Seeing Dodie On Dan's Channel Made Me Astral Project Back To Age 15

  “Not All Who Wander”

Recreating scenes with Lego bricks

Pretending to swing a sword 

Planning to rewatch every time I was sick

Until I knew every word

Arguments over who

Was more like Arwen or Eowyn

Finding comfort in knowing you

Almost as much as we knew them

Slowly growing apart,

Moving, lost contact

Still holding you in my heart

My Lord of the Rings book barely intact.

My experience being a fan of stuff

I know I signed up for and approved this schedule, but how DARE I be expected to be perceived.

UNETHICAL and shocking: he was forced to attend the classes he signed up for

january is one of those months where you experience every feeling on the human spectrum and you just have to go about your day like that isn't happening

"no worries" ah but that is where you are wrong. there are many worries

Hey I just wanted to say thanks, because idk why this didn't just occur to me, but I've been missing "family" meals, the kind of meals I get to make for people and sit down with people I love since I came out and had to leave my house, and idk why but you posting about having family dinners with your friends where you host them made me realize that like, that's something I can still do. If I don't have the people who will invite me over to eat a meal anymore I can always be the person who invites others over myself and idk, I just wanted to say thanks

this warmed my heart in ways i don’t know how to describe.

family dinner started because i’d get some friends over on tuesdays to watch supernatural prequel the winchesters and i’d make them dinner for their troubles. i was feeding like five people max. but then the show ended and one of my friends got a new job and had to move an hour away so we moved it to the weekend so she could still come.

and then i realized that cooking is actually a form of self care for me (let’s not examine too closely how my self care is still taking care of others, it’s been discussed enough in therapy). so we started inviting other folks. and family dinner went from five people regularly to seven. and then i’d have friends from out of town come and it’d be 15-17. and now it’s not unusual for a dozen people to show up at my house on a saturday night to drink and eat and make merry.

there’s a particular kind of warmth that comes from leaning against the entry to my dining room, glass of wine curled against my chest, seeing so many of the people i love sitting around my table as they laugh and bicker and eat a meal that i used so much love to make. food that i spent hours creating because they gave me the confidence and the desire to learn how to make new things. because the effort it takes for me to make pasta or gnocchi or sauces or broths from scratch is worth it. the hours i will spend standing over a hot stove as i make gumbo or chicken and dumplings or fried everything is worth it. the easy smiles and whiskey-reddened cheeks and raucous laughter and full bellies and warm togetherness is worth the trouble.

it makes me understand the last supper (you know, minus the foreboding of betrayal). there’s a divinity in making a meal to share with those you love.

i’ve yet to find a better way express my devotion than to say, “take this, all of you, and eat of it. for it is my love given up for you.”

because even though the darkness can be chasm-wide and canyon-deep, my love is wider and deeper. it’s the bridge over the consumption of it all.

when people sit at my table and break bread that my hands have tenderly prepared i see the point of it all. loving and be loved in return.

and sometimes that love is stored in poetic words and grand gestures. and sometimes, that love is stored in a stockpot full of soup. but they both accomplish the same thing at the end of the day. warmth and safety and care and devotion.

it’s love. plain and simple and small.

hi! how are you? ı hope you are having a nice day. do you have a favorite poet? can ı request a poem, if any?

:')

hiii

my favorite poet atm is Richard Siken. It changes a lot, but I adore poetry with strong specific imagery but that doesn't outwardly say anything, you know? I don't want them to tell me they love the person who left them. I want them to describe their overcoat's smell and the sheer hopelessness of life and a stranger's hands, or maybe something fantastical and absurd, and through that I want them to convey their message. Here's your poem, I hope you enjoy it :)

Eucharist

I am opening myself up

again, slowly,

prying my fingers into the dust-lined cracks

at the great cathedral doors of my

being, feeling splinters and soft

old wood meet my fingers like a warning:

you do things this way,

you might get hurt.

The warning never changes

but the outcome sometimes does and so

I dig my nails

in, feel ancient dirt gather

beneath them, and I pull. Wood creaking

like bones shifting, like mountains breathing,

and the light begins to spill in again,

and fear evaporates

the way mist does when the sun

brushes the hills in the morning,

and we are inside once more-

the stained glass still glitters,

the sound still

chatters off of every great stone palisade,

ringing,

a choir of one voice, just mine, crying out:

If I do it, it will be with love.

If I do it, it will be for love.