pick a gift & reblog so other people can have one too
a day in the daffodil field
a cup of warm ginger tea in a cozy cottage
a hug from someone you miss
a night under the moon and the stars
a song written just for you
a book to read by the window when it rains
a morning walk in the quiet mist
a hand to hold by the ocean side
a kiss from your favorite fictional character
a chance to go back in time and fix what you regret
See Resultsanyway........literally love is stored in the action of making hot drinks for people. no i won’t elaborate.
anne and wentworth are too scared to talk to each other for most of the book but that means they both pay intimate attention to each other’s body language and non-verbal cues. wentworth helping anne into the crofts’ carriage because he can tell that she’s tired but too selfless to take up the spot, anne constantly noticing whether his eyes are on her whenever they’re in the same room, wentworth removing her nephew from her back, anne intuitively moving to the spot where he was writing the letter (which he knew she would do, giving him the subtle opportunity to come back and hand her his confession). after all these years they still feel at home with each other and they don’t even recognize it until wentworth has to put this loving silence into words.
No, I haven’t read an advanced copy of Sally Rooney’s latest novel, but based on her Spotify playlists I already know that I’m a Simon
monster-apologist asked:
elucipher-deactivated20151112 answered:
Well—because the human mind abhors a vacuum: it sees a blank canvas, and rushes to fill it.
Humans are oceanic: below the surface of you there are crowding shoals of impulse and thought, obscure until drawn up to where the nets of your perception can sift them. You experience yourself as vast. The stories you tell of yourself are partial, inadequate—because the enormity of all that you are is too much to be reckoned, a deep and unvoiced otherness you could drown in.
And we project that confrontation onto the cosmos, as stories. Space is the blank canvas that invites and confounds us because it’s vast beyond compassing: gulfs of swallowing dark, strewn with bright and silent and awful giants. Our stories about space are nets cast into an ocean, candles shone upon the abyssal. We gather the wild reefs of stars into the serene carvings of constellations, we give a name to every astral body, we build maps and models and metaphors. We detect a comet’s subaudible magnetic oscillations and say that it is singing. Often the stories we tell reveal more about us than the objects they describe.
In many stories venturing into space is a journey inward, into the unmapped territories of human souls. In our stories, space is never only empty: it’s transcendence, potential, intention, indifference, infinity, terror, wonder, loss, divinity, and all that we can’t perceive but believe to exist. It’s the unbridgeable distances between us, and our doomed but fullhearted endeavours to reach each other, mind to mind. And stories which paint structures and images upon space are also stories about art and the act of creation and giving order to chaos—and about our own improbable coming-into-being.
We can’t experience space in its nakedness and vastness—it’s cold and airless and inhospitable, the exposure would be overwhelming, annihilating. We need structures and metal inches to protect us from the abyss. So stories are like the spaceships we send up: they represent our ambition and curiosity and striving, our efforts to make space knowable, bearable; they also force us to recognise how fragile those efforts are, how dwarfed they are by what they try to describe.
There’s an idea in many space stories, that the cosmos is a place of transformation, a crucible in which things burn, and if humans venture out deep enough they also burn, and become more fully who they are—that even in the wildest reaches of space, there we are, most pure and dark and bright and realised, somehow coming home. Our bodies come from stars and we find in space all that we are—terror, strangeness, beauty, hope.
thinking about werewolves and the concept of becoming a monster and discovering that something savage and uncontrollable exists within you and the potential that has to be a liberating narrative about growth and change and courage rather than a story about controlling and concealing it
Being a werewolf is about shame. I think it’s also about anger, trauma, not belonging, and the fear that you might be unlovable.
The shame of being a werewolf has to be that you were bitten by the wolf, and you survived. You survived because you became the wolf yourself. You are this terrible, monstrous thing, and the terrible, monstrous thing is you. It’s the part of you that survives the attack, and it’s terrifying that this is you.
I feel like werewolves are people who are very hurt. Not only that, they’ve spent their lives up to this point trying as hard as they can being whatever the opposite of a werewolf is—something tame, something yielding, something that’s not angry and unpredictable and bestial. But the Wolf is also them. Because no matter how much you don’t believe it, you want to make it. You want to survive, and you will fight so that you will live.
Or werewolves are people who are incredibly afraid. It’s about the inevitability of not being lovable; being a monster is unforgivable. It’s about the inability to withstand anything that will happen to you. It’s about your body betraying you. It’s about carrying a terrible and ugly you inside you, locked up where no one can see it, because the thought of anyone else seeing that you is unbearable. It’s about all of those things and more.
I think the Wolf is the part of you that loves you, unconditionally. It’s the part of you that bites when something tries to hurt you. When something tries to put you back in the place you’re supposed to be. Of course it’s scary. It’s scary to find that you are impossibly strong and maybe selfish, and that your self-hatred isn’t enough to save you from the savage, stubborn knot of self-love you carry in your chest. But it’s also the answer to that question: What if I am awful? What if I am terrible, too terrible to look at, too terrible to love? What if you are a monster? Well, what then?
Thinking abt immortality and how meticulously you’d have to keep track of all of your shit so some nosy historian didnt spot your old journal or coat or copy of a book and call an infuriating time-based finders keepers
“It’s two hundred years old” they say. “It’s essentially public property” they say. It’s a letter you sent to your friend and it’s in a museum now and you’re screaming
Why are vampire stories always I Want To Drink The Sexy Neck Milkshake and never two vampires texting about the passionate letter one wrote to the other in 1863 but never sent that the other just saw in the Smithsonian’s fall exhibition on Love Through the Ages and what the fuck, Claude, why didn’t you say anything
I got vaccinated two weeks ago along with the vulnerable people I work with, and already things are changing, already I’ve stopped passing by unmasked coughing strangers, thinking, I am going to die and it’ll be your fault.
“I wish you would come to Salona and see the cabbages I have planted myself. One could never be tempted by the prospect of power again.”
— Retired Roman Emperor, Diocletian, to his former colleague; published in The Silk Road: A New History of the World, Peter Frankopan
Parker was, though, visited by two FBI agents in 1951. When they asked her whether she had ever conspired to overthrow the government, she answered, “Listen, I can’t even get my dog to stay down. Do I look to you like someone who could overthrow the government?”
heyjude19-writing
superpixie42
i love frodo. he got so uncomfortable that people got feisty at elrond's council he was like pls stop i'll do it myself. avoidant king.
