‘the Slow Burn Will Make You Insane’ God Forbid A Woman Has Hobbies

i have too many drs i want to shift to.

i want to make a pjo dr but like. change almost everything. add different quests. i will be a daughter of dionysus but less wine aunt vibes more unhinged god of insanity vibes . do i make myself fall into tartarus ? idk depends on how i’m feeling (i won’t do that. i think. i don’t hate myself THAT much)

i am eternally in my percy jackson era. Just like i’m in my harry potter era all the time. i read them at just the right age and now they are cemented in my mind. i make dam jokes and make fun of jason grace ALWAYSSSS

anyways i don’t know what this rant was for. i want to be percy jacksons scary girlfriend. that’s all. bye

The End of a Dream    -    Giuseppe Pennasilico , c.1908

Italian, 1861-1940

Oil on canvas, 99.5 x 145.4 cm

old man yaoi posting

　　　we were always going home ,

yes, i have shifted, more than ten times, if you’re the sort who counts miracles like matchsticks or notches on a headboard. i am not. i do not tally my miracles like debts to be repaid. they arrive not as triumphs, but as returns. familiar. like a song i almost forgot i knew until i was humming it again, accidentally, under the breath of my dreaming.

i do not care if you believe me. i say that without spite. belief was never a prerequisite for truth. you do not have to clap for the moon to rise, nor bow to the ocean to be pulled under. reality does not ask for applause. it simply is.

i shifted after four years. four years of thinking maybe i was broken in some exquisite, cosmic way, cracked just wide enough to want, never wide enough to have. four years of collecting every method like seashells, pressing each one to my ear and listening for home. sometimes i heard static. sometimes i heard blood. sometimes i heard nothing at all. 

there were nights i didn't think i'd live to see morning. i say that with the softest voice possible, not for pity, but because it's true. i don't mean metaphorical dark nights of the soul, i mean the real ones. the kind where your body's still, but your mind is clawing at the walls, begging for a window. the kind where shifting wasn't some spiritual hobby or escapist whim, but a lifeline. a rope thrown into the pit.

i don't know who i would've been if i hadn't believed. not the glowing kind of belief. not the pretty kind. but the cracked, ugly kind. the kind that crawls. the kind that gasps, "please, just let me wake up somewhere else."

so when i say i shifted, i don't say it lightly. it wasn't a party trick. it was a resurrection.

quiet. not cinematic. not some thunderclap of fate. it was a shift like how morning happens, slowly, and then all at once. i remember going to sleep in my room, wrapped in some terrible hoodie, the air stale with the smell of forgetting. and then, like a breath i didn't know i'd been holding: i am there. not will be. not want to be. not maybe one day. i am. right now. here. and there.

it didn't feel like magic. it felt like choosing god, even if you don't know who god is. like giving yourself permission to walk on water not because it's easy, but because the alternative is drowning.

the assumption wasn't loud. it was a hum. a bassline beneath everything. and the moment i tuned into it, the world bent. not to serve me, but to meet me. like it was always trying to.

this is how i got there: i assumed i was there. i used the law.

i wish i had something more elegant to offer. a potion. a spell. a hundred-counted ritual. i don't. i have only assumption. not the performance of it, but the private, unwavering kind. the kind that does not blink. the kind that plants a flag in the dirt and says, "this is mine, because i said so."

i said i was there. so i was. not overnight. not in a blaze of light. it happened like a thread slipping through the eye of a needle, one slow stitch at a time. i told the air around me that my dr was real. i told the silence. i told the toothbrush in my hand, the toothpaste cap i dropped on the floor, the moth blinking against the bathroom light.

i didn't have to fight for it anymore. i didn't have to prove myself worthy. desire is not a courtroom, and the universe is not a jury. i stopped begging. i started being. and slowly, the scaffolding of this reality dissolved.

this wasn't faith. faith is something you carry with trembling hands. this was certainty. this was sitting still long enough for the river to realise it already knew your name. this was recognising that shifting was not a door you unlock with the right key, but a room you have already lived in. the furniture remembers your weight. the walls still echo your voice.

i shifted because i remembered.

and i kept remembering. even when it felt stupid. even when it hurt. even when the forum girls sighed and the scripting girls cried and the cynics said i was lost in a fantasy. maybe i was. but so is everyone. some people just settle for worse ones.

this is what i know: you can get there too. you are not cursed. you are not exempt. the moment you stop performing belief and start inhabiting it, like a house, like a skin, like an inheritance, you will see.

it is not far. it is next. it is with. it is just beyond the veil of doubt, waiting to be spoken aloud like a name that's always been yours.

you do not have to be special. you do not have to be chosen. you do not need a voice in the sky or a star to fall at your feet. you only need to decide. quietly. daily. like it's brushing your teeth. like it's feeding the dog. like it's the most ordinary miracle in the world.

let it be that simple. let it be that unremarkable. you were never meant to earn it. only to remember it. only to open your hands and realise they've been holding the key the whole time.

assume. not with fear, but with fondness. not with hunger, but with homecoming.

and if you don't believe yet, pretend. not out of desperation, but out of reverence. act like you are there not because it will trick the world, but because it will tune you to it. reality doesn't respond to panic. it responds to presence.

so say the toothbrush is yours. say the air smells different. say the cereal tastes sweeter. say the light is warmer. say your name with a little more certainty. you don't need proof. you are the proof.

and do not ask yourself how again. ask when. ask what now. ask am i ready to walk through the door i've been holding shut with both hands all this time?

because the door is open. the light is on. your seat is warm. your name is carved in the table.

come back.

my scripts have gone from strictly organized to messy and not-gramatically-correct purple prose rants . i've abandoned all sorts of organization and sanity. and i prefer it that way

finish the lyrics with lando and oscar

a quick scroll through twitter never fails to remind me of why i’m a permashifter

just like trends, i’m constantly shifting

i once said that i was a seer in my golden trio reality. scratch that. i am a metamorphmagus . i’m out here shifting (ha) my shape. its SUCH a cool ability like i need to see more hp shifters that script themselves as a metamorphmagus . Like hellooooo????? you can change your appearance at will ??????? WHAT . LITERALLY WHAT

we are very Did you know there is a tunnel under Ocean Blvd btw.

AND WHAT OF THE LOVERS . . .                  ╱    . hogwarts desired reality

𓊈 𓇚 𓊉

I. TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

A curious little thing, Tom Riddle was the day he was born━his eyes, which had just blinked open, had latched its vision onto his mothers hand, and his tiny fingers and his tiny arm had reached up to touch, to see, to learn the love of his mother. This Tom Riddle is borne out of love, and is raised being loved. It makes all the difference. And yet━he is still fascinated by death. Still, he wishes to know of a way to evade it. Still, it makes his skin crawl.

So, he will find a way. Tom Riddle comes to Hogwarts, the school of witchcraft and wizardry, with one goal. Learn enough and beyond to create a path for immortality. A little obsession for a curious little thing.

II. JUDITH WARD

One thing Judy Ward has always possessed is a curious mind. It is a family trait that gives way to another family trait━obsession with ones passion. She has been reading and observing and asking since she was shorter than her mothers office desk. Inquisitive child she was, and curious girl she is━she has latched onto the past and the field of history. Why did it happen? Who did it happen to? Why is it important? How did it change things? Can the effects be seen even now? How did the people live? How were they similar to us? How have we changed from them? What can she learn from them?

But reading about it isn’t enough. It does not satiate her. She needs to live it, to be the primary source, she has to see it, experience it, understand it wholly━so she will. And thus comes the single-minded ambition on traversing through time itself. Maybe figuring out independent time travel will satiate the need for innovation and exploration for this curious mind.

III. PARTNERS IN CRIME

Though surprisingly, not many crimes will be committed in this partnership. You see, these two bring out the best in each other. Albeit these two are intense personalities, their intensity seems to dwindle rather than sharpen—they soften each others jagged corners, ease the tension in their eyes. Suppose its what happens when kindred spirits meet. He knows how to stop her impulsiveness and she knows how to ease his franticness.

Tom knew from the moment he saw her in the restricted section in their first year, saw her focused, widened eyes, the way she would whisper to herself that sounded more like hissing from the outside, and the book she had picked (Advanced transfiguration, Volume III: Threads of reality by Serafina Nott), and knew that she was like him. That she had that purpose to learn, to know, to understand whatever idea her young mind had found most interesting. He needed that singular seven second long insight into the way eleven-year-old Judith Ward chose to spend her afternoon to know that he wanted to be the one. The someone that wouldn’t find him odd, that would maybe talk with him about something other than that stupid quidditch game, or the fucking weather, that he could exist with.

He got what he wanted. Judith Ward had others be friendly enough with her, but she never really got them. She never really got how they could be ambition-less (though when she looks back, she realizes that she and Tom were the only eleven-year-olds that had lifelong ambitions). She never really got why they didn’t scurry to the library to get their hands on whatever new book Madam Moon had brought in. Tom Riddle was a blessing. She latched onto him like she latched onto history━and Tom let her roots grow around him, let her plant him into her little garden of life, let her have him for the rest of their lives.

From that moment onwards, they have never walked alone. The curious little thing and the little historian, partners in crime and life.

𓊈 𓆈 𓊉

 yeah. i don’t know if ANY of this makes sense. but we are soulmates and everything is great haha.