Snowflake-elf - Just A Silhouette

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

The houses we walk by seem to be creatures, watching us on our stroll through the streets, staring, seeing, following us and our broken relationship.

Their glowing eyes burn on my skin, your hand burns my fingers, I want to run, run, far away, to another version of you and me.

The trees seem to have eyes, watching us on our walk underneath their canopy of leaves, staring, seeing, growing through us and our broken relationship.

Their glittering eyes freeze my bones, your hand freezes my flesh, I want to run, run far away, to another version of you and me.

It hurts, I want to, have to run, to leave, to get away from this freezing warmth, from this burning cold,

but through it all, even if it hurts, I stay with you.

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

🌷 a flower for anyone having a bad day today. i love you

oh to be loved the way i love

Sirius clings to his mother and cries twice in his life, no more and no less. It helps that he usually expresses his emotions through anger as opposed to tears but almost spitefully he refuses to let her see any emotion from him. If she wanted a proper perfect statue he would give her one. The first time, he was seven. He hardly remembers it, but she'll never let the memory go, even if it becomes distorted over time.

He was playing the piano, one of the only lessons he took any interest in. She was watching him play, as he had been preparing the piece for a week now. Towards the end, Regulus, who had been sat on the ground outside the room listening in, has a burst of accidental magic. One of the first displays of it, as well as one of his first displays of jealousy. A few of the strings snap inside the instrument, making the keys silent, and before Walburga can realise what is going on, the lid slams shut on his fingers. She rushes over and lifts the lid, taking his hands to check that they are okay. Sirius tries his best not to cry but when he sees Regulus in the doorway and his mum runs her thumb over his fingers to make sure he's okay, he can't help it. The tears fall silently and she only notices when she glances up to ask if he can feel anything. He shuffles closer and she wraps an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer as he sobs.

As he had gotten older and gone to school, he trusted her with his emotions less, eventually growing to despise her for her high standards and backwards ideologies. He leaves and tells himself that he has no emotional attachment to anybody from the family anymore, especially not her.

But when he discovers Regulus' disappearance through a small article in the paper, he isn't even thinking as he gets on the tube and walks to Grimmauld. He finds himself at his old home, sat on the bottom doorstep asking himself what he was doing. He doesn't knock, and is trying to find the strength to stand up when the door opens. It isn't Kreacher's bitter face he is met with, and his father was always dead so there was no way it would be him. It was Walburga. She stares for a while, then addresses him by his name, with the implication of 'what are you doing here?'. He can't answer. The anger he'd normally have bubbling away is gone and all he can do is try not to break.

Minutes pass in silence before he says anything and she stays exactly where she is, looking down her nose at him. When he eventually does speak, all he says is 'it's true?'. She nods and his chin trembles. She thinks he's angry but he's just exhausted. Stupidly, he moves towards her, not even thinking as he leans his head on her chin and gently grips the fabric at the bottom of her skirt as he starts to sob. It's pathetic but he can't even control what he's doing.

And she can't help it either, she may be furious that he had left and 'destroyed' the family but that's the boy she held close while Orion was bitching on about how quickly she could be recovered enough to make appearances with 'his' heir. And Sirius looked so much like her baby brother Alphie when he was upset. So she sinks to the ground, getting dirt on her expensive dress, and holds her baby to her chest, staring out across the road in silence. She shushes him and runs her fingers through his hair, now almost long enough to reach his elbows. Sirius wouldn't mention it to anybody else when he got back home and he tries not to think about it but for Walburga, it shifts her entire perspective on him in the last few years of her life.

sirius got a tattoo for regulus first.

his second were the antlers for james, on his hip. later, he added flowers twining round them, representing effie and monty, climbing up his side. his new family, intertwined and growing.

later, there would come the moon for remus, and the waves for peter.

but before any of that, traced in fine lines on the inside of his left wrist, he got the leo constellation. for the brother he missed so dearly, in honour of the name regulus gave himself, whispered into sirius' ear the night before he ran away. the deciding factor; regulus would be allowed to transition, to be himself, only if sirius left. the blacks needed a son. regulus would be better at it than sirius ever was.

sirius would miss him forever, regardless. but at least this way, he’d have something.

hey if you're trans in the us i love you. hey if you're queer in the us i love you. hey if you're a person of color in the us i love you. hey if you're a woman in the us i love you. hey if you're disabled in the us i love you. i love you i love you i love you

I want one of those scenes in a dude bro film where “tomboy” chick has to wear a dress to go undercover or whatever, but instead of the guys drooling as she walks down the stairs, they’re like “k. U need to stop. Go put the cargo pants back on. You look super uncomfortable and awkward in that. Brutus, you go be the fake prostitute.”