#so many thoughts...

[diiambee]

One knew the creator was trying to change, but they couldn't understand why..

The other never expected him to change at all..

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

*melts into a puddle on the floor*

[wandering-tides]

Spoilers for 5.6 Tread with caution.

She DID WHAT!???

GOLD DID WHAT!??????

THE SHADE OF LIFE????

Are you freaking kidding me...

Wait. So. Doesn't this mean Rhinedottir is the Shade of Life now.

Naberius and Rhinedottir co-existing together...

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

Feeling random waves of emotion today

[littlepuffy4ever]

Btw I did watch FNAF today 👀👀 I'm kinda taking a break from social media/discord, but I have so many FNAF brain thoughts brrrrr

[haneys]

my best friends are having a baby and they decided to keep it so I'm gonna be an auntie... I'm gonan cry what the fuck. they got the first Pic today 🥹

[mimimar]

(open pages for better image quality)

the moment I heard elphaba's delivery of "there's a girl i know..." in i'm not that girl i knew i had to draw this comic, i strongly recommend listening to it while you read for the full experience!

this comic is a companion to this piece (which was inspired by glinda's delivery of the same line in the i'm not that girl reprise).

pages 1-4 are from elphie's pov, pages 5-8 are from glinda's.

prints of individual pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

flower meanings in order of appearance:

[cherryysocks]

can't stop thinking about this movie tbh..

[mumbito]

me clicking on a video from the silliest man in the world: teehee what wacky hijinks await me

world renown block clown mumbo Fucking jumbo: you ever think about how old technology seems to live forever in the suspended state of whatever the newest advancements were at the time. how most technology immediately and fundamentally tells you when it was important and when it was left in the dust. it’s suspended in its era forever, and in that it is perfect.

stagnation is a form of death but nostalgia is cruel immortality. still i find myself locked in pursuit of it until i finally stumble across the undeath of the mechanical. as my hard earned improvement truly begins to pay dividends, surrounded by my opus of change, i will freeze myself in eternal utopia. the only way to never die is to preemptively kill whoever you might become. i will not have a grave, i will not be ashes and dust. i will be a perfect, extant machine.

me: Ok. i dont think this will plague me at all actually. like video.

[mlm-blues]

“lmao imagine liking men” OK!!! ON IT BOSS 🫡🫡🫡 it’s beautiful here

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

[elucubrare]

there's this horrible school of attempted literary criticism on here that holds that 1. everything in any given author's work is autobiographical, especially if it seems "real" and 2. those themes seeped into the work subconsciously, revealing something about the author that they're either trying to hide or unaware of themself. it drives me up a wall, since it seems to deny the fundamental skills that make people good writers: the empathy to imagine and portray experiences that one hasn't had oneself and the ability to take one's personal emotional experiences or worldview and fold them, consciously, into the unworked clay of a narrative.

[snail-day]

Suguru can be a bit manipulative… okay, maybe a lot. But can you really blame a guy for wanting his girlfriend to stay over for more than eight hours? It’s your first night at his place, and you’re just going to leave in the morning?

Yeah, that doesn��t sit right with him.

And it’s not like he’s even being pushy. You two haven’t done anything yet. Even though - god - there’ve been moments tonight where he’s sure his self-control is about to snap.

Like when he let you use his shower for the first time, and he had to pretend he wasn’t imagining what you looked like in one of his towels, hair dripping wet, skin flushed from the steam. Or how he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle you coming out smelling like him.

Or earlier, in the kitchen - your soft footsteps padding around, your voice all curious and sweet when you asked where he keeps the tableware. That little pout. Those eyes. The way your hips brushed against him when you reached for the cups, and his hands instinctively went to your waist. He prayed - begged - you didn’t feel the hard-on pressed against you. He's a religious man after all.

So when you’re finally nestled beside him in bed, wrapped in his dark, silky sheets, his arms, his scent - he’s desperately reminding himself: Don’t be a pervert. Don’t ruin this. You're too good to me. You're not ready. I’m not ready.

He’s not ready to see what your face looks like when he’s on top of you. Whether you're the type to reach for his hands. Whether you’d whine into his kisses and chase them like you’re addicted to him.

Of course he doesn't sleep well. Not with you so close. Not when he keeps pulling you tighter against him in the middle of the night. Not when all he can think is - Please don’t leave yet.

So, of course, he wakes up before you. Of course he adjusts the blinds just right - so the light doesn’t hit your eyes, but still kisses your skin like a cat sunbathing. Of course he tucks the comforter closer around you, warm and heavy, so you stay cocooned in comfort while he goes about his morning.

He checks in on you often. Teases you when you stir, coos about how sleepy you are. Laughs softly when you grab for his hand, half-conscious. And of course he’s going to make it feel like this is your idea. Staying a little longer. Getting cozy. Not rushing off.

Because the truth is - he doesn’t want you to leave. Is that really so bad?

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

you mean nothing to me

[stargirl230]

ghost of you

super quick Sua screencap redraw to celebrate the new video release - no I was not expecting it to be Like That and yes I was devastated

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated)

[itz-pandora]

I may be partial to old man sonadow yaoi