40 and 60 take them. And one in five people will eventually experience depression. So, pretty much everyone knows someone who has suffered from this illness.

But there is a level even deeper than the bottomless well of depression. 20% of people diagnosed with major depression (“major” in this case signifies acute, rather than chronic) also develop paranoia or other symptoms of psychosis including delusions and hallucinations. I was one of those people. I was terrified by my diagnosis, not because of the word “depression” – I knew there were treatments available - but because of the word “psychotic”. This was a term I had often used to describe crazy violent people for whom there was no cure. I pondered my possible future life as a babbling derelict. 

The new psychiatric resident assured me that the psychosis of depression and the psychosis of schizophrenia “are completely different disease processes originating in different parts of the brain”. And I knew intellectually that paranoia was misuse of my imagination. It was the dark side of the creativity that had sustained me my entire life. It was creativity as self-torture. But, even though I understood that my internal chemistry was creating false stories to misguide my thinking, I still felt hopeless, dejected, and persecuted. 

Staring through the fog of delusion, I realized that I had finally reached my secret goal of living in a world entirely of my own creation, but not in the way I had intended. I had hoped to spend every day reading my own novels, watching my own movies, laughing at my own animations, and listening to my own music, comforted by a sensible lyrical self-made universe. Instead, I was enwrapt in a vivid nightmare. My own creative thoughts were tormenting me. I couldn't wake up to escape them, and I couldn't sleep to avoid them.

*

The onset of depression is a slow process. One day I stopped reading. The flavor had gone from my favorite activity, so I dropped it. Then I stopped listening to music; it no longer provoked any feelings. I couldn't write anymore; creating worlds had lost its joy. I stopped watching TV and movies; they were pointless and unfulfilling. Everything I loved doing slipped away. I felt like crying all the time. The future turned black. I stopped working. And I hardly slept, so I became sleepy enough at the wheel of the car that I stopped driving for fear of hurting someone. This led to a shut-in's existence. I became what the Japanese call hikikomori – someone so tired of the world or sensitive to its vileness that they have pulled themselves inward and withdrawn from all contact, often never leaving their room.

Paranoia crept in. I thought the backyard garden was somehow being tended at night by persons unknown who were fertilizing and weeding it while I slept. I thought the morning bird calls were synthetically generated. I thought black and white cars were following me. I avoided my computer because I assumed it had been hacked by a malevolent villain who presented bad news to me in order to blame me for something I didn't entirely understand. And I all but stopped eating because I imagined that each food had a particular meaning, incriminating me in some crime. After 3 months I'd lost 30 pounds. 

As the disease progressed, I spent hours at a time in a swimmy somnambulance, as if I'd been drugged. Think of this predicament for a moment. Imagine being unable to read, write, exercise, work, garden, fix things around the house, chat with spouse or friends, eat, sleep, play cards, surf the net, or watch TV or movies. What would you do? Try it for a day. Eventually, I was reduced to pacing the living room, sitting for hours lost in rumination, or trying to sleep and being unable to. I had always thought of a person's mind as their only defense against a hostile world. Now that my mind had abandoned me, the hostile world came pouring in.

I began to develop severe cramps in my abdomen that curled me up like a baby at night. I felt as if I was giving birth. I developed headaches – a malady I'd never been bothered with before. And I became preoccupied with delusions. I imagined my wife had somehow been divided into different people: a 54 year old, a 40 year old, a 30 year old, and a 20 year old. I spent many nights awake, staring at her as she slept, waiting to see if she would switch to a different version of herself.

By summer's end, my existence consisted of getting out of bed, passing like a weary ghost through each day, void of joy or even interest, enveloped in rumination, miserable at the prospect of another excruciating night featuring nothing but heat, pain, and wakefulness. And it all felt as if it was being done to me. Eventually, I ended up just lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

I knew what was in store for me because my wife's brother had died by his own hand after a similar bout of depression. But, through the miasma of pain and woe, I insisted all was well. My family tried intervening to get me to a doctor, but I refused. And, eventually, my wife, conspiring with my doctor, cried as she urged me to go to the hospital for “just an evaluation”, which I assumed consisted of a casual chat in the emergency room followed by a prescription. I ended up in a locked ward in a hospital bed for a week having horrific nightmares as the medicine kicked in while listening to patients cry out at night for help.

I learned that there are three different psych wards in a large hospital: one for schizophrenics, one for depressives, and one for Alzheimer's/dementia patients. Because there were no spots open in the depression ward, they put me in the dementia ward with people twenty years my senior who had much bigger problems than I had. One woman had no family to look after her outside the hospital: no husband, no siblings, no kids, no living relatives, only a friend. Many people had lost all that was important to them in their lives, and were now losing the memories of their own life stories. The place was frightening, humbling, fascinating, and one enormous eye-opening lesson in appreciation for the wife, family, and friends who came to visit me every day or called me on the phone.

By studying the subject of depression, I learned that the trigger can be many years ahead of the expression, so I may never find out what provoked my downward spiral. Genetics probably had something to do with it. A difficult childhood was certainly a factor. But my guess is that trying to be a creative person in a world that consistently crushes or exploits creative people had the most to do with it.

Depression is like being anesthetized then dropped into a bathtub that slowly fills. The water rises to your back, then your sides, then your chin, then your eyes, then over your head, until all you can do is look at the surface above and blink. 

Depression is like having life peeled away from you layer by layer until nothing is left. Wake up one day and there is no literature. The next day music is gone. Then movies disappear, then working, then moving, then talking, until only breathing remains, slow, mechanical breathing.

Depression is like being overcome by an illness, as if a degenerative virus has taken control and sapped the strength of your muscles, then infected your bones, then infiltrated your nerves, and finally seeped into your head so that every part of you is diseased. 

Depression is like becoming a statue. A running animated active body slows down and finally stops. Arms, legs, and mind freeze up. The inner armature stiffens. Movement ceases. A shell forms and hardens until only an effigy remains that is gradually overgrown by vines and bramble. It starts with a slow numbing to the world, a withdrawal, a closing off to pleasure until the mind turns to marble, motion stops, the last spark of optimism is snuffed out, reason is suspended, rigid misery sets in.

Depression is like being a sun that slowly burns itself out, gradually losing the coronal fires, the heat diminishing, the plasma churning less and less every day, cooling to a smoldering ember, the flames snuffing themselves into smoke, and becoming quiet until all that is left is a burnt brown rock that gives no light or warmth, a cold stone floating in limitless space. 

It took time to recover. After the hospital, I went to a two-week out-patient group with other folks also recovering from anxiety or depression. And, a few months after the hospital visit, I was feeling much better. The two drugs they gave me – one for depression, one for psychosis - worked miraculously. The medicine and the realization that I was actually surrounded by people who cared about my welfare set me back on the road to health. The paranoia dissipated. I gained 14 pounds in two weeks. I started reading again. 

I came away with the impression that this could happen to anyone. There's nothing that separates me from the homeless people in the street except a simple exceeded threshold of neurochemicals.

And I received two great gifts from the experience. The obvious one was the realization that I had a wonderful wife, family, and friends who would help me, people I had formerly taken for granted. But the unexpected gift was the experience – because of the anti-psychosis medicine - of becoming a non-creative person for the first time in my life. That encounter with the non-creative worldview was as interesting an experience as the depression and paranoia had been. 

2. My Non-Creative Life

Within a month after starting treatment I had risen from a waking death. I was talking to people, reading, and watching movies again. But the chemical I was ingesting to stave off paranoia had the effect of preventing me from writing stories, composing music, scrawling art, scribbling computer code, building animations, or even thinking creatively. I could ingest the world again while taking the medicine – through books, movies, music, podcasts – but I could not actually produce anything. The portcullis gate had come crashing down. Access to the creative part of my mind had been blocked.

The disease of depression was about closing off inputs. I couldn't read, watch, or listen when depressed. The cure was about re-opening inputs, but closing off outputs. I could take in the world again, but I couldn't write, film, draw, program, or compose. Under the depression, I couldn't take in anything new, but I could still confabulate. Under the cure, I could absorb the world, but I couldn't create any new worlds in my head.

The mechanisms of the brain that allow someone to make up stories in order to become paranoid are the same mechanisms that allow someone to make up stories to write fiction. So, the medicament I took, designed to eliminate the alarming connections of paranoia inside my skull, also eliminated the lyrical connections of story-telling. For the first time in my life I got to feel what it was like to be non-creative.

No more five-new-ideas-before-breakfast. No need to keep a pen and an adding machine scroll of  paper beside the bed to jot down nocturnal inspirations. No more getting up in the middle of the night to write a paragraph that had evolved during the murky half-asleep state. No more days spent in animation development. No more running to the keyboard with a new melody in mind. I stopped composing music. I put aside my novels. I stopped thinking in the way a creator thinks. It was as if half of my mind had been carved away. It was as if I were grounded in the material world for the first time. I began to adopt what I imagine the life experience of most people to be. It was fascinating.

*

I've heard people say, “I don't have a creative bone in my body.” My response to that statement had always been mystification and a shocked wonder at what that must feel like. I thought turning off creativity would be like turning off hunger, joy, or reason. I had experienced exactly that - turning off hunger, joy, and reason - during the depression. But I was still creative then. With depression, I couldn't take in anything new, but I could still confabulate. With treatment, I could absorb the world again, but I couldn't create any new worlds in my head.

This was rather astonishing to me. Ordinarily, I'm only thinly connected to the palpable realm. I live so much inside my own head that the physical world is all but meaningless to me. I eat when I'm hungry. I get cold in the winter. It hurts when I step on sharp rocks in bare feet. But, beyond those links to the realm of atoms and sensation, I don't have much of a relationship to the tangible plain. All of my time is spent with ideas, words, interpretations, interconnections, the embrace of novelty, the prosody of life, everything that is above “the stuff” of existence. I usually live a sort of meta life – in the world, but not of it. For the first time, because of the medicine, I could experience only existence, only “the stuff”.

For a year, I woke up, washed, ate, evacuated, watched movies, chatted with people, watched more movies, poked around in the garden, and slept. Then I got up again the next day and did the same. I had no original thoughts. I wrote nothing. I composed nothing. I invented nothing. I began to wonder if I ever would again. I just walked through life, taking it in, but not putting the pieces together to produce anything new. I responded to the world around me as life happened, but I did nothing more than respond. I thought, “So, this is how other people feel? This is what it's like to not have a creative bone in your body?”

I figured my brain needed time to heal, so I let it heal. And I appreciated experiencing the mental life of an ordinary person. I would not want to live that way forever. But it was restful to live without layers of meaning. Everything was only what it was. I could pick up an orange and think only “orange”. There were no associations, no mental rambling, no blaze of connections, no desire to interpret experience, no wish  to create something new, only the requirement to react to what already existed.

Before I knew it, a year had gone by. I began to taper off the paranoia medicine. And then, one day, I stopped it altogether. The day after stopping, my creative mind switched back on. I returned to my usual state of entertaining 40 ideas at once, all jostling for space in a crowded little wet bone box. 

I'd pick up an orange and review in my head the discovery of sweet oranges in the New World as opposed to the sour oranges from India that Europeans had always known. I'd ponder the differences in the etymology of the word “orange” across all the European languages (many countries refer to it as a Chinese Apple). I'd consider the place the color orange fills on the visible light spectrum, the fact that cats and dogs don't eat the fruit – and don't see the color - because their bodies make their own vitamin C, the use of the peel in cleaning products, the vesicles holding liquid in pouches divided into segments to encourage sloths and mammoths to eat them in Pleistocene America. I'd dwell on the toxic coloring sprayed on the rind by growers who want all the fruit to appear ripe, the carnauba wax coating to seal out air and preserve freshness, our past family experiments with planting the seeds to grow indoor orange trees. And then thoughts would flow to kumquats and other indoor citrus plants we'd grown that were invaded by rancher ants that carried in aphids to suck the sap so the ants could drink their sweet excrement, to the plum curculios attacking the Asian pear trees outside, to the use of chickens to clean the ground of curculios, to ...

It was no longer just “orange” in my head. It was endless layer upon layer of simultaneous meaning. The word itself led in a hundred directions. The idea of the fruit led in a hundred more. The color led to yet another hundred. Everything intertwined. And I could see all the interlacing between the items. It was like looking at fabric that stretched to the horizon: the tapestry of past experiences, the rococo filigree of facts, the warp and woof of book learning, ideas knitted together by other languages, the mesh of mental images, braided databases filled with concepts. And there were countless sheets of this fabric, one of top of the other, each one interwoven with all the others.

With the medicine, an orange was a unitary experience. A thing was only a thing. An idea referred only to itself. A word had one meaning and no connection to any other words. Life was stark and simple.

Without the medicine, it was all a multi-colored rain of associations that poured, spat, gushed, spurt, surged, and inundated the landscape, tumbled, turned into braided streams, cascaded off cliffs, fed tributaries, swelled into rivers, and emptied into an ocean of sensation, memory, abstraction, fact, and imagination. And each raindrop was itself a kaleidoscope, a shifting hologram that held its own image in its separate pieces and recursed back onto itself and then out into the vastness.

Sooner or later, I'm going to long for the simplicity of “orange”. But when the medicine stopped, I leapt aboard ship and began sailing again on a sea of associations. The waves splashed me. I linked together the drops and began inventing things again, spinning stories, tying together melodies, inventing characters and worlds, re-immersing myself in the act of creation. 

Being non-creative meant holding only one thought in my head at a time. Being creative meant having an uncountable number of thoughts and tying them all together to make new thoughts that no one had ever come up with before.

Being non-creative was like listening to one radio station all day. Being creative was like listening to sixty radios at once and making up new songs by dipping into the individual songs being played and selecting out pieces that went together in new compositions.

Being non-creative was like being a lumberjack. I would wake up, see the trees, and cut them down. Being creative was like being both the gardener who plants the acorns and the furniture maker who uses the harvested wood.

Being non-creative meant engaging with the quotidian world on its terms. Being creative meant devising a new world on my own terms.

Being non-creative was like eating and sleeping. Being creative was like having children.

3. The Creative Life

Ride the bus to school and watch the kid drawing manga characters in his notebook. Visit a  grandmother's house and watch her sew a dress for her granddaughter. Observe the people who write stories their whole lives – for no other reason than to write stories. Watch the musicians alone in their rooms experimenting with new guitar riffs, new violins arpeggios, new piano chords, new vocal arrangements. Study the people who, unwilling to wait for a real-world teacher, learn from the internet how to make films, video games, and electronic art.

There are people who dance in their rooms at night, trying out new moves in the mirror. There are people who practice story-telling among friends. There are media artists who can't keep their hands off a new technology, who need to twist it to some artistic purpose as soon as they get their hands on it. There are people who make their own furniture to feel the lines of something that came from their own hands. There are people who blow and spin enough glass ornaments to fill the houses of their relatives. There are people who write the screenplays for the movies they want to act in. Creative people are everywhere. But most of us are invisible to the rest of the world.

*

I am one of millions of people who insert their art forms into the cracks of their daily life. They design and sew their own clothing at night. They compose songs to express their feelings. They draw comics and animations to make the mundane fantastical or the fantastical ordinary. They write books without any audience in mind just to create new worlds. They manipulate photographs because they have the urge to bend reality in a different direction. They fill their closets with water colors because no one will take any more of their paintings. They write fan fiction, invent electronic gadgets, build miniatures, construct robots, act in community theatres, slave over computer programs, and carve decoys, not because they see their obsession as the surest way to get rich, become famous, or entice sexual partners, but because they find a kind of joy and satisfaction in the act of creating that nothing else provides.

I am one of these people – someone who has sat at his sequencer, composing music on a Friday night after work, watching the sun set, dabbling at the keyboard, feeling joy, concentrating, and then looking up to see the sun rising again – so focused on the ecstasy of creation that no memory of time passing remains.

I am one of the people who, while getting paid to write software for financial applications at the state treasury, wrote miniature novels in the comments sections of the computer programs. I would adopt different voices – the cowboy, the cheerleader, the astronaut, the 1940s gangster – and write instructions to fellow programmers in those personae. 

I am one of the people who made up stories for his kids every night – a different story each night,  composed on the fly, weaving details of ordinary life into tales of talking animals and villains who always got their come-uppance.

I am one of the people who carved a wooden Christmas creche using penguins as models instead of people. I am one of the people who made enough money in the stock market one year to quit work and then spent his free time making animations, writing stories, and composing nocturnal jazz until the money ran out. I am one of the people who spent a lifetime choosing jobs, not for the money they brought in, but because they featured a creative element that could be explored. I'm also one of the people who got fired from jobs for being creative instead of political.

I am not famous. You have never heard of me. To the world at large I am invisible. But I am creative. In fact, the vast majority of creative people are invisible. And it's not because they are less talented or less dedicated to their craft than the famous people.

The famous people will certainly claim that talent, hard work, and persistence got them where they are, but there is an enormous amount of serendipity involved in becoming famous that no one talks about. For every famous creative person there are thousands of others with more talent and more dedication who are invisible. They are less pretty than the famous people. They are the wrong color, gender, persuasion, size, age. They live in the wrong place, in cultures that don't value their art, or among non-creatives who are mystified by anyone who spends their time having ideas or perfecting skills that do not lead to money, power, or sexual partners. Does that stop the no-names from being creative? Of course not.

These people are creative in ways that society does not value. But so what? Creativity is its own reward.

[lambourngb]

Day 3 of ... meh.

Thinking about choices again. Script draft versus shooting script. Limited time to fit 3 or 4 plots into 43 minutes. What gets cut? Sure sacrifices are made. It makes what stays important. And yeah this show isn’t subtle. It’s usually one of the things I like best about it.

Still feeling some salt here about 2x06 so- under the cut this goes....

This is not about the Airstream scene. And it is about the Airstream scene.

The conversation Maria and Alex have in the car about Alex’s experiences with relationships and love was obviously included for a reason (since she kisses him later) and it’s to give cover to Alex’s comfort with her touching him as being something he associates with love and care. But how they got there? The cute game they play on the hour long drive.  I just fucking side eye this question.

“Never have I ever cheated on someone that I was in a relationship with..?”

I googled “Never Have I Ever” questions with the tag “Relationships” - one website listed about 26 other questions she could have asked that would have still lead to Alex saying he’s never been in a real relationship. So why that question?

It just feels uncomfortably like a test. She’s still mad at Michael but she knows she’s going to forgive him. She wants to take Michael back she’s just making him work for it (ignores his call). Michael off-screen has been calling and texting her apologies and explanations (the bitter conversation he has with Max about Cameron not reaching out- that Max is better off not hearing from Jenna made me think that Maria has returning those texts but not with ‘oh I need time’ but more ‘you’re an asshole- I’m not ready to forgive you’) 

So back to the questions- She wants to know a few things here about Alex in relation to her and Michael- I do love their friendship, I’ve been team Maria & Alex BFFs in the past, so I get the narrative reason for asking if Alex will back away from their friendship when she forgives Michael and starts to date him again.

What I don’t get is why she wants to know Alex’s feelings on infidelity. Why was that question important to the narrative? It feels like it ties into her question to Michael the next morning, “Aren’t you going to go after him?” And sorry, if I find comfort in Tyler and Vlamis’s press about the state of the show, I’m going to give weight to Heather’s interview about Maria’s insecurity being part of her motive in initiating the threesome.

If Michael strays, it feels like to me she wants to know that Alex will shut that down. That narrative choice with an openly bisexual man- I don’t know, it does not spark joy.

So I think this is going to be the last salty post because I am tired. I have read all of the YAY posts about 2x06, and I still can’t get there myself in this narrative, so I’m just going to ignore this- the Malex and Miluca content of this episode- I really loved the Echo stuff, Isobel and Kyle, I’m still lukewarm about Forrest etc.

I need this show as my hyper-fixation-  My mom has dementia, my horse has cancer, my chronic nerve pain is more chronic these days, I had to cancel my 40th birthday trip to Iceland, my contact with my real life friends is limited with this virus (but even if it wasn’t my best friend got married, got busy and then just moved from living a block away to 54 miles away)... 2020 has been asking me to give things up, and I don’t have anything left to give. So I’m keeping the show and I’m working on deleting my memory of the Airstream stuff.

[sterekangstgoblin]

Dr. Derek Hale is new to Beacon Hills Pediatrics Hospital. He’s an oncologist. He kind of fell into it while he was in med school. He’s finally out of his residency and returns home to Beacon Hills. This is where he meets Heather Stilinski, an 8 year old with leukemia.  She’s a ball of fucking sunshine, even with the tube in her noes and a shaved head under her beanies.

Her dad isn’t bad either. He saunters into the ward wearing that ungodly fitted Sheriff’s uniform, head shaved to match his daughter which makes him look way younger than he really is. He’s just as lively as Heather, and they laugh and play in the room that is decorated very sweetly with paper flowers and fairy lights. Dr. Derek can’t help but admire the sheriff and his daughter, but Heather is getting sicker and has stopped responding to treatment.

And Derek is tasked with telling him. One day, while Heather is sleeping, and the Sheriff tells Dr. Derek that Heather’s mom walked out the day Heather was diagnosed when she was 3, Stiles lost his mom 20 years ago, and his dad is in the early stages of dementia. His job is overwhelming and all he has is his kid, if Derek has bad news, he doesn’t want to hear it.

So Derek doesn’t, instead he suggests taking Heather home. He gives Stiles his personal phone number and a series of prescriptions to lessen her pain. Derek doesn’t say as much, but Stiles knows, Heather has been weaker for weeks, and has admitted to him quietly that she knows.

Heather and Stiles go home. Stiles takes a sabbatical from work, John is happy to have his granddaughter home. The toll of taking care of Heather and John becomes too much one night and he calls Derek over for help. Derek comes immediately, and helps take care of Heather while Stiles talks to his dad after a painful bought memory loss. Stiles puts his dad and Heather to bed, and just as Derek is getting ready to leave, Stiles invites him to stay for a beer.

Derek does. Queue a very, very hasty fuck.

Then suddenly, Derek is around all the time. Much to Heather’s delight, John’s confusion, and Stiles’ annoyance. Derek really does mean well, but as Heather starts to get worse, and John just doesn’t get it. Stiles finds Derek’s presence intrusive and very disruptive to his idea of spending the last few weeks of his daughter's life with his daughter. John needs more and more of his attention and Stiles gets very jealous that Heather wants to spend more and more time with Derek.

One night, when Stiles and Derek are left after John and Heather are put to bed, and Stiles blows the fuck up at Derek because he’s so full of guilt and anger and frustration and grief. He hasn’t had a time or a moment to really think process so he yells and screams at Derek. Stiles turns red in the face while telling Derek that he’s trying to steal his kid, and that it was just a quick fuck and Derek doesn’t mean shit to him, that he has so many other things going on in his life and Derek’s an idiot for thinking that Stiles could find time for him. LIIKE poor fucking Derek just stands there and takes it. Derek just backs off. He walks out of the house and says he won’t come back.

Immediately, Stiles feels bad. He knows he was just letting out a bunch of pent up anger and emotions. He goes and curls up in Heather’s bed, stroking her buzzed head, and tearing up because he suddenly realizes that Derek was a huge joy in his life when there seemed to be nothing good happening.

Then the next morning Heather asks where Derek is, and Stiles tells her he messed up and that he’s probably not coming back. Heather is really bummed. She also isn’t looking good and within a week she’s deteriorating and Stiles takes her back to the hospital. So naturally he runs into Derek, and apologizes, and admits that he’s going through a lot.

Sties gets Melissa to watch his dad, as he once again sets up home in the chair in Heather’s room.

Heather dies on a Tuesday. Stiles wakes up to someone -Derek- rushing into the room. It’s too late though, all her machines are devoid of information. Stiles bawls. He yells, screams. Derek stays in the room and even pulls Stiles into a hug. They come and take Heather, her tiny body suddenly looks so much smaller and Stiles loses it all again. Derek takes him home. Stiles just goes to bed and locks himself in his room. Derek kind of moves in, he helps as much as he can, organizing Heather’s funeral and memorial. He helps Stiles take care of John, and explains over and over again to John where Heather is every time he asks.

Derek goes to Heather’s funeral with Stiles and John, he meets Heather’s mom, a woman named Christina.

Stiles is consumed by grief and finds comfort in Derek in his bed every night.

Then somehow, Derek admits to Stiles that he loves him. Maybe in a quiet moment after he thinks Stiles is asleep. The next morning Stiles asks Derek to leave, again. Because he himself is suddenly terrified to bring someone new into his fucked up life. Like his dad is getting worse faster than the doctor’s can explain. Except this time, Derek isn’t allowing it. Instead, he tells Stiles how much Heather meant to him as a doctor, and how much Stiles means to him as a man. Derek tells him how much he has lost in his own life, his family, and that for the first time Stiles has brought him hope and home in a way he hasn’t had in so long.

Stiles suddenly feels like an ass and admits to Derek that he might love him too but thought it was very fucked of him as a person to fall in love with a child who died and a dad who is getting worse by the day. Derek doesn’t know how to reassure or help him, so instead he pulls him into a hug and says they’ll figure it out together.  

Maybe a year later, Stiles is selling the house, moving his dad into a full time assisted living home, and into Derek’s apartment. Most of Heather’s stuff is coming with him and into a spare bedroom Derek has, because he still can’t deal with parting with the clothes that still smell like her.

Another year later, Derek asks Stiles to marry him. Stiles says no, not because he doesn’t absolutely love Derek, but he just doesn’t want to be married again.

Stiles’ dad dies. Derek gets promoted to chief of medicine. Stiles is still sheriff.

They go to the cemetery often. Stiles to see his mom, Heather, his father. Derek to see his family. Life goes on, but not without a huge Heather shaped hole in both their hearts that won’t be filled.

[artificialqueens]

And So We Run ch.14 - Traumathicc

A/N: I went crazy went stupid and wrote an entire chapter in one evening! It’s time to go back to misery town,,, yay,,, have fun!

Coco has been searching for over an hour but Violet, Fame and Darienne are nowhere to be found. They were supposed to meet up in a clearing close to the cornucopia before sunset. Now it’s pitch black, and still nothing.

Tears are flowing down Coco’s face as she jogs through the terrain. She’s scared. Scared and alone. She knew this would be painful but being abandoned in a place where you can barely see half a foot in front of you is a different kind of torture.

She wants to go home. She just wants to go home.

The sound of running water makes Coco stop in her tracks. She must be near a stream, or maybe even a small river-

Her thoughts are cut off by an ear-splitting scream. Coco’s anxiety is pushed over the edge as she starts screaming too, pulling her gun out and shooting blindly into the darkness.

She doesn’t stop until she feels something heavy hitting the side of her skull.

—————————————————————-

Willam chokes back a sob as she searches for the strangers pulse. Didn’t she want someone to do this to her? The girl could’ve lived, and she could’ve been free.

She supposes she could still do one of those things. Plus, she has to atone for her actions. Two birds with one stone.

Carefully, she takes the still smoking gun out of the girl’s grip.

Willam lets out another scream as she realizes the magazine is empty.

—————————————————————

Katya lets out another breath through clenched teeth, creating a noise not too far off from a snake hissing. She knows only her arm and maybe some ribs are damaged, but it feels like her entire right side has been set on fire and sprinkled with salt.

She doesn’t cry because the tears have stopped coming when she attempts to do so. Instead her entire face just tightens up, creating a mask of dull aching.

She takes a breath again. *hisssssss*

Does she hate Roxxxy for doing this to her? To be honest, not really. They both did what they had to do to protect the people they cared about, be it their loved ones or innocent strangers just trying to get food. But couldn’t she just have killed her? Katya supposes Roxxxy wanted her to die slowly and painfully.

Well, it looks like she’s getting her wish. Good for her, Katya guesses.

*hisssss-ssss*

Her breath hitches and sends a stab of pain down Katya’s torso. Her throat is so dry, it borders on numb. Of course, Roxxxy had to take her water… and all her other supplies… a dry chuckle escapes Katya’s mouth. It hurts like a bitch, but the fact that she sounds like an old lady with every type of cancer possible causes her to laugh even more.

“At least I die of this and not, like, dementia…” She croaks to herself. “I go out with my sense of humor intact!”

Also, not having a right hand anymore has got to be the strangest and most unsettling feeling Katya’s ever felt in all her 17 years on this earth. It’s like the pain just stops, right where it hurts the most. Then it’s just… invisible? Katya can’t put her finger on it quite yet.

Heh. Finger.

If there’s one thing Katya is mad at Roxxxy for, however, it’s that out of every weapon she was carrying, she had to use that knife to do the deed? Unlike Alaska, Katya’s no expert, but you didn’t need super special high district assassin knowledge to see that that knife was special. And they just… Took it from Sharon without a second thought? And then-

Nope, not doing that right now. It’s good to process emotions, sure, especially ones tied to grief, but Katya would prefer it if her last thoughts weren’t of that one time when her friend was killed with her own weapon.

Friend… At least some good things happened to her here. She got to know Trixie better, someone she’d been watching from afar for as long as she could remember, but never had the courage to approach until they were selected as partners. It wasn’t just Trixie either. Sharon, Fame, Coco, Violet, Jade, Max and Darienne had all brought so much joy into the last month of her life. Even the ones she didn’t know that well, like Adore and Willam. She does hope Willam is doing okay now, seeing as Katya had left her pretty disheveled during their last encounter.

Well, it’s not like they can get any more even than this. Plus, Adore is with her.

She’ll be fine.

Katya smiles to herself as she drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

And as the sun rises the following morning, she is still sleeping.

[fandom-wars-imagine-blog]

How it would be if after confessing their feelings and being rejected by Black Hat or White Hat, S/O starts suffering Hanahaki disease and no matter what it’s only becoming worse and worse?

(Oh man, first angsty ask for me.

Wish me luck.

I hope you like it ^^’ 

In my version of the disease, when the person does the surgery to remove the flowers, they feel nothing at all after it. They will not lose their memory about their loved one, but they will not feel love for them or for another person ever again, in fact, they’ll feel nothing, no joy, no sadness, no anger, nothing.)

Black Hat: 

You were already expecting your love for Black Hat to be one-sided. Even when you told him, he scolded you for feeling such gross and useless thing. You can’t defeat heroes or sell massive amounts of gadgets for villains with such feeling called “love”. Of course you would be rejected, foolish human. Go feel that freaky way with someone else, or better, don’t feel it at all. 

After all, you are simply his employee, a person that is Flug’s assistant, you are in a lower level than Flug - not that is hard to be, but - and Black Hat is a powerful eldritch maybe as older as the universe itself, a demanding being how cannot feel love or any compassion at all. What were your heart and soul thinking?

You are not sad, you are not dying and crying your eyes out because the person you still have a crush on rejected you, you just feel….strange. You can’t forget him, he keeps that place in your mind that still somehow having hope occupied. But at the same time, you have the notion that no means no and your boss will never like you the same way you do, so you just have to…forget about it, this is just momentary winds.

Well, at least you thought you were not dying for it…

Some days later, you started to feel a nuisance in your lungs and heart, nothing to be worried about, just a little annoyed, so you just convinced yourself that it would stop…until you cough up a withered peony’s petal.  Black Hat’s favorite flower, for what you could tell until now.

Yes, a petal, a petal just came out of your body.

At first you thought it was “normal”, Dementia does every type of shit you can think about, she could have just made you eat a dead flower in your sleep, however, more petals made their way out of your body through a cough attack. They are way more than just from one flower! Your lungs feel tired and the nuisance increases to real pain, something to be concerned about.

What the fuck is happening??

After this episode, you surfed on the internet to try to find what could be the reason behind this mysterious flower petals coming out through your throat and found something very interesting but very dangerous for what you read: Hanahaki disease.

It can be caught when someone loves another, it starts small with little nuisances in your lungs and small petals coming out your body through your mouth. Then the petals start growing into full bloomed flowers, occupying the space in your lungs for air and being coughed entirely with your blood. In the end, the flowers start being too many, developing into full bouquets and it only stops when the victims die suffocating in their own blood and internal mortal garden. It can only be cured if the person the victim loves love them too in the same strong passion.

…Oh man, you are so fucked, aren’t you?

There’s another way to stop this ill madness, doing the surgery, but that would make you completely empty, not feeling any type of emotion whatsoever, for him or for any other person. You would be just a human shell and you’re planning to die from your own unrequited love than leaving emotionless for the rest of your life.

But seems that destiny has other plans…

One day, you were working with Flug, planning and drawing some blueprints, when a cough attack made its way to your throat. Your head was rounded by “Oh no, not now” and you spun on your chair to not mess up the papers. Sooner than later, two whole dead peonies escaped your mouth together with drops of blood that came after. You made hold of your lungs, trying to control your inner torture with no avail, and all of the sudden, you remembered.

Flug stills in the lab.

You looked at him, taking the impressive note that even with that bag in his head, you could understand how shocked he was. Your lungs ached and you felt that every plump of your blood was like a spine right in your heart, but that didn’t stop your body from expelling another flower. This time, Flug came to help you, holding your hair and back. Another dead flower was on the floor and you finally stopped, leaning against the back of the chair.

You breathed heavily, the foul taste of blood and rotten flowers stayed on your mouth, you didn’t deserve this…

Flug sat next to you, he was clearly disturbed by what he saw. His leg didn’t stop moving and his fingers moved frenetically against each other.

“That’s Hanahaki disease, right?”

“…It is.”

For such a curious and researcher person like Flug, he didn’t demonstrate any fascination or enthusiasm for what he saw in front of him. Instead, he looked unsettled, worried even. And now that you think about, for a person that knows what’s this disease is about, you would be perturbed if you saw someone coughing flowers too.

He asked if you already told the person you love about your feelings. Just to think about Black Hat made your heart tighten, like his clawed hands clasping at your organ and squeeze it until all the blood is out of your ventricles. Another fit of coughing arises, but nothing came out this time, just the faint taste of metal in your mouth. You hoarse voice and hot breaths didn’t help at all this situation.

“Yes, but he doesn’t like me the same way. It was expected of our boss anyway.”

You laughed sadly at Flug who didn’t make a single noise, just looked at you emotionless. Why are you laughing? Don’t you understand that you are dying?? Why didn’t you told him sooner?! What if one day is too late and he finds your lifeless body on the floor surrounded by bloody flowers?? Do you want to die so pathetically for Black Hat when he wouldn’t do the same for you? Do you want to die at all?

Flug stood up and exited the lab, leaving you alone with the deadly butterflies in your stomach.

On the next day, you already woke up with the gentle screams of anger from your boss at your room’s door. “GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED AND COME TO MY OFFICE NOW” yelled him.

Ish, this is going to be a good day.

You got your “ass out of bed” like he demanded and dressed up, going to his office right away. When you arrived, he seemed calmer, at least enough to not make your ears ring every time he spoke. To your surprise, or not, he talked about the flowers episode that happened to you and Flug.

“The doctor told me there’s a surgery you could do to cure that “hanaki” disease and I want you to do it right away. The last thing I need right now is my employees dying.“

The office went cooler at his words, the dark shadows engulfed the light air, making it heavy and almost unbreathable. Your stomach tied itself in anguish and you could swear the stem of one of the peonies just grown 5 meters (16′ 5″ ft) and winded itself around your trachea. You tried to resonate with him, but he only scolded you for such an idiotic decision. Die for love? This world is for the strong, the ones that would double-cross their own mother to have what they want, not for the weak and fragile porcelain dolls like you. And if you want to die so badly, why do you still here?

It crossed your mind two possible options: you could have a slow and painful death by drowning in your own blood by stupid flowers if you refuse the surgery, or you could have a slow and painful death by the hands of your boss while he strangles you and breaks your pharynx with those daggers he calls claws if you run out of the office. So you did what seemed a better option right now.

Run.

But your plan was short-lived, as Flug was right behind the doors. Before you could even react, you feel a sharp pain on the side of your neck and fall limp on the wooden floor, losing conscience. Flug cleans the remains of the tranquilizer with his lab coat, putting the syringe inside of one of the pockets.

You woke up on a hospital bed, feeling no longer the ache and squeezing in your chest, in fact, you felt no flowers at all inside you anymore. It looks like the surgery went well and you don’t have Hanahaki disease anymore. However, you don’t feel relieved. You don’t feel joy. You don’t feel at all. 

You knew what the surgery could bring, yet they made you do it without your consent. You could no longer be happy for playing with 5.0.5, you could no longer feel sad for hearing your father crying through the phone, you no longer feel angry with Dementia for breaking up your picture frame or even feel afraid when Black Hat threatens you to cut your head off. You will no longer be able of feeling. But you are not sad about it, actually, you are…indifferent about it.

At least…you don’t feel the painful butterflies in your stomach anymore.

Now Black Hat? Lord Black Hat is very happy with the side effect this surgery brings. Having such a cold being, even more than himself, as an employee? Can you imagine the millions of possibilities he has now with you? He can demand everything he wants from you without you expecting something in exchange. He can experiment on you, give you every kind of power his powerful brain thinks of, mold you in his very shape. He can have a real decent employee who doesn’t let him tearing his skin off in desperation for how every being in this nasty planet is extremely stupid and incompetent. Heck, he can even have you being as evil as him! A heartless villain destroying the buildings of concrete and the insignificant lives of every enemy who even dares to talk back. Oh yes, so many good, great possibilities…

Who knew that having someone falling in love with you could actually have their advantages.

White Hat: 

You know Mister White Hat since you were a teenage girl wanting to be a famous hero, like the ones you see on the sticker albums! You wanted to do much to help people in distress, to save the day and in the end, have all those reporters’ cameras pointed at you while everyone in the background screams your name in full lungs! You even trained your fabulous signature! 

And your homemade suit had more glitter than the backpack of a 9-year-old with an obsession in rainbow unicorns…

You parents did not fully agree with your…wanted future. Is not that they didn’t want you to follow your dream, is that…you couldn’t even save the neighbor’s cat without breaking your arm while climbing on the tree, imagine trying to save a whole crowd of people of some structure in flames. No, out of question.

You, in fact, didn’t born to be a superhero, but no one could take that crazy idea out of your head. Even when your parents tried to resonate with you and maybe convince you to think about another possible to accomplish dream, it seemed that your love for them decreased a little more, and they didn’t want that, oh no, not all. So, they saw themselves stuck in the corner with a way too ambitious child and a worried sickness that increased everytime the sun raised. Unless…

White Hat never took requests to try to convince a teenager in not taking the hero’s path, it surprised him how two parents in that city, where basically everyone would die to their child be a hero, wanted theirs to give up on their dream. In fact, White hat never took care of any human in whatever circumstance you can think about, with Slug and Clemencia the things in the mansion get even more ridiculous, so trusting a teenager in his hands was something completely new.

White Hat could have declined, saying that there was no need of convincing you otherwise of being a hero, but how could he say no? The desperate look in your parents’ faces was already enough, and more than that, your father was a soldier, a man who would give his own life to his country. White Hat would never deny a favor to him because not all heroes use capes, y'know.

However, White Hat wouldn’t try to convince you to not be a hero, but encourage and train you to follow that dream and seize it with nails and teeth. What an idiotic thing, not wanting their child to be the savior of many in this city of crime. After all, everyone can be a hero if they work hard enough! It’s not like the rule doesn’t apply to you!

Oh, how wrong he was.

My goodness, how can you be such a disgrace?? Now he understands why your parents didn’t want this for you! How can a person hurt themselves so badly just climbing on a single lamp street?? No, correction: how can a person hurt themselves so badly with anything??

There are clumsy heroes for sure, but they overcame their difficulties with lots of training. Now you? You are a lost cause! He never saw something like this! One thing is training to overcome that clumsiness, which is possible, and another thing is BEING LAZY TO TRAIN AND INSTEAD TAKE PHOTOS IN THE MIRROR!

Maybe there was the possibility of making you a hero’s assistant, as not even them can do everything at the same time in their lives when they are saving the world. But that is out of the question, one week in the lab and you almost blew it up. 

He never saw Slug so angry, ish.

One day, White Hat was stressing out about what to do with you. His plan to train you to be a great hero got down the bar and he didn’t as requested by your parents convinced you giving up on that dream. What was he going to tell them? That maybe he just made that dream even stronger and now you are completely impossible to endure? Oh heavens…

But then…turning around the corner…there were you, talking with another hero, helping them with their problem. And rather well, he must say! He wouldn’t have said better than you did!

Sometimes even heroes have their problems, sometimes they need some advice about what to do in certain occasions or they are not just so sure that this is their path, so White Hat decided to give them a help, to talk with them for a while and possibly uncover a solution to every situation. They just have to call and make an appointment. But it seems you have stolen his job without his knowledge! What a puck you are!

But…maybe he has found the solution to his own problem.

Within a short time, he convinced and showed you that you could be a hero in a different manner than you rather expected, but it was surely better than going to kill yourself slowly in the streets.

Soon, you learned that heroism is not about fame and celebrities, is about helping others and give the best of you every day. What a childish teenager you were, with your head always in the clouds. Not all heroes hear capes and you find your own way to be a hero to others without all the mess. You are now a heroes’ counselor, the best job you could have asked for in your whole 25 years of life.

Your parents are so proud of you, as is mister White Hat, even if you have to ear it every day to know. 

But you crush was starting to bloom stronger than ever, you couldn’t deny your feelings anymore for your own counselor and friend for the last 8 years. You heart swoll and you felt the urge to puke your own organs everytime you saw him, something was there and you knew it. Now you just had to…cross your fingers and tell him. 

But things don’t go the way we want…and it seems he doesn’t feel the same for you. It hurt as hell even if he tried to be as gently as he could with the news, like he was ripping out your soul from your chest. However, you swole it up like a big adult and smiled your pain, telling him it was okay.

You feet very disappointed and sad with the whole thing, stupid that those feeling appeared to you and you fell right into their evil spell. White’s an eldritch, he can’t feel love even if he wanted. You were just…a big and naive child again.

Then it came…a Black-eyed Susan’s petal out of your mouth while coughing. 

Hanahaki disease. You know about its existence, but never thought you would have it on a single moment in your entire life. But things come when you less expect, don’t they? And now, even if your life’s walls had succumbed around you, you’re going to take it like a hero’s shield and die drowning in the pain of your own love.

You don’t want anyone to see your miserable state, especially White Hat, so you lie and tell that you need a little vacation from your hard work, that even who helps others with their problems need to solve their own too. Everyone agrees and respects your decision because who wouldn’t need a vacation every once in a while?

In that way, begins your isolation from the world, waiting for your sweet death come and lull you to sleep rather harshly. Most of your days you spend in your bed, looking at the ceiling while dreaming wake about the beautiful family you could have created. 

The illness gets worse day by day, you feel like ripping your lungs out and your throat is very hoarse, like someone is scratching it mercilessly. Soon enough you are expelling full Black-eyed Susans through your own mouth. They come bloodied but so beautiful in their mortal ability. You don’t want those flowers to just die on your house’s floor, so you have a great idea about what to do with them.  

Giving a gift expressing your eternal love and gratefulness, you clean the flowers and give a whole bouquet to White Hat. You should have seen him, how his eye shone seeing such a gift. Everyone remembers him to ask for help but no one ever offers him something with gratitude for it. So you decide to give him the best of the gifts you can give now, the flowers that will be your death, the ones that came from your aching heart for his unrequited love. He seemed so happy at seeing you, he accepted the flowers with great joy, saying that it was not necessary, but you know that the joy he will always feel is not the same joy that you feel while you are alive. But you took it, holding it tight in your memory. 

Without coughing a single time, or even taking off that smile on your face, you exited the mansion, going to the mortuary that would be your home sweet home.  

It was a surprise when your neighbors found you dead in your own bed. It seems that you died suffocating in your own sleep. Bloodied flowers were all over the room and a whole bouquet seemed to be doing its way out, covering your whole mouth. Possibly the cause of death.

White Hat got shocked at the news. You? Dead? But…how?? It pits him how you died in such cruel conditions. He can’t imagine dying while suffocating in his own blood. 

Seems like you had some type of unknown disease that made flowers grow in your insides. How? How’s that even possible for a human?? He knows that some diseases can be really cruel but…flowers…such an ironic way to die. 

You died for something called “Hanahaki disease”. It was the first time  White Hat had ever heard of something so dangerous yet so outstanding, but when we heard the cures…everything became so clear.

You died because of him, because of your love not being the same love that White feels for you, a friendly, pure love. He knows that it’s not his fault that he doesn’t feel the same, he’s an eldritch after all, such feelings can’t be acquired for him, but why didn’t you take the surgery? Why did you let yourself die in his loose fictional grasp? He can’t help it, he feels that it’s his fault, that he should have known in the first place. He could have helped you or at least be there for you. 

The whole city is mourning. They lost a great figure recently, a figured who help them as a friend and as a hero themselves, showing that not even the strongest people are exempt from problems. They hope that someone like you will rise again and you will be watching all your cared people from above, protecting them with your angelic wings. 

White Hat took care of everything in your funeral, as he himself was the one who lost more. He lost more than a friend, a person who he saw growing as a person and that helped the others grow too, despite their difficulties and all strings holding them down. You are now happy, you are with your precious parent who will surely hold you in golden tears. 

No flowers are allowed on your tombstone or in your grave. No way White Hat is going to let your death cause haunt you in your eternal, peaceful sleep. 

Every six months, White goes to the cemetery visit you, putting one of his belongings near your tombstone. Who had guessed that after your death, he would finally love you too.  

- mod sheep

[popwasabi]

Remembering My Hero, Robin Williams, Five Years Later

Not terribly long ago I used to deride others for feeling sad in the wake of a famous celebrity’s death.

My argument would go something like in the grand scheme of things their deaths “didn’t matter” when compared to various other atrocities and terrible, tragic things going on in the world. I even wrote an entire opinion piece poo-pooing the general populace for being sad in the wake of Whitney Houston’s death waaay back in 2012 for my University paper back in the day all largely because since I didn’t feel anything no one else should essentially.

Then Robin Williams died.

Well, more accurately Robin Williams committed suicide then everything changed for me.

To this day, I can’t recall a single death that has affected or beat me down more than this famous, larger than life comedian’s all too early passing and it still eats me up every time I think about it even five years later. You see, Robin was something of a hero of mine, an uber talented and charismatic funny man who seemed to perform his comedy with the kinetic energy of a hurricane and his humor often brightened my darkest moments growing up.

For him to die the way he did was beyond devastating for me.

Every 90s kid grew up on his various memorable performances. Whether it was “Aladdin” as the Genie, Peter Pan in “Hook” or masquerading as a nannie to win his family back in “Mrs. Doubtfire” we all had one performance that made us all fans early on.

(For some reason I always remember “Flubber” first though haha)

I didn’t start to truly appreciate him though until high school when I discovered his comic stand-up routines from his earlier years. 

Despite not growing up in 70s or 80s his humor was nonetheless electric, unlike any previous comic I had seen up until that point and his impressions of Ronald Reagan, Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon are still among my favorites. Live at the Met is an all-time favorite comic stand-up performance and much later Live on Broadway still has one of the greatest closing jokes ever:

(”Harder than Chinese Algebra” is definitely a line I’ve used in my college years)

What I loved most about his performances was that he could be boisterous and sincere at the same time. Being both genuine and vulgar simultaneously and in the best way. Weave bizarre character references into personal tales of his own life. Tell a multitude of hilarious stories and references at 100 miles a minute like a comedic roller-coaster ride that lasted the duration of his performances and you never wanted to get off it. It’s true when Time Magazine referred to his comedy as something all comedians loved and respected but could never in a million years duplicate. Robin was a one of a kind talent, the penultimate original, and fans loved him for it.

Robin did his performances with such natural gusto and spontaneous hilarity that it might shock you to know he always wrote virtually every line of his stand-ups before his performances. To bring that humor to life with such infectious joy takes real talent and no one can ever deny Robin was one of the best if not the best at it.

The remarkable thing is on top of his stand-up the dude was an all-time great actor on top of that displaying ranges from as absurd as “Death to Smoochie”  and “World’s Greatest Dad” to as sensitive and thought provoking as “Good Will Hunting” and “Dead Poet’s Society.” Robin wasn’t afraid to show a darker side either in famous roles such as “Insomnia” and “One Hour Photo.” His range was simply amazing.

(Personally my favorite^)

Like many high-schoolers, I was angsty teenager prone to hormonal anger and twitches, depressed I couldn’t score girls and that I wasn’t popular but at the end of the day I always had Robin to cheer me up. 

As I became more and more a fan I’d read more into his life learning I actually had quite a few things in common with the famous funny man from a love of all things sci-fi including even anime and Warhammer to a deep appreciation of video games as he famously named his daughter Zelda after the titular Nintendo princess of the same name.

He was not just a comedian to me; he was one of us. America’s favorite funny, semi-secretly nerdy uncle and I loved him for it.

(The sweetest Nintendo commercial ever. #uglycrying)

I would carry my love of this magnificent comedian into college where I would routinely re-listen to his greatest hits when I was at my lowest of lows and boy did I have plenty of them during this period of my life and many of them revolved around suicide.

For reasons that are too personal to expand on, I had a friend who I was close with early in college who had some deep mental health and abandonment issues. She would constantly fear the worst out of others’ intentions and whether I would stick around with her to help her through it all in life. This put a heavy drain on myself and eventually it broke me enough to just attempt to cut her out of my life.

So, she threatened to kill herself when that happened.

If you’ve never tried talking someone down out of suicide before it is by far the scariest thing I have ever had to do and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. To try to reason with someone who is convinced that their life is meaningless that no one cares about them that they are better off dead than alive is unlike any terror I’ve ever experienced. What scared me the most was what I would do with myself if I failed to talk her down. Could I live with myself if I couldn’t do enough to save this person? Is the blood on my hands too since it was my actions that drove her to this point?

Well, long story short, I did succeed in talking her down but it left a tremendous mark on my soul that I don’t think I’ll ever forget (it also would not be the last time this would happen). I did eventually move on from this person (for both our sakes) but the depression it left within in me still stings.

There are limits to emotional dependency that we should all understand and in my need to fix everything for those I cared about I started not to care about myself and it damn near killed me. You should always try to feel empathy and help those who are need but you can’t forget about yourself in this regard because it will destroy you too. Painfully and slowly.

That semester I listened to probably more Robin Williams than I ever had in the past. His humor keeping me from being an unfeeling zombie and my mind from breaking from the stress of that year (there were other events that compounded what was going on.) Robin kept me going, kept me laughing in a period I didn’t have a lot to feel joyful about and I’ll always be grateful to him for that.

Then a few years later, as well know now, on August 11, 2014 Robin took his own life.

Like most everyone else I was shocked, distraught, and in total disbelief. How could a man who had seemingly endless joy and lived by all measures a far more successful life than most people ever would feel the need to kill himself? 

It was tragic beyond comprehension.

The aftermath of course was an outpouring of love and support to the Williams family particularly his children but there was also the detractors as well. People who denounced him as some sort of coward for taking his own life, Christian zealots who believed he was rotting in hell for his sin and all matter of bad takes regarding him being too privileged to be depressed. It was infuriating and broke my heart all at once. Here was a man who more than most probably deserved a happy ending, dead by his own hands and now subjected to dumb moronic statements by people who probably will never understand what depression does to someone.

You’d would only need to a modest amount of research to understand where Robin’s depression could come from though. Despite growing up in an affluent household his father and mother were rarely there with him, raised practically by the maids in his household and by himself most of his childhood. He had survivor’s guilt for being in the same room John Belushi died in many decades prior (which would become a wake-up call for his own drug addictions). Also, he was great friends with the late Christopher Reeves who went to school with him Julliard and that shouldn’t require too much explaining there.

(Personal pain never stopped Robin from lampooning himself of course)

But the real death knell probably came at the end when months prior Robin’s suicide he was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia Association and early stages of Parkinson’s disease. Now anyone being diagnosed with these conditions would be devastating by itself but if you frame it in the mind of Robin Williams, a man who’s comedy and charm relies almost entirely on spontaneous-ness, extreme attention to detail and constant joy this is like losing the very thing that made you who are, what people love you for; your core identity. 

Robin was no longer going to be Robin.

I’m not asking people to like suicide or accept every instance of it but people should try to understand why and not judge others for it. Sometimes the demons are just too strong and we can’t fault others especially a mind as crippled as Robin’s was at the end.

If there’s one positive that came out of Robin’s suicide, it’s that the conversation on depression and mental health has notably shifted since that time. In the years since, it’s more acceptable now to feel sad no matter what your background is; you didn’t need to be a coal miner with black lung or a soldier with PSTD to be acceptably depressed anymore (and no, before any of you start I’m not judging those people). Athletes and celebrities alike such as Demar Derozan, Ryan Reynolds, Serena Williams, and Chris Evans have all come out about their own personal struggles with their inner demons. It’s now okay more than ever to feel inadequate even if on paper you have ever reason not to feel that way.

Though society hasn’t become completely understanding of mental health issues yet society is still a lot more open about it than it was before at least. It’s not a silver lining, don’t make that mistake with what I’m saying, but it’s comforting in a strange way knowing that even in death Robin can inspire positivity.

It’s a shame and tragic that Robin didn’t get age gracefully into his twilight years and given the current state of the country and the world as a whole we could definitely use that trademark wit to lampoon our reality right now but I’m glad that Robin helped keep me going in my most formative years.

(I mean seriously though, could you imagine Robin getting a crack at this motherfucker today on stage?)

It’s not hyperbole to call Robin Williams one of the greatest entertainers of all-time and though his time in this world was cut short by his own hand he has still left an indelible mark on myself, his fans and the rest of the world. Depression and mental health is a fact of life, generally speaking all of us will struggle with it at some point but if we can get help early and not be afraid to ask for it or even cry for it then maybe the world won’t feel so dark for us all.

So please, let’s all remember to take care of ourselves whether that’s seeking friends or professional guidance. There is strength in sadness, power in grief and love when you are lonely. You owe it to yourself to seek help and trust me, there’ll be arms open to bring you in.

Because you matter.

Thanks, Captain.

[lavendermenaceart]

Atlas Touch

Summary: Spencer never thought the universe held him in high favor. Trauma after trauma stacked on top of him as the years went by. He fears he’s reaching a dark place he’ll never recover from. 2,324 words.

Warnings: Angst, trauma, Knives, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of suicidal ideation and death, etc. It gets fluffy!

Pairing: ReaderxSpencer Reid

A/N: This was a request from @allmyawesomeness Enjoy! Here’s the song this is based off of

When will I feel this as vivid as it truly is

Spencer Reid remembered almost every second of his life in vivid images. He remembered every word he ever read, every face he’d ever seen, every motel and hotel he had been in. Spencer Reid remembered every kick, every punch, every second spent bound and tied. He remembered every moment even when he was high out of his mind on Dilaudid. He remembered every gun, knife, and any other weapons that had been pointed at him, used on him, or someone he loved.

Fall in love in a single touch

And fall apart when it hurts too much

He remembered the exact face the love of his life made as the bullet ripped through her brain. He remembered the tearful smile on her face, and the fear trying to hide in the depths of her eyes. He remembered trying not to recount exactly what happened to the body when the brain was damaged, shot clean through, as he fell to his knees. He remembered the blood that pooled around his feet and knees. It wasn’t even purely hers, as her killer had committed suicide with the same bullet.

Can’t we skip past near-death cliches where my heart restarts

As my life replays

He remembered being tied to a chair after being ambushed in a cornfield. He remembered the face of the man who had held him captive and gave Spencer peace through syringes filled with Dilaudid. He remembered dying, feeling like he was suspended in a warm pitch black abyss. He remembered being ripped through the abyss and back into life. He remembered the split second of anger. Please, let me go back.

All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed

He remembered the countless hours spent at JJ’s house when one of their team had died. He remembered sitting in his bathtub full of cold water, trying to keep himself from heading outside to try and find a new supply of Dilaudid or anything that would take the edge off, to find peace and slow his mind. He remembered the anger and betrayal when the team was finally told that Emily was alive and well. He remembered feeling an irreversible rift tear open between JJ and himself. The rift repaired itself slowly, as did the rift between all the members.

I know, I know the siren sound

Just before the walls come down

He remembered finding out his mother was only getting sicker with age. Soon she would no longer remember him and he wanted so badly to reverse it. He remembered feeling angry that he took this course in his life, instead of doing something with medical research. Maybe he could have found a cure for dementia and schizophrenia if he had. All he could do was research and look for solutions. Those solutions led him to a woman in Mexico that gave him medicine unapproved by the FDA that would help his mother.  

Pains a well-intentioned weatherman

Predicting God as best he can

He remembered people bursting in and for a split second he thought it must be police or government agents but something wasn’t right. He remembered waking up next to the woman’s body, a gash in his hand and blood all over him. He remembered the months spent wasting in jail as his team scrambled to find the answers his mind couldn’t procure. All the restless nights, the death of his one friend, and the pain he caused when he poisoned the drug supply that ran through the prison. He remembered the beatings and the isolation. He remembered the joy he felt when his team had managed to clear his name and spring him from prison. He remembered the joy being sucked away when he had to go back to interrogate Cat Adams after she had kidnapped his mother.

The infuriating frustration of dealing with a narcissistic psychopath could never be topped. His team and himself got her back safely, though. Catherine had been manipulating a previous victim, pretending she had feelings for the younger girl so she would do her bidding. That broke the whole operation apart when Lindsey heard the Cat was pregnant.  

But God I want to feel again

Rain or shine

I don’t feel a thing

Just some information upon my skin

When he was captured by Merva he felt vehement hope and faith in his team. Even when the knife was pressed deep into his throat. Something changed when he heard the gunshot that tore through Merva’s side. Spencer felt the jolt of shock and all the pressure of having another body pressed against his was relieved as the old man fell into the grass and dirt.

When that gunshot went off, he remembered every moment he had been shot, tied up, kidnapped, beaten, cut, high, and hurt. He saw Maeve’s steely gaze as she tried to be brave her death. He saw his mother’s open mouth, screaming “I hate you!” He felt the sting of her slaps on his cheek. He felt the ropes used to restrain him and the pinprick of a needle entering his skin. He felt relief that Garcia was going to be okay.

But he felt no relief to still be alive.

I miss the subtle aches when the weather changed

The barometric pressure we always blamed

All I want is to flip a switch

Before something breaks that cannot be fixed

After that case, something in Spencer broke. He felt a rising bitterness towards his job. For the remaining year, he stayed at the BAU, not having the guts to quit and his team not having the heart to fire him, he couldn’t apply himself as he usually would have. He cared people were hurting, but he felt that he was losing faith in the fact that what he did mattered. He was a cog in the machine, and as soon as they knew he was rusting they would replace him with a new one. He was nothing to anyone if he didn’t care and if he didn’t apply himself.

And Spencer Reid wanted that.

Invisible machinery, these moving parts inside of me

Well they’ve been shutting down for quite some time

Leaving only rust behind

Spencer Reid wanted to be hated. He wanted to feel the contention between him and his team. He wanted to force Prentiss’ hand so she would have to fire him. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. No matter how depressed and numb he got, he couldn’t manage to give up his life’s work on his own. When the time came, Emily look him in his eyes and told him, “I know what you’re doing.” and then more softly, “I’ll let you free”

I know, I know the siren sound

Just before the walls come down

His life, from that moment on, began a terrifying free fall. He got what he wanted, but he still wasn’t happy. Instead, he fell deep into a stagnant pool of heavy depression. He barely read, barely ate, very rarely went outside. He stopped taking calls, responding to texts and emails, and never answered the door. It wasn’t until his best friend, Derek Morgan, broke down his door with tears in his eyes and wrapped Spencer in a hug that knocked the air out of him, that Spencer accepted he truly had a problem.

Pains a well-intentioned weatherman

Predicting God as best he can

But God I want to feel again

Oh god, I want to feel again

After that day Spencer worked hard at his recovery. A week into his first therapy sessions he ran into you as you left your last session of the day.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. “ You huffed, reorganizing the pile of reference books and journals stacked in your arms.

“Oh, it’s no problem. Don’t worry.” The low raspy voice sounded familiar.

“Dr. Reid?” You looked up from your books, blinking in shock. You had seen him at many conventions and public speaking events. You were a fan of his work, both what he did with the BAU and his medical journals and papers.

“Uh, Yes. Have we met before?” He glanced from you to the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. You couldn’t tell if he didn’t like you for some reason or if he just wanted to leave.

“Oh, no. I’m just a fan of your work. I’ve read most of your medical journals and papers. It’s helped me a lot in understanding some of my clients.” You smiled, trying to appear more friendly, something you still needed to work on.

Your smile seemed to relax him, as he smiled back. “Thank you, that...means a lot to me. It’s not very often I meet uh, fans of my work.”

“Oh, I feel like that’s the case with a lot of people in our field.” You shrugged, a silence falling between the two of you as you both left the building side by side. You thought it was odd, but for some reason, it didn’t feel awkward. It was just...synchronistic. “I’ll see you soon?” You asked as you were ready to split from his side to go to your car.

Dr. Reid seemed shocked by this, stammering for a moment before nodding and saying “Yes, most likely. See you soon.”

          And you went your separate ways until his next session. From then on, it became something of a habit. You met with him after his sessions and you both talked on your way out until one day you got the nerve to ask if he’d like to meet for dinner the next day.

“What, really?” Spencer was looking better, his face shaved and you noticed he was filling out his clothes more than he had when you first met him.

“Yeah, if you want to. I don’t know, I just thought...we were friends, you know?” You looked all around his face, just not in his eyes. You were too afraid, too scared to be let down.

“We….we are. We are friends.” You caught the crinkles in his eyes and realized he was smiling. You couldn’t help but grin, blushing in embarrassment. Your outburst of insecurity made you feel like a teenager again. “Yeah, I would love that, Y/N.”

You both went over the place and time, a nice Italian restaurant that was between where you both lived. It was warm with low lighting and the food was delicious. Spencer looked amazing and you both felt an unfamiliar warmth in your hearts as you looked over each other's outfits and the way your features were exaggerated in the warm candlelight. The conversation was an easy flow, Spencer throwing out his facts and you digging for more. You wanted to know more. You wanted to map all the pathways in his brain.

There were moments during the dinner where your eyes would meet his and maybe it was the candles, maybe it was the venue, but you felt bolts of lightning strike your nerves. A few times you wanted to jump in your chair. Meanwhile, Spencer was having trouble keeping his mouth under control. As he heated up in his suit, his eyes constantly locking and unlocking with yours across the table, he couldn't stop talking about the physiology and psychology of love

From then, it was all uphill. Spencer was making his recovery by your side. There hard days, but he was strong enough to get past him. He spilled most of his hardships to you, never going very in depth but stating basic facts. He went to prison because he was framed. His ex-was murdered in front of him. He was kidnapped and fed Dilaudid. He used to be an addict. He had been shot and kidnapped multiple times. He had gotten anthrax on a case. The trauma piled higher and higher and you stayed by his side through every breakdown and every insecurity.

He was there for you as much as you were for him. He danced with you when the mood struck you, drank coffee by your side every morning he was off from his new job as a professor and public speaker. He held your hand during the dinners with his old team, as the jokingly interrogated you over delicious pasta.

It was 3 years. 3 years exactly when you proposed. You were afraid Spencer would never ask, so you decided you would do it yourself. You went to his favorite bookstore and then his favorite coffee shop. You took him on a long ride, only stopping when you found a field and you could see the stars again. After you ate and a comfortable silence fell between the two of you, you brought out a dark purple velvet box with a simple golden band with a clear engraving on the inside.

“This is how galaxies collide.”

Down my arms, a thousand satellites suddenly discover signs of life

Your wedding attire contrasted with his. Black and white. Yin and yang. You could hear soft chatter from the small crowd around you, mostly a mixture between Spencer's friends and family and your own. His old team and new co-workers mingled nicely though there was an obvious difference between the two groups. One was weathered by endless years of trauma while one was tired from grading papers all night.

 As you spun in slow circles, your cheek rested against Spencer's shoulder you could hear his heart beating wildly in his chest. You tilted your head back, meeting his eyes with yours. You felt that same jolt of energy you did 3 years ago. He was focused, but not on the dance or the crowd of people encircling them under the night sky and beautiful string lights.

“What are you thinking about?” You whispered softly, watching his vision clear as his eyes locked onto your face, lit warmly by the lights twinkling above the dancing pair.

“You. Always you.”