listen don’t get me wrong i love epic fantasy and sci-fi but it is very very important to me that we get fantasy & sci-fi on a smaller scale as well. i’m tired of reading about the Special Person Who Will Save The World. that’s not relateable. i want to hear more stories about bit players on the world stage! a traveling theatre troupe of goblins struggling to write a new play, two rival families of smugglers living on the same space station transport hub, a rom-com about a young hedge witch, a coming-of-age story about a dryad
what the fuck even is death note. i know there’s a guy named light and one named l (who named these children) and one of them looks like a spindly frog with emo hair, and of course there’s a notebook that gives people heart attacks, but then sometimes i see art of it and there’s this terrifying clown monster just sort of floating around in the background?? why is this juggalo here what does he want from the frog.
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something i think about a Lot is how i want more fantasy that’s just. fun. that’s lighthearted and exciting and atmospheric and above all filled with joy. like ghibli movies, like stardust (my Personal Headcanon version of stardust that marries the best parts of the book with the movie), like parts of avatar the last airbender
where good wins over evil not through terrible sacrifice and tremendous battles and hardship, but through kindness and gentleness and good-ness. or where there is no “evil” and the journey is about discovering and uncovering and exploring yourself, becoming the best you you can be under the circumstances you are given
where it isn’t the Entire World at stake, where every adventure isn’t full of mortal peril and enemies around the corner, where the world feels like it’s beckoning you
come on! the road is waiting for you! see what’s out there! go, go see!
you create the world around you as you walk through it - the moon which gives you light, the ground you walk on, the food that nourishes you, the animals that scavenge the leftovers, all this is born from your mind and your mind only. it did not exist before you were there. you do not know if it will exist after you move on
you have been walking for an unknown amount of time - the moon is fixed in the sky, and there is nothing to delineate hour from hour, day from day. you begin to tire. you wish you were home, in your warm bed, but you can’t recall how to return there. all around you, you build house upon house, cities stretching up into the sky with people to populate them, but they are just hollow shells. the people you make so you feel less alone are just as empty as the buildings, only showing you things you already knew, giving you advice you were already following, little better than puppets
you take another glance at the never-changing moon and suddenly you remember how it shone through your bedroom window. your home takes shape around you again, and you collapse into bed at last.
in the back of your mind, stifled and repressed but still lurking, is the thought you cannot bear to think: is this really your home? or is this just another of your creations? have you made it out, made it back? or are you still trapped in a dream of your own making? and do you even know the difference anymore?
so yeah, harold and the purple crayon fucked me up