One Of My Fav Things About Over The Garden Wall Is That It’s Like…

what I really like about all these vintage couple’s portraits is that there is a very certain romatic decorum kept up – certain themes and poses – which, while of course being the mainstream preferred view of couples repeated throughout many studios, are just… so nice to look at. 

this staged affection, a mix of theatricality and intimacy, the couple holding still for a couple of moments and now immortalised in a very set sequence of embraces and kisses. there is a charm to it even when I can’t tell whether this was a genuine couple portait or just actors hired by the photographer.

the kiss on the bare shoulder (eyes perfectly averted), the cheek caress, the piano and the violin, the interrupted embrace, the woman tilted back as in a half-stopped dance…

Ottoman yataghan from the Court of Suleyman the Magnificent, 16th c, workshop of Ahmed Tekelü (possibly Iranian, active Istanbul, ca. 1520–30), steel, walrus ivory, gold, silver, rubies, turquoise, pearls, gold incrustation on the blade depicts combat between a dragon and a phoenix, gold-inlaid cloud bands the ivory grips.

You wrote about murder?? Murder is illegal?? You wrote about this dude killing someone and you didn’t even say ‘murder is bad’ at the start of the book, wht wtf, wtf is wrong with you? I can’t believe you condone murder, I can’t believe you’re pro murber, oh my fucking God don'ttalk to me when ou literally kill people, freak. I’m calling the cops, what the fuck, I’m shaking and crying.

A Series Of Analogies And Bitterness

 I am a writer. This is more an affirmation than a statement of fact. I’m not sure if you’ve ever done that thing where you make a list of affirmations before. I have. Did it last week. I’m seeing a counselor for my depression and anxiety. The idea was to create a list of true statements about myself, good things. The fun part is that you don’t always believe them.

 The statement “I am a writer” is an affirmation because while it is objectively true, I struggle to believe it. Of course I’m a writer. I love writing stories and journals. I’m a creative writing major. Writing is my everything. It’s cheesy, but it’s true. I write to cope, celebrate, vent, relax, everything. You may be wondering now “if she’s obviously a writer, why can’t she believe it?” Well, nameless reader, I can’t believe it because, for the past two weeks, I have written a grand total of 20 pages.

 Writing is my everything, and yet I find myself scooped out like a goddamn pumpkin. Actually, no, because a pumpkin has a chance to become a grinning jack o'lantern. I’m scooped out like a grave. There is nothing beautiful left in me. Just something putrid and rotting. I am full of dead ideas and wriggling maggots that are gnawing at my finger bones as I try in vain to squeeze life out of a bloated corpse called creativity.

 This is all I can do now. I can type. I type out words that are close to truth and I settle. I settle because I’ve lost everything. Sure, I’ve got family and most of my health and I’ve got food and I’ve got an education. But what’s the point? I live to write and vice versa. What’s the point if I can’t do the one thing I’m certain of?

 I am haunted by blank word documents. They’re always on my screen. I type out a line and delete it because it goes nowhere. Lines are supposed to be infinite. It’s a fact of math class that actually stuck with me. Just because we only see part of the line, doesn’t stop it being infinite. My lines aren’t infinite. They lay on the page, just a collection of letters that happen to form some statement or action that would be better articulated by a child’s rag doll.

 I’ve officially hit 21 pages in two weeks. Brilliant. 

 Hell is real, and it is a room full of blank pages and flashing cursors.

if you need me i’ll be in the forest, searching for portals to another dimension,

Guide to Figuring out the Age of an Undated World Map.

The Gas Station at 1 AM

There's few people on the road at this late of an hour. Some unfavorable folk may take advantage. Tired, empty eyes gloss over your silhouette. Try not to move too quickly, you'll draw their gaze.

You try to avoid stopping at all costs, you know that this land is ancient and you don't belong in this neck of the woods.

You find the restroom. You position yourself at the sink, splashing cold water onto your face. Don't look yourself in the eyes, just try to wake up.

You swear hear someone walk out behind you, but there was no reflection in the mirror. The door lightly taps shut.

You walk up to the register to prepay. There is someone there, buying coffee for five people. As they walk to their car, you see there is no one else in their cab. They've finished two of the coffees.

The cashier stares through you. You ask for twenty dollars on pump three as you hand them your card. They do not take it, they simply smile, "Payment accepted." You still cannot find what they are looking at.

There is twenty dollars on pump three. You pump gas in your car and try not to look into the now vacant parking lot. The empty space tries not to look into you as well.

As you drive away, you look in your rear view mirror. The gas station does not exist. Where have you been? Your gas tank is full.

everyone shut up ive been struck by the simple beauty of ordinary life

Its me qtip don’t listen to them boy put me in your ear