03,08,2024

03,08,2024

hes playing that fucking roblox dressup game

charllan shitposting iblove them so much theyre so me and my boyfriend

crazy how fanfic authors drop the most beautiful and gorgeous pieces of work ever, leaving you speechless and sobbing at three in the morning as you quietly contemplate the masterpiece you just read

and they don’t get paid for it they just do it because they’re having fun and they want to share their joy with you

like I would literally die for all of you fanfic authors out there reblog to swear your allegiance to fanfic authors

Life wizards can and will stray from their path.

Theurgists listen to the Song of Creation, what was once sung to creat the Spiral and still resonates today, echoing off of each life wizard vector who continues this growth. The full feeling in their chest, fluttering hands and heartbeat as they genuinely wish for something to florish.

The Song is a cry in the darkness, and they are the ones who listen, who understand. Living is difficult, unfair. It is chance and then it is a competition, species fighting like weeds trying to strangle a garden. But the weeds wish to live too. It is all they have.

The Song is a quiet melody, repeating in their minds when they begin to learn the intricacies of life magic. It is in off-key humming as they tidy up their dorm room. It is in awful singing along on long trips. It is in shower concerts, in the absentminded finger on the dusty piano. The Song is baby's laughter and a cat's purr and the shaky vows of love.

It grows, as all things do. It manifests in life wizards and they can only grin and dance to a predestined beat, full of nice feelings. Sunshine warming their body. The soft petals of fragility. The peace of knowing they can only do their best, and accepting it.

There is a resentment that can fester, however. In hidden things, the parasites hijacking the bugs, the disease and rot where nothing new can blossom. It is when they tire of singing along. It is when they snap at fellow life wizards for whistling and humming seemingly random tunes. It is the knowledge that their every action is guided by a Song sung at the beginning of the Spiral, and the assumption that nothing can be done because of that.

They want to do more. There is no lost cause. There is no excuse in this prewritten lullaby, and they will not surrender into acceptance when injustices happen every day, and no music can rectify them.

So they stop listening.

They are silent, now. They cannot effect the Spiral in any way that creates sound, now. In their rejection their claps are nothing. Their footsteps do not effect forest or classroom floors. Snaps, the creaking of joints, sighs, involuntary groans of pain.

When a life wizard rejects this song, they too are rejected in turn.

They have ideas now, goals. They save people written off as dead, they can save so many. They live with a weight taken off of their mind, no longer under any will but their own. Violin and guitar and piano strings do not guide them like a puppet. Their heart is no longer a drumbeat. Their every move is no longer just a note on a page, on straight, ridged lines.

It is almost soothing, to be encased in silence. Like the shade of a tree after being pulled outside to enjoy a spring day. Like an oasis in the desert. Like a rock to rest upon as the river runs lazily around you, no longer forced to sink or swim.

Their silence can be their end, no matter how free their will is.

They cannot cry for help. No one will hear their cries of pain, their frantic breaths, the grotesque song of their body breaking. This is simply a rest between notes, a small exhale of silence while other instruments continue on in the orchestra.

Another will take their place soon enough, one more ready to listen well to the Song of Creation.

so canon to me.