#unlost

[mindfulnessministry]

[lyrics-that-get-me]

Unaware of where I'm going Or if I'm going anywhere at all But I know I'll take the leap If it is worth the fall So long as the blood keeps flowing I'll set a sail and swim across I'm not looking to be found Just want to feel (un)lost

(Un)Lost - The Maine

[kaleidoscopiccc]

i promise you the first person to invent a time machine will just be a random ride the cyclone fan desperate to watch the 2008 version

[malaisequotes]

“What is remembering? Remembering brings the absent into the present, connects what is lost to what is here. Remembering draws attention to lostness and is made possible by emotions of space that open backward into a void.”

Economy of the Unlost by Anne Carson

[oatbugs]

can one of u shoot me in the head actually what is wrong w me ???

[dreamlostdevourer]

The Origin Of A Name.

cw: doll vore, descriptions of vore, predscape, rebirth This is the story of one of my OCs, the doll eater. It's a short narrative about how you need sharp teeth for metal meat, and how legends are forged.

Most witches have intuitive or descriptive names, such as the witch of spilled inks, or "the echoing static".

Sometimes, they have names that let you know when to run away. Unsimple names, like "Katrina the sky devourer" or "please don't think about her loudly." are a red flag.

These names, no matter if they are chosen or assigned, tend to help a witch fit into the mind of the viewer. But Names also have power.

Sometimes the names feed the image of the witch, pushing their choices, aligning fates, nudging cosmic strings. One such name is the Doll Eater.

Originally, the name of "Doll Eater" was a sort of loose joke. The Doll Eater once worked a scrapyard for witches, harvesting the energies and materials of discarded dolls.

And once, on a bet? She had eaten a doll's eye, so they named her the Doll Eater. Not a whole doll, but that is how rumors start.

"The Doll Eater." was soon on the lips of far too many.

Maybe a doll overheard the name on the streets, or a wizard etched it as threat against intruders, maybe a witch simply sought to dispose of a doll discreetly with a scapegoat. But a name that raises such a question? Dashes forward, unbound by truth, spreading a new nightmare for dolls.

The changes were obvious, but only in hindsight.

The first sign of the name twisting her? Her mouth watered while pulling apart an old combat doll, and not in the typical way.

While the hammer and chisel broke apart joints, the desire to taste the doll sinew caught her tongue. Without consideration, she plucked out and devoured a tendon.

A co-worker saw her, and called her Doll Eater again, and she grinned, accepting it, and granting the name more power.

Then even off the clock, she let her eyes evaluate dolls like prized hogs. The idea of scrapping a doll, then nicking a bit there, biting there, pulling things apart?

It filled her with warmth.

Her dreams started to twist.

From fighting and fucking combat dolls to tearing them apart with her new sharp angelic teeth. Day dreaming of a mouthful of combat armor, a stomach full of defeated dolls.

She yawned, her tongue dancing over her teeth. Suddenly, they felt utterly dull.

Returning from the faesmith, her mouth glistens with teeth of shattered halos, and flesh of demonic leather.

Sharp teeth for metal meat.

And that day at work, a living doll, sent for disposal, meekly offered her arm.

And the Doll Eater accepted her fate.

She brought the doll's arm to her mouth, and lips trailing tender kisses up to her shoulder joint. Deep breath. A jaw full of shimmering inhuman fangs. The scream of rending metal. And the scream of a doll. In full joy-pain, being torn apart by a cackling mechanic.

In three swift bites, the Doll Eater had severed the mechanical arm with her teeth. Shards of enchanted alloys and gooey strings of oil-bound magics dotted the floor, mechanical crashing and joyous moans in the air.

When a doll asked about her meal, her eyes went dreamy, mumbling that the metal meat tasted of rapturous emotions, stillness and sugar. That the gooey vital fluids tasted of soft memories, hope and agony. And the smell. The smell. Her warmly sinister grin emerged as she recalled the smell.

This time, word of her feast shot around the world. Vicious and detailed recollections, never quite agreeing or disagreeing on what she looked like or was. For her own part, the Doll Eater simply devoured more dolls, some of them even volunteering. Her human body broke down, corroding into metal and lore. She was lost to the name now.

The human stomach was, of course, not meant to eat metal, magic, emotion, dream and mainspring more than once or twice a lifetime. Simple magics helped her at first, but the name changed her.

Over a quick week, her skin dripped off, revealing quicksilver blood, slivers of magical weaving, freshly made grinding gears and rusty streaks of gore. We don't know what happened inside that body, nor do we want to.

The changes? Were euphoric for her, of course.

Her old name was gone.

The mechanic was simply a vessel that the Doll Eater tore free of. Dolls came to her voluntarily, and she let herself take trophies of them.

A lock of metal hair, a crystalline eye, geodesic joints, impossible weapons. Her memories of joyous kills and filling meals.

Every doll eaten made her feel more at home in her myth, and the narrative wore away at halo teeth and leather tongue, reforming them into shimmering shredding gears and demonic digestive bases, quicksilver flesh and tongue.

The Doll Eater had emerged from the debris of her old self.

As her legend grew, she heard a soft, quiet voice in her head. Then another, and another.

Dead dolls, "souls" having rested in her body and mind, asked politely to be reformed. Out of confusion and decorum, the Doll Eater obliged.

To call the first aborted attempts horrific would be polite.

But with time and more victims, they learned to create as well as destroy. Extruding new dolls, devouring old ones.

Reshaping those that earned their change. And with these stories, their legend grew again, no longer in leaps and bounds, but steady, even growth.

Now she heard dolls in her aura that didn't want to leave, voices of the souls stolen by her gullet.

She learned the secrets of those she ate, claiming the patches of reality they offered her. The dolls who feared her knew she could eat a hunter, and learn it's secrets, and continue the hunt.

As mountains rose and fell, her legend waxed and waned. Her power is no longer all encompassing, but she always all consuming.

Offer her a limb, she will take it. Doll, wizard, demon, angel, or witch? She does not care, meat is meat, minds are minds. And if you ask nicely and give yourself in whole?

She will eat you slowly and gladly, take you into her, and grant you the new self you wanted.

And yes, she has those who follow her. And demand to be eaten often, and she will oblige. And remake them. A cycle of death and rebirth. A promise of renewal.

Give yourself upon her sharp teeth, pledge your soul and meat.

She will be there to turn you from living to dead and back again.

But do get in line, it's first come, first served.

[elektramouthed]

 Why are neologisms disturbing? If we cannot construe them at all, we call them mad. If we can construe them, they raise troubling questions about our own linguistic mastery. We say “coinages” because they disrupt the economic equilibrium of words and things that we had prided ourselves on maintaining. A new compound word in Celan, for example, evokes something that now suddenly seems real, although it didn’t exist before and is attainable through this word alone. It comes to us free, like a piece of new air. And (like praise) it has to prepare for itself an ear to hear it, just slightly before it arrives—has to invent its own necessity.

Anne Carson, from Economy of the Unlost

[autumncalls]

Man, I love concerts 🥹

[emotionally-devastating-scout]

casually watching my father chew someone out at a fireworks festival for looking at me

Imagine getting lost at a fireworks festival of all places

Also nothin to do with this ask but can the other mercs go outside and just... Look around I'll be out there to looking to but umm yeah just look around thanks

[bluesey-182]

my brother is on a work trip rn and he's always really bored at the hotels so he messaged me earlier today telling me that he ordered food through uber eats and food from a different place through doordash and then said "they don't know it yet but they're racing". and if that's not adhd bullshit idk what is

[mindfulnessministry]

[iphisesque]

remember that time i emailed the regione siciliana and a random dentist from puglia among others because i wanted to get a copy of a 25yo movie

[nickged]

Praise poetry addresses itself to an individual who has chosen to test the limits of human possibility and momentarily succeeded. (Anne Carson, “Economy of the Unlost”)

[malaisequotes]

“Memory depends on void, as void depends on memory, to think it. Once void is thought, it can be cancelled. Once memory is thought, it can be commodified.”

Economy of the Unlost by Anne Carson

[freebooter4ever]

So im still exhausted. I keep making dumb mistakes and doing stupid shit like leaving charging cords at work or at home. My coordination is gone, im tripping and knocking into things. My eyes feel sore??? All i want to do anymore is lie down and try to sleep. :/

I think i was running on pure adrenaline last week...and now that 'panic' mode is done my body is paying me back for all the stress. :( i barely slept the entire time i was traveling, i regularly drove for like 10+ hrs on next to no sleep which...yeah. I know. Dangerous. The constant tension of whether or not snow was going to make my next route passable, and worry over keeping other people's schedules. And then to get to my grandparents house and to find out they're not moving till may and the 'end of march' deadline was an arbitrary schedule that didnt actually matter. Im not mad, i cant be mad at them they're moving which is stress enough, im just...mourning my exhaustion and inability to function lol. Had they let me wait even one more month the snow and the insane storms would have been gone.

Anyway, just thinking about that feeling of 'safety' or 'comfort' and how precious a thing it is for me (and my sleep) . After my anxiety started growing worse it takes a LOT for me to feel 'safe' with someone or somewhere. My italian grandparent's house would be one, nick's sister's house would be another. And then my friends house in the mountains of oregon, who are just the kindest, most generous people. The two nights i spent there were literally the only times i slept last week.

Back in the fall of 2018, six months after grandpa died and still unemployed, i helped grandma travel by train to ohio, flew back to seattle, stayed with sanjeev for a week ish, and then started south to los angeles because i literally couldnt think of anywhere else to go. And these friends in oregon - they were off traveling at the time - let me stay in their house for over a week. I was so scared about the future, i was still grieving and feeling like a total ghost, still processing my dad's very friendly comment (when i asked him why he hadn't offered to let me stay in his house after i flew back from ohio) about how if i couldn't afford to house myself i deserved to be homeless.

(honestly that wasn't even the part that bothered me - i knew that about my dad from the time when i was a kid and he would point out homeless people to me and jokingly say 'that will be you as an artist!'. Instead of instilling fear in me though this backfired and all my charity work in high school dealt with homeless shelters lol. But no, the part that bothered me was how he tacked another comment onto the end - that life 'couldn't go back to how it was'. THAT was when i broke down crying in front of him because i think stupid me still genuinely believed that if i moved back to seattle my dad would go back to being my best friend and it'd be us against the world again.)(i saw him for five minutes in sac last week - he refused to even have lunch with us)

Instead in 2018 i was anchorless, emotionally disconnected from reality, and instead of comdemning me like everybody else in my family, my friends were like 'dont worry about it, the house is empty, please use it.' And i did! I was nervous at first. But then i started exploring the area - went to a bunch of state parks out in the middle of nowhere hidden in the high desert. Ended up LOVING one of them and collected those tacky tourist maps and just scribbled all my observations and tips on the best roads to drive/things to do/see onto the margins. And i collected all the brochures and compiled a kind of guide, and left it on the counter just in case my friends hadn't found that particular area to explore yet. And sure enough, they hadn't! To this day they still talk about how happy they were to have all these suggestions and things to see, and how that particular area is now one of their favorite places to visit. So what im saying is that's the only place i got any rest last week. Also those pancakes. I need to make those pancakes.

Anyway i'm just so fucking tired, man. This is the second 'vacation' where i've come back more exhausted than when i left, i think i need to do something differently. (also fuck you dad, five years in LA and not homeless once)

[dreamlostdevourer]

Of coffee, dreams and witchcraft.

Three times a week, a sleep deprived witch orders from your coffee shop.

She stands out, but in the way people with charisma do.

Her voice is mellow yet scratchy, like an old phonograph,

Her order is always simple, eaten at a lonesome table.

Any time she surveys the cafe, a transient gleam catches your eye.

Still she sits alone, always alone, never nervous.

At first, her visits were consistent. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, repeat.

The same order too. Hot fruit tea, a non milk milkshake, the sandwich du jour.

Bill paid in full with a 25% tip.

Steadily alone, unrushed and unworried.

Never escorted by a doll, a person, a witch, or anything at all.

Always half removed from reality, as if she might dip her head and fall into a deep sleep.

Yet she never orders coffee, never meets with anyone.

Never even attended a social night, yet always taking the pamphlets and checking posters.

If anything, how un-wrong itself is proof of her wrongness.

She doesn't seem to exist in the flow of society, nor does she fit into a complex social system.

Frustratingly uncomplex.

Slowly, she accepts that she is a regular.

Eventually stopped being surprised that people remembered her

She started to exchange polite greetings and sharp humor, half lidded eyes sparkling.

And never speaks of witchly matters.

But the variety of charms on her tunic, and the precise rituals of her movements and words?

Unmistakably magical.

It takes time, but she started to let her knowledge slip out, in unguarded ways.

In permanent marker, on cardboard, she'd scrawl symbols.

One day it would be a counter curse for an unlucky employee.

Another an enchantment for the would be green thumb.

Or a tranquility charm to tame restless dreams.

She's never more awake, true, but she's never more tired either.

Still, deep black bags under her eyes, a dark blue marker in her purse.

Never more than a charm a week.

The question percolated and danced in your mind.

Why is this witch here?

At my coffee shop?

Who is she?

The whisper networks don't recognize her.

She had never interacts with the doll unions.

The registrar of magic lacks her name and face.

No connections.

No enemies.

No allies.

No one is willing to follow her home.

No one knew where she went.

No patron knew her name.

She barely existed.

Still she comes, with sharp smiles.

Rich voiced and shaking hands.

Familiar, but unknown.

It was better to leave well enough alone.

No need to disrupt a witch you know.

Let alone a strange one.

So she sifted back below focus.

You stop seeing her, even as she helps your staff.

Not your business.

But she did eventually come to one social night.

After two years.

Then another the next week. And another.

Suddenly regularly appearing, and never extending herself outwards.

The same murmurs and patterns, proof of a slowly opening door.

A glimpse of her behind her facade?

Always aware, never awake.

Naturally.

Three and a half years from her first debut, she finally approached you.

Your brain flinched at the way light refracted off her smile.

She took your hand and pressed a small phial into it.

Topped with a dull green bow ( How did she know it was your favorite? )

And a simple card. "Drink, and learn."

It sat above your sink for a week.

Mind torn between refusing a witch and obeying a witch.

So you reached out to your contacts yet again.

Tried to decipher the ominous fluid.

Spent favors on calculating intent.

To judge if it was gift, or poison.

Once again, nothing was gained.

Four full months passed since she gifted you the liquid.

Still she had shown no malice or harm.

Cordial and friendly with all.

On a quiet Monday morning, at lunch, you decided to drink it.

Minutes after that thought, she appeared, pressing a fresh phial.

Confusion started to form, but she smiled.

"Expires after one week."

Unnerving, faintly malicious, yet friendly.

You tried to be assured.

After work, you threw the old phial out, and uncorked the fresh one.

A careful waft of the scent. It smelled of boiling vinegar, fresh asphalt sun warmed steel, old snow and woody oils.

Nerves steeled, you slammed it down your throat like a jello shot.

It tasted of nothing but water.

On the couch, you waited for it to kick in.

Nothing happened.

Hours later, unnerved and cautious, you headed to bed.

Moments after you were snug and warm, sleep rushed in.

And you dreamed a new dream.

The witch was waiting for you in it.

She guided you through lost realities, a world of bright oceanic depths, a city calmly living inside magma. Her hands harvested the sky itself, collecting emptyness.

And yet there was more.

She pressed her palms against the empty spaces at the edge of your dream.

And the dream was torn asunder, fabric of thought and hallucination pulled apart like air.

She did not wait or ask, but sweeped you out of your dreams, to the spaces between sleeping minds.

Into the infinite fractal void.

Mind shared the space, but in the same way the sun and the moon share the sky.

She walked quietly, confidently.

Wisps of sleep clung to her. Distorted unrealities jockied for position, gathering around her.

A cosmic nova of color, dreams and thoughts squirmed around her.

She grinned.

Her mouth opened, and all were devoured from around her.

Your body bolted awake, mind soon follows.

It's somehow Monday morning again, right after you decided to drink it.

Before the witch would have given you the container.

You never dream of her again.

You never see her again.

No one else remembers her.

But you have the empty phial.

And a permanent hole in your dreams.

You try to decide if you miss her.

You're never actually sure.