The other gentle moonling.

Anonymous asked:  I felt an impossible loneliness today until I tumbled into your space. Now I know I’ve found a similar spirit and I feel the possibility of all things. Now I can wander through crowds and pass unnoticed like a little ghost, but I will not feel so alone


Anonymous asked:   you are a beautiful creature. I am incredibly lonely, anxious and troubled. I find myself in a pit of despair, with a beast in here wanting to destroy every little part of me. can you please please help me in any way? perhaps with a thing, or just with your beautiful words.

I am wearing my coat in and on and around the bed because the rain, my dears, is here.  It arrived a little bit of time ago, and people have been warning me about it for months and months and all the minutes of today and yesterday.  Time is not a thing I can work or understand.  I ignore it entirely until it gets right up behind me and I feel my fingers and face go hot and I check my chest for your tiny clawings.

Still.  It rained and is raining.

Sometimes people write to me about loneliness.  Perhaps lonely people can taste it in the wind, the need to presspress oneself into some other.   A tree perhaps, if you feel she might might might be on the other side doing the same. 

They are all nice seeming ones.  Gentle and ok and easy to love in some way or other.  And this place, and these bones, are safe ones.  Like those dreams I kept having - of my hand on your neck and under your hair.  Between those two things, biting and bitten.

I hope you are both ok.  I am easy enough to find and trouble.  I shall draw you a map of my ways and wheres and whens, and perhaps you can find your way to the other side of the tree.

Cancer —
you poor, poor, poor thing. it’s been a thousand years since you’ve curled into yourself, hid
your heart deep in the cradle of your ribs and let yourself sleep; then the time came for you
to awaken, and you found the world unchanged – it was as if everything had stood still.
reality swept into you like saltwater into gaping wounds, and every fiber of your soul wept.
fearful, you took the broken glass road still, walked it fully aware of what laid in waiting;
like a bride the night she is wed to a stranger, you swallowed your terror and saw it through.
often, those ignorant make you out to be such a bumbling coward. you’re not. you just aren’t.
(in fact, you’re on of the bravest people I know; it takes so much courage to let the world
see you weep – and it takes even more of it to wipe your tears and keep moving forward.
above all, it takes immense courage to allow yourself to love even when you know it’ll hurt.)
—  poetry for the signs: the “you’ve done well” edition, L. Schreiber
deathdrinkingcoffie asked you:  oh oh you little worry, where are you now? i see the glass of your window but not the little thing behind it. Maybe you grew older, with your birds in summer

Oh yes, endlessly older, all rot and ruin. Sometimes it is difficult to remember how to do the propers, walking and choosing and paying and doing. The reals, and knowing how one looks while one does them. Much much easier to get lost in things and things and thighs and wrings. So we do.

Anonymous asked you:  I love you.

Little greyface. It is nice that you are here, and all blink and beatbeating heart. There is a tiny wooden bridge near my house, barely necessary, but I am always sure to need it all and I try to peer down between the wood and the water to see if you are there. And there is that cat black cat that comes wandering over each time, coming from somewhere someone, with a thing to tell but I cannot figure the creak and mew of it. It comes from meetings with you, I think. And the tree that spitspits and the bird that follows me home and makes the sounds of alllll the birds it can. Perhaps you know them perhaps you taught them. I will find the noises of this bird and put them here so you can tell me if you recognise her chatters. We will know it, you and I.

Because I promised all of you a big fat Moonling.
This creature is what I call a Moonling. Creatures made of essences of fear that appear only on half moons seeking sources of light to find its prey like moths to a flame. They appear sluggishly in a shroud of fog deep in the nights, moaning and howling and instill grave fear into all, including the most hardened and ‘fearless’. You feel it before you see it, a sudden chill and coldness and a fear or terror so deep that the breathing stops in the hopes not to be found, some are killed of the feeling, others thrown into fits. If it hears or sees a victim, the Moonling will close on it and devour its body and essences. The soul is normally so damaged that it disintegrates as soon as it flees the body.
This isn’t the biggest badest or ugliest of the moonlings, but it’s one of the more common way of seeing them. I don’t know whats possessed me to suddenly have a fascination with them, but hey, i can draw them as long as I stay a distance from their range with binoculars right???