#musings

[septemberkisses]

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

[scriptastra]

[inkpressedpetals]

[mascula-sappho]

Aren't plushies beautiful? They were created so a sick child had something to hold. They were created so an adult living alone might have a friend to keep them company. They were created for a teenager to clutch to her chest as she cries. They were created to accompany a college student to his geology classes. They were created not for any material benefit, they don't change tires, but to be loved.

They were created for the purpose of love.

[plaidos]

if you’re a trans ally you have to be ok with seeing topless dudes with their tits out & girls with bulges in their jeans or skirts etc. trans bodies are normal, get used to them, they’re not going anywhere.

[sacredpyre]

 "When a flower doesn't bloom, you fix the environment in which it grows, not the flower"

[scriptastra]

[rueyam]

of course i consciously choose to see the good in you. I love you

[plaidos]

i’ve been playing that award-winning videogame about the young witch who is investigating the disappearance of her neighbour’s cat in a small village in the alps, and it’s really good, but i would prefer it if it used the same well-crafted narrative system & wonderful writing to tell a story about about a scientist who invents a glue that allows him to walk up and down anything

[yourfaveisintersex]

what if I just made my profile picture a male calico cat or something. hurm

[slfcare]

people always say, about love, you’ll find it if you look for it. and also, you’ll find it when you’re not even looking. i believe that it’s a little bit of both. love is in the shoulder or hip pressed against a door, keeping it open for the stranger that approaches. in the knee on the floor as an adult teaches a child the intricacies of tying their shoelaces. in the quirk of a mouth corner as something unspoken is passed between two friends. love is small, and love is fleeting, and love is careful and free. love is crafted to exist silently, most of the time, which means that the more you look out for it in the mundane, the ‘normal’ and the regularities, the more you’ll spot it.

[scriptastra]

[metamorphesque]

What draws me to Egon Schiele's self-portraits is that they almost perfectly capture the disconnect, the struggle for liberation between the body and the soul (or the self?). He masterfully depicts the distorted chaos that arises when the body fights for dominance over the self, while the soul tries to claw its way out of the flesh.

This rupture between body and self doesn't feel like just a stylistic choice — it feels existential. The figure is emaciated, twisted, often staring directly at us with unsettling awareness. It is hyper-aware of its own skin, its own edges, as if trying to understand or escape the limits of its form. The body is no longer a sanctuary but a cage. The soul is no longer a resident but a renegade. Muscles don’t relax; they contract, grip and resist. The hands claw or tremble. The spines bend unnaturally. The eyes accuse, plead and surrender.

It seems as if Schiele didn't just paint himself — he painted the experience of being himself. Of inhabiting a body that often refuses to cooperate with the self’s desires. His self-portraits seem like moments frozen in the act of becoming or unbecoming.

musings on Schiele's Self Portraits

[inkpressedpetals]

[thatdisasterauthor]

You know you’ve injured yourself in an Interesting Way when your doctor basically suggests you make a potion about it, and one of the ingredients is emu oil.