people crossing street

i’m in my prime,
not withering and old.
but i refuse to play
your wicked games any longer.

i know this tether is unbreakable,
but you make me feel like i’m interchangeable.
you drew a target on my heart,
when did this become fatal attraction?

i don’t have the strength,
the energy,
nor the patience
to be held hostage by your love.

so baby please don’t despair
when i say that
i’ve found the courage to
let you go.

you were never meant to be tied down in the first place.

—  believing i could love you was my mistake, c.j.n.
The Elsewhere Child

He was supposed to take my memories when he brought me here, the seelie knight, who had been commanded to escort me home with a simple “take it away, it’s too old now and it bores me” from the noble who had kept me for the past while. I traded him my singing voice for them though, and now where once sweet music poured from my lips only hoarse and untuned notes fall out without any of the tempo or melody they had before. Now I think I made a bad trade. It might have been better, if I didn’t remember, or remembered something else entirely.

I stare at the boy next to me in the circle, I was asked to join this circle as a way to make me feel part of something, part of a circle. They call the circle a support group for abducted children. Children who were abducted and got away, that is, I don’t think there’s a support group for those currently abducted. Their abductors wouldn’t allow them to attend, I suppose. The boy is speaking about the man who touched him, speaking of the horrible way he loved that man, because he was a child, and he had to love someone. Are his memories true? Or is he like me? Did a faerie take him away, and replace the memories from Under the Hill with these tragedies? Why? Did he commit some crime? I cannot say.

I am fascinated by the girl who sits next to the girl directly across from me in the circle. She tells us to call her Angie. She wears ratty clothes, not the sort of poor chic that seems to be an underlying trend, with jackets made of patches and ribbed cloth sold at malls, but real grunge. The tears in her sleeves reveal razor scars, her hair is short, she wants to look tough, she wants people to cross the street to get away from her when they see her coming. She is not tough. She is nervous, always nervous, always afraid, though she hides it well. None of these things are too interesting to me, those things I can see anywhere, but I thought context would be important so that the fact that she’s a pathological liar would not be the only thing you knew about her.

She is a pathological liar.

Her lies fascinate me.

After group chat, I take her aside and we talk, sometimes just for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, and I watch her fabricate thousands of untruths, from tiny white ones to huge fantastical ones as bright and colorful as her life has never been. Some days, I believe everything she says and some days I question each word, trying to figure out her secret.

It’s a strange thing, I was taken before I really knew my name, and each faerie that’s kept me (I was a pet for them) called me something different. Do I even have a true name? I’ve been Jane Doe since I showed up, stumbling barefoot and confused into a police station moments after midnight (at least the knight knew to leave me near a place of authority), so I’ve been introducing myself as Roe, like the deer. They ran my DNA through the missing children’s database (I didn’t understand what that was at first, was shocked at how closely humans had approximated magic with computers), but there was no match. I told them I didn’t know how long ago I’d been abducted, and suggested that it might have been before the database was made. They laughed and said I was eighteen, and DNA technology had been around much longer than me. I tried to explain that time was different where I had been kept, but they simply patted me on my head and told me they were sure that it seemed that way to me at the time.

They stared at me worriedly when one of them brought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal, and I asked what she wanted for it. She told me nothing. No one here ever asks for anything besides courtesy in return for their food, but old habits are hard to break. Even now, in my foster home, I cannot help insisting that my hosts confirm that this food is a gift freely given. They asked me to help them cook and I broke down in tears because there was a cast iron skillet on the stove (“Please don’t make me, iron burns, iron burns, and it gets under your skin and makes you go grey and lifeless like a flower severed from its roots, plea-please, please don’t make me”). It took them an hour to convince me that they weren’t trying to force me to poison myself, and the food burned (“I said I would help you, you asked me to cook and I agreed, but, but please don’t make me, it burns, it’ll burn me!” “It’s alright darling, you don’t have to cook if you don’t want to.” “But I said I would! It was an oath!” “We’re sorry, we wouldn’t have asked if we’d known it would upset you, you can help some other way if you like.” “You… absolve me of my oath?” “Yes, of course we do darling!”).

I am more comfortable with iron now, I am not one of the Fair Folk, after all, it will not harm me. Correction, a blade of iron would harm me, but not because it was made of iron. It does, however, mess with my glamor.

It is a difficult thing, growing up bathed in magic and yet to have none of your own. A pixie once spoke of how she envied my hair, and I said, on impulse, “do you want it?” So a trade was made. She gave me the ability to change my appearance, and she walked away with my hair. I expected my hair to grow back after a time though… it did not. With my glamor I can have the appearance of having whatever hair I please, and sometimes I change it daily, but when I sleep or when iron is near my bare head is revealed. It is assumed by my hosts and everyone around me that I have many wigs, I have told them I do not, but they don’t believe in magic, so they insist on believing this instead.

I hide when I hear thunder, duck into a bathroom and put everything on backward and inside out if I’m in public, or simply sit quiet if I’m home. The first time I did this, it shook me to my core when someone told me “You know, your shirt is on backward.” I started to panic, until I realized that I could see myself too. It was a revelation, discovering that there was something humans could see that the Good Neighbors couldn’t.

It still boggles my mind how much people throw away, tears and menstrual blood caught on napkins, or gifts from that one aunt that they held onto for so long for the sentimental value but can’t keep now because they have to move into a smaller apartment, or the shirt they can’t wear anymore because it smells like their ex. They could trade these items to faeries for so many things, and yet they simply throw them away. What a waste.

My hosts insisted I should have a proper education, and after three years of homeschooling (to get me caught up) I applied to attend the local state college. There I found more people who fascinate me the way Angie does. There’s Lisa, who fights for animal rights, and Kyle, the leader of the Gay Straight Alliance group, and Riley, who’s going into the Peace Corps next year because they want to help the world. I ask them all the time why they do what they do, what they expect to get back, and they tell me that ideally they’ll make the world a better place, and that will pay them back eventually, but that they don’t do it for what they’ll get back, they do it because it’s right. I don’t understand. There’s Cheyenne, who always gets into intense political debates with other people over dinner in the cafeteria, and she believes so intensely about things that don’t even affect her, and she fights for them, and she tells me she does this because it’s right, and I don’t understand. I’ve never met anyone who cared about anything other than themselves Under the Hill. Faeries can’t lie, they can’t go back on their word, they honor their deals and make sure you honor them too, they repay debts and ensure they’re repaid in turn, they amuse themselves playing or squabbling over power, but they do not do things for free. They don’t care about things for free. They don’t defend the innocent, protect the weak, or forgive the ignorant. The culture shock coming here is bewildering.

If I could I’d honor my debts, leave a pile of gold at the doorstep of everyone who’s done me a kindness, but I have not the magic to do so. The drainage ponds hold no sirens, the falling snow has no frolicking pixies between its flakes, there is no magic for me to use here… or is there?

Perhaps I can’t call upon the magic Under the Hill, perhaps I can’t summon gold or make deals with darklings, but I can find magic here, I’ve seen others do it. I’ve seen a moon so beautiful it sends shivers down your spine captured by a little lense-box and put onto thick shiny paper. I’ve seen songs and stories written with such emotion that it moves those who hear them to tears, to laughter, to dancing, to life. I’ve seen kitchen witches cure colds with hot chicken soup, and I’ve seen holy men ward off tricksters they can’t even see with the power of their belief.

Perhaps I can find a way to create my own magic, and do what other people seem to strive to do to repay their debts. Perhaps I can make the world a better place, and learn the magic of humanity. And as for the places where magic does live? Where the boundary between worlds is thin and the drainage ponds and snowflakes carry faerie magic within? …I think I’ll be staying far away, for my part. I might still have a lot to learn, but I think I like it better here.

Delusion Masterpost

Delusions can be categorized in various ways. The following are not mutually exclusive categories; for example, a delusion may be both bizarre and systematized.

Bizarre delusions-are absurd and factually not possible. They may involve newly discovered gods or supernatural/space creatures.

  • feelings that one is dying, is already dead or does not exist (cotard delusion)
  •  feelings of different people being a single person (fregoli delusion)
  •  feeling like one’s reflection in a mirror is some other person (mirrored-self delusion)
  • feeling that family, partners, friends and / or pets have been replaced by identical fakes (capgras delusion)
  • feeling like the world only exists inside one’s head (solipsism delusion)
  • feeling that one is living in a reality TV show (Truman show delusion)
  •  feeling like one has an identical doppelgänger with a different (usually malicious) personality and life (subjective doubles delusion)
  • feeling like other people swap identities with each other without changing appearance (intermetamorphosis delusion)
  •  feeling like doesn’t belong to one’s body or doesn’t own parts of one’s body (somatoparaphrenia delusion)
  • feeling like a person, place, object, or body part has been duplicated or transported somewhere else (reduplicative paramnesia delusion)

Grandiose delusions-are beliefs that the individual has exceptional beauty, intelligence or influence.

  • feeling that one is a god or deity
  • feeling that one has magical powers i.e. mind reading, control over the weather etc
  • feeling that one is indestructible or unimaginably strong
  • feeling that another person or other people (usually celebrities) are in love with oneself

Persecutory (or paranoid) delusions- include that the individual is being harassed, threatened, watched or bugged. They often involve spies, bikies, God, Satan or neighbors.

  • feeling that one is constantly being followed / stalked
  • feeling that one is secretly being spied on by family, partners, friends, others, pets and / or inanimate objects
  • feelings of fear over being kidnapped. Usually by a stranger.
  • feeling that one is constantly being watched (by unknown entities or known entities)
  • feeling that one is being ridiculed by family, partners, friends and / or others
  • feeling that one is being spied on or monitored by the government, FBI etc.
  • feeling that family members, partners, friends, others, pets and / or inanimate objects are secretly conspiring to kill oneself
  • feeling like is being or will be poisoned by others

Delusions of reference- are the belief that the everyday actions of others are premeditated and made with special reference to the patient. Commonly patients complain about being talked about on television or the radio. Patients may believe that music played or words spoken on television have been specifically chosen to identify or annoy them. People crossing the street or coughing may be interpreted as making purposeful actions, performed to indicate something to, or about, the patient.

Delusions of control- involve the belief that others are controlling the patient’s thoughts, feelings or actions.

Nihilistic delusions-are the belief that part of the individual or the external world does not exist, or that the individual is dead (Cotard syndrome). Financially comfortable individuals may believe they are destitute, in spite of bank statements to the contrary. Patients who believe they have no head or are dead, are unable to explain how that could be possible, but still hold the belief.

Somatic delusions- are false beliefs about the body. These may be bizarre or non-bizarre. A bizarre example is when the individual believes his nose is made of gold. A nonbizarre example is when the individual believes he has cancer of the rectum, in spite of negative reports from a competent doctor who has examined the rectum.

Delusions of infestation/parasitosis- are not uncommon in dermatological clinics (Hylwa et al, 2011).

Delusions of guilt - that the individual is guilty of purposefully or non-purposefully damaging themselves, other individuals or important property. Individuals may believe they are guilty of causing the cancer of the lady who lives next door, or a drought in Central Africa.

Delusions of jealousy - the belief that the partner is being unfaithful, and may involve checking the partner’s underclothes for stains or foreign pubic hairs.

Erotic delusions (erotomania) - the belief of the patient that another person is in love with him/her (de Clerambault syndrome). This (among others) may be a motivation for stalking, and lead to contact with the unwelcoming central figure of the delusion.

Systematized delusions- are united by a single theme. They are often highly detailed and may remain unchanged for years.

Non-systematized delusions- may change in content and level of concern, from day to day or even from minute to minute.

illegalgreek  asked:

whats art school like?

pretty objectively art school is HARD and there is a lot of work involved. my school particularly has 6 hour studio classes and 3 hour academic classes that you have to take, so if you miss a single class youre actually missing out on a lot and its difficult to upkeep sometimes! especially the first year when youre forced to take classes youre not interested in: 

additionally its really expensive and the looming threat of debt is ever-choking   however the community is amazing: everyone here is here to learn art and be ARTISTS, and i have learned so much from my peers and teachers. everyone understands what being an artist is like and everyone is for the most part very kind and supportive. the friends i have made here are the best friends i will ever make in my life.

you will always see people crossing the street and up stairs with pounds of artwork in their arms. so many people have depression or anxiety disorder ( including ME) but since so many people have it i’ve found that usually teachers are extremely understanding which is a refreshing relief from high school. once a car caught fire here and a lot of people passed it uncertainly like….. is this? performance art? because sometimes you really just cant tell. there are tons of galleries and art events to go to and we never sleep, i cannot stress that enough, we ALWAYS have something due tomorrow or in three hours. it’s even WORSE for animation majors and i NEVER SEE THEM. 

that was a lot of words, but yeah i like art school. i sincerely suffered in academics and im relieved and blessed to be in a place doing art and everything i want to be doing. its a place i feel like i really fit into and even though im CONSTANTLY working, i’m happy to do it??

You don’t own me part 13 // Final

Originally posted by baekhyeun

Word count:  2962 // the end comes with a bang :D

Warnings: Strong ANGST! Violence, attempted rape. Please don’t read it if you are sensitive to these topics.

Author’s note: There will be no excerpt to this because it would spoiler too much :D Just enjoy the end ;) 

♥♥♥ @httpwyf @vicassa @byunbunniess @i-am-a-death-dealer  @galaxy99love @holymolydrrad @imbaekhyunstrash @shesdreaminginoverdose @princess-ellaxo @baekmuffin @dont-hyuck @mynameissoonyoung-callmesoon @jookyunhoe ♥♥♥

part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || part 5 || part 6 || part 7 || part 8 || part 9 || part 10 || part 11 || part 12


Keep reading

good guy tyler hcs

-tyler goes to bars just to drive drunk girls back home safely
-he works out and gets all beefy so he can protect girls from being assaulted while they’re partying
-wins 50 stuffed toys at theme parks just to give them out to little kids
-he learns American Sign Language just in case he meets fans who use it
-he helps old people cross the street
-helps out at soup kitchens and often gives out food to the homeless with teamiplier
-let’s kids ride on his shoulders and view the world at a different perspective
-sponsors animals at shelters and families in third world countries
-is a volunteer singer at charity drives
-conducts free piano lessons for the kids in his neighbourhood so they can have another passion in life

anonymous asked:

I have a similar question to the writing one! Would you mind if any of us made art of your comic or art of headcanons we've thought of etc.? Of course id point everyone to the original because it's brilliant! I'm so in love with this ;u;

friend. buddy. whenever people make art of my things I am happy for literally weeks afterwards when I think about it. people cross the street so they don’t have to be walking along next to me and my wide wide smile at the middle distance. please do the thing.


I believe in this breed. I believe that’s there’s a really ridiculous and unwarranted stigma that’s attached to both pit bulls and pit bull owners. I think it’s nonsense. …There are a lot of causes to get behind in the world, but I think that breed-specific prejudices can lead to problems that are as mundane as simply people crossing the street when they see a pit bull, to people being kicked out of their apartments or being separated from their family pets because of the breed of the dog, which has nothing to do with the dog’s behavior or the level of responsibility of the owner.

look at the stars, how they shine for you

Pairing: Daveed x Reader.
Shameless, shameless fluff.

Summary: Daveed is feeling down when everyone forgets his birthday, but a surprise from Reader lifts his spirits. (I suck at summaries. Sorry.)
Requests are open!

A sigh left Daveed’s lips as he tipped back his head, sipping at his beer. Sitting alone at the bar on his birthday was definitely up on his top ten worst moments. It seemed as though everyone had forgotten; Rafa, Lin, Oak, even his parents hadn’t sent on a message or called to say hello. It shouldn’t have been a big a deal as it felt, or so he thought. In all honestly, Daveed thought it was slightly pathetic to be so morose about one day of the year. It wasn’t like it was a special birthday, like his 21st. Just another year.

Vibration against his leg alerted him to a text. When he checked his phone, disappointment rose again - not his parents or his best friend. The text was from you, and it wasn’t that he was annoyed to hear from you, but he was upset when your text didn’t mention his birthday, either.

From; (Y/N)Hey. Need to talk to you. Come over?

Finishing off the bottle, he resigned himself to being forgotten. Tapped out a quick reply as he flagged a taxi down and climbed into the back seat, listing off your address. Streets passed in a blur of lights and roving crowds as he gazed out the window, a heavy weight in his chest. Was he really so unimportant? That even his own mother and father couldn’t be bothered to call and say happy birthday? The more he thought about it, the more his frustration grew. Grow up, Diggs,, he scolded himself silently, it’s not a big deal.


Dragging himself up the steps to your flat, he struggled to haul a half-convincing smile onto his face. If your message was anything to go by, it sounded like you needed someone to talk to. He didn’t want to elicit feelings of guilt in you for not remembering - so he elected to pretend as it all was fine. You opened the door and smiled brightly at him - okay, maybe you weren’t upset then.

‘Hey! Thanks for coming. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important?’ You asked over your shoulder, opening the fridge and retrieving two brown, glass bottles. Daveed shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s cool.’

You smiled again, cracking the tops off the beer and handing one to him. He took it gratefully, and found that he could return your smile with ease. Seeing you always lifted his spirits, your smile the one thing that could light up even the darkest of nights.

'No!’ You yelled out suddenly as he made to sit down on the small, worn sofa in front of the tv. He froze, 'what?’

Moving to the fire escape you lifted the shutter and beckoned for him to follow. 'Where are you going?’

You beckoned again, opting out of answering. Daveed followed and climbed out after you, taking a seat two steps down from where you were. Silence hung between you both for a few moments, well, silence in the form of no speaking. Below, horns honked and people yelled and laughed and engines roared to life, a cacophony of sound, the mix of people crossing on the street, rising slowly and becoming fainter on the ninth floor. When you didn’t speak, he decided to bite the bullet.

'Any particular reason you called me here? Besides sitting on your fire escape?’

You tilted your head down to look at him, eyes alight with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Excitement? Nervousness? A mix of both, and something else?

'There is a reason.’ You confirmed, keeping your tone deliberately vague. Daveed raised his eyebrows questioningly, but again you fell silent. 'Do I have to guess?’

Your laugh warmed his heart; 'You can, if you like,’ you teased, and he shook his head. 'I’d rather you just tell me,’ he admitted. You looked out over the city, the high rise buildings casting shadows all the way out to the horizon, gaze roving from one spot to another. 'It’s been a long day. I was up at six to get work, and then I was kept on late because of an influx of new evidence in a case.’ You winced, voice explanatory, but what were you trying to explain?

'Okay?’ Daveed’s voice was laden with confusion, head swimming. Why had you called him over? Why were you acting so weird? As he opened his mouth to ask these questions, you shifted above him. Crouching down to level your heights you nudged him gently, nodding to the sky. 'See the stars?’ His gaze followed hers; yes, he saw the stars. The sky was unusually clear, almost transparent - there was a feeling that if you looked hard enough, you’d see a spaceship whizzing past the moon. 'See that constellation?’ You pointed to a cluster of glowing stars and then indicated to a lone one, shining brilliantly down on the pair staring at the sky from a New York fire escape.

'Pretty,’ Daveed commented, knocked off by the impromptu astrology session. After a moment, he felt your gaze burning into the side of his face, and turned. A gentle, almost shy, smile was on your lips, cheeks dusted with red. 'It’s yours,’ you told him, and for a while all he could do was stare. As the words sunk in, his eyes widened in disbelief. 'Wait - what?’

You shrugged, bashfully. 'The star is yours. I named it after you.’ You met his deep, brown eyes briefly, 'Happy birthday, Daveed.’

Rendered completely speechless, the master of words found himself at a loss for what to say. He switched glances between you and the star, dumbfounded by the sweet gesture. Eventually, he remembered how to work his mouth.

'You remembered,’ he said, in a low tone. 'Of course I did,’ you replied, as if it were obvious.
'You - you gave me a star,’ he said, testing the words in his mouth.
'I gave you a star,’ you repeated.

’(Y/N)… I don’t know what to say,’ he reached out to take your hand in his, almost knocking you off your balance. Immediately you grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself - bringing you closer to Daveed. He dragged you fully in to embrace you tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude. 'Thank you,’ he whispered sincerely in your ear, 'thank you.’ Flushing, you found yourself surprised at the response to your gift - you hadn’t expected him to react this way.

He pulled back from the hug to look you in the eyes. 'Really, (Y/N). That is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ Embarrassed, you looked down, playing it down. 'It’s nothing, really -’

He cut you off by pressing his thumb to your lips, both of you equally surprised by the action. He watched your eyes widen, felt your breath trembling as it left your lips, noticed how you tensed in his hold. 'It’s everything, (Y/N).’

You smiled, then. Without fully thinking, his thumb lifted from your mouth, the gentle pressure replaced by his own mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned in, savouring every second of the moment you had been dreaming of for so long. Breaking away for air, Daveed rested his forehead against yours. Slightly breathless, he brushed his thumb over your cheek softly.

'Happy birthday to me,’ he whispered, and you giggled in response, flustered and unsure. He pressed his lips to yours once more - then you dropped your head to his shoulder, and his arms hooked around your body tight.

Maybe tonight had started out as one of the worst of his life, but it had ended by being the best.