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@thirteenth-doctor / thirteenth-doctor.tumblr.com

Sid | multifandom blog + aesthetics | tracking #violinsherlock and #rainbow-bill
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cheruib

that comment about how you should not borrow grief from the future has saved me multiple times from spiraling into an inescapable state of anxiety. like every time i find myself thinking about how something in the future could go wrong i remember that comment and i think to myself: well i never know, it might get better. it might not even happen the way i think it will and if it does happen and it is sad and bad ill be sad about it then, when it happens. and it’s somehow soo freeing

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slfcare

five recipes for an exciting life (in my opinion)

  1. spending enough time creating things with your hands (baking, drawing, scrapbooking, doodling, crocheting, journaling and so on)
  2. keeping track of things like pretty skies, milestones, happy memories, appointments you're looking forward to
  3. listening to music that genuinely makes you feel happy and energetic
  4. making a habit of reaching out to people in a way that's comfortable to you (i send my dad songs he might like, my friend sends me monthly life updates)
  5. being kind to all your five senses → like investing in a scented candle or essential oil dispenser or body mist, having a soft blanket or socks (or a soft animal to pet), listening to birdsong or the rain, looking at the sky more often, and having your favorite foods enough times
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nikoisme

actually the fact that odysseus knew he'd be gone for 20 years makes the gears in my brain turn. You kiss your son goodbye knowing you will miss every milestone of his. He will be a grown man and will not remember you. You will be a father only by title. Your wife will lay alone in your wedding bed, she will wake and see the side you've slept on is empty. You won't hold each other for a long, long time. Your parents may not even be there to welcome you back. You know you will return, but the war stretches on and on. Your comrades fall. Your ships are on fire. Your best warriors are nothing but ashes in an urn. But it's eventually over, you can go home. But still, there's more time left. First it's a storm. It's winding up in strange lands. It's hunger. It's temptation. Your men grow weary. You have twelve ships and then you have one and then it's only you on a single timber. You know you will return, but everything has gone so horribly wrong that you can't help but wonder if the fates fooled you. Everyone you know is either dead or are living again. You are the only one stuck in between. Neither dead or alive. You sit on a beach staring out to the sea from the moments the birds sing til the sun dips over the horizon. Every day is the same - you sit on the stones and weep, you trek the shores, during the night you're in her bed. Your skin is cracked and sunburnt, your beard long and tangled, your hair etched with more and more silver hairs. Your eyes are dull, sunken. Your bones ache when you walk, your breath is shorter. The sun rises and sets. The waves wash away your footprints. You are growing old but the island is the same. You are left behind. Your home will change and you won't change with it. In fact, everyone will change, but you will not recognize what's different. Some of the lines under your eyes will be the hauntings of war, while your wife's will be from the sleepless nights of buying you time. You flinch when you see each other. You expected to see someone else, and she expected to see no one at all. You could once hold your boy in your arms, but now it feels like he's the one holding you. The trees in your orchard have grown taller. Some of the houses in your kingdom are empty. The children that sat on your knees now have their own children on their own knees - or they lie dead, by your own hand. Who are you? Who is your son, your wife? You will get to know each other, you will change together eventually. But there will still be something off, like a brick not fitting quite right in the foundation. Off like a living man among the dead, someone who wasn't fated to die, but was supposed to die a long time ago. A dead man among the living. You will not belong, even though you are the father of your son, the husband of your wife, the son of your father, the king of your land. There will always be something missing, something aching.

And you are willing to let it all happen when you lift your baby son from the field, away from the plow.

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mclennonyaoi

you ever know someone and you think “god i love you. i wish we could’ve known eachother when we were carefree and 11. i wish we could’ve played together as kids”

a friend of mine walked me through their childhood diaries and god i wish i could’ve given them a hug. i wish we could’ve played with stuffed animals together

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editoress

It's very possible that the only way to ensure you don't become a conservative old person is to keep checking whether you're wrong. Every time. Genuinely mull over the opposing viewpoint even and especially when it's uncomfortable. You absolutely cannot a) consider yourself safely incapable of terrible principles because you're a good person, or b) treat a your disgust reaction to something as a moral truth. You can't get comfortable. Tiring! But you'd rather be tired and choose the right path, you know?

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