#my one solace in my insanity is that this is EXACTLY how those two pretentious mfs would receive themselves too. well kaveh would.

[w1737087]

[Gallery piece 9- Patron of Anarchy]

Patron of anarchy is a photograph I took of my first assigned desk 2019 October. It hints at my loosened morals and development into a next chapter of what I become. It’s come to mainly represent the days I fell into the search for a taste of real life.

See I was still a beginner in my lane of freedom that nobody understood how unseriously fundamental it was for me to go through a prolonged state of fuckery (lawlessness). For the days I had attended I would find myself with plenty of ideas to work from but harnessed all inside my head. I couldn’t find the means to start or know where to begin. You could imagine the difficulty of this nature. So I let days go by as I tended to nothing but the mental aches and troubles of being inside my head and dealing with whoever the hell I was that period of my life. I wasn’t much for an over thinker ever really but I was still suckered into remnants of melancholy that lasted that whole year over what I couldn’t exactly specify and I guess i had to do nothing but wait it out and think on myself a lot and how often I was doing nothing at my desk with all my empty books and inked pens.

The persistent feeling of being in and out place and not belonging followed me around more than I could bother to put up with. That’s a type of discomfort you couldn’t tend to in the right ways. I couldn’t settle down. I felt jumpy and tranquil all at once. Even so when round the clock I was bombarded by disorganised excerpts and loose words hanging for dear life on the tip of my toiled mind. Which was itself filled with the growing fear of aging and voids within me that widened by the mere fact of still accomplishing nothing with this life of mine, daunting me; haggling me to begin already. My seratonin levels hung down low due to this personal rush I entangled myself in and later predominately evaluated, the job I was working straining me of all blithe. A month prior those categorised as friends had surprisingly cut the thread holding us together which I was both mad and heavily relieved about too but altogether at this point of the year I was the one in this prolonged mess; heaved far away from me, very damaged and sulking in a clustered vessel of self ushered issues and frequently low emotions. I felt like clammy hands, stuck in mud and out of place. Like that Katy perry lyric in firework. Just discomfort in all parts of life, THERE. This place provided some endearing comfort like I dreamed it would. I found gradual solace whenever I’d come. Soon the freedom away from home gave me the chance to be someone only I would come to know existed since making friends was and wasn’t on the agenda it didn’t occur much. No one in existence was keeping up with me and The age of living was about to begin.

Semester attitude (out and ins of uni life):

I was alone much of the time lacking in productivity. I simply could do because I couldn’t enforce the energy to focus. I found myself in the contrary of any agenda I set any morning I’d wake and I was dreading the truth before me of accomplishing fuck all by squandering all this potential I had as time did a runner. I carried on however as our imperial universe that guides us all one by one toward our inevitable end decided to assign the free-flow-fuckery phase to me. When results of chance and spontaneity led me to inaugurate foolish behaviour of roaming under no rules or limitations to keep myself at bay I did things to only feed the mind and soul. (Level upgrade). Soon I was unknowingly falling into a new and improved version of myself I guess I couldn’t wait to meet. Flawed as hell but new. I reacquainted with a friend in me when I sat to drink spirits alone and inhaled mixed herbs among a companion or two in the grounds of my new fortress. Joy enamoured me a little more than when I was sober like the so called toxin was a remedy but poison. I was getting better. Things were happening for good reasons and I was rid of people unhealthy for me which induced my realisation in the fact that people failed to suffice in positions of companionship unlike my own wonders with myself. People seemed to take me away from me and i had the time to reflect and realise not to keep falling into people all the time. I was elated most alone since I couldn’t merge with the rest of humanity as well as I’d hoped. I felt people complicated everything. When you were alone you understood the simplicities of life and how you could just survive. To breathe was easier. Hence I concluded I could do all the learning from a distance and avoid people by any means necessary. I found I could do anything from sitting at this desk, even if it was nothing at all and get where I needed to be with my studies.

I went on to spend much of that year lacking in attendance. If I was to finally leave my house it was either to come here or go to work. So I would take the opportunity of bringing my homebody out to drink in the days I preceded to be in uni. It became a viable routine if I wished to attend. It was easy and convenient to just do it. I’d buy a bottle and down a jack intaking enough to meet my alter ego every step of the way till I got to see who else I could be. People often thought I had problems for the way I drank but I don’t think I could have explained to them without receiving pesky opinions my reasons of getting hammered. You didn’t need a day of the week to determine your occurrence of fun. Nor did you need alcohol. Spirits were just a method I refused to not be immersed by in those days. I just wanted in on the lucidity... to feel elevated more than grounded. To feel undefeated and childish. To see myself surprise myself through a new perspective of a much weaker me. You could join or not join, it was my world and everyone was merely living in it. It was new to me and I wouldn’t be done for while. Even if you hadn’t thought it I was in good control of myself. My favourite ally. Nothing could come between a true alliance.

I conclude it was sort of a solution I fell into, a mere highway robbery with the understanding and joyful experience in knowing myself through odd forms indulging in what life had to offer besides my imposed religious/cultured life sprinkled down from mother and father (the imposed life). I was a patron of this high, this getaway and freedom from them and any means of pretentious normality I’d known. It was interesting to know what I was getting up to and how exactly affordable provisions of this world can take me. The behaviours and dimensions i let myself enter through the feel of intoxication in my body and mind were anarchic; out of order. I felt a stimulation of numbness, mild insanity and abundant freedom to do without a second thought some things that didn’t matter even to just let loose and mess around. I wondered and adventured, lazed around and didn’t laze around. I laughed and spoke alone, I worked very little and indulged in the places of my mind keeping a trace on every part of me and my safety. Everything was total misdemeanour and I was glad to have not been a mean or somewhat terrible drunk. I was the good loving clumsy type. Sorry for the trouble for who encountered me but also not at all apologetic for anything. There was no rule of law on my back.

The woman who ran (2020) dir. Hong Sang Soo

Now that period is over and this creation inscribes the blast before the doom. The pandemic shortly arrived and all my la di da adventures were over. Being a homebody most of my life restricted me from much outdoor interaction and so I lacked the energy to ever leave my home which holds my predominant sanctuary but just for a month and over before the doom I attended my desk very frequently mentally preparing and gathering findings for my actual work and wanted to live in some more of this fun I created for myself. Though it was the universe who intervened again to halt that flow of lack of care I had going on of being an unserious first year..

Given my disruptive inattentive behaviour with myself and anyone in my way I couldn’t focus on studies. Even at home when all my days were spent sober. I couldn’t make myself do anything that wasn’t compulsory. So i decided with the understanding that art was a mere definition of anything and everything, my work was going to be about my troubles and inadequacies all through out. I found the way to win without looking. Just to save my own back really. Nevertheless it was all rendered through sincerity and passion.

[wincestisasincest]

A Study in Middle Earth --- Part 1 (A Hobbit Fan-fiction)

Hello! I know it’s been so long since I’ve posted anything, but I’m back, and I think you’re in for a treat. I plan for this to be much much longer than a two parter, 10 at the very least.

Summary: I fell into Middle Earth at the worst possible time in my life, though I was lucky enough to encounter a strand of something that I understood in this absolutely insane world. 

To the reader:

I was never that much into recording my life experiences. To me, it always seemed like too much work for a cause that your family might happen to read, and nothing else. Unless, of course, you had a super interesting life that your millions of adoring fans will pay to go further into their delusion that they actually know something about you. I know, I know. I promise that the pretentious attitude will stop soon, just let me have this one moment.

Anyway, I’ve never been into recording my life experiences, but I feel that it actually does seem necessary in this situation. Much like Bilbo did at the conclusion of his most prominent life experiences, I will now be recording down all that I’ve gone through for posterity, so that, perhaps, those in the future can understand the now, and everything that has caused it.

Of course, I don’t expect whoever is reading this to actually believe what I’m saying. You shouldn’t, and if you do, that may be the greater cause for concern. I understand that I could fake a much different reason for this that would probably result in better aftermath, but as a last hurrah to my adventure, I’m going to release myself from having to find a balance between what’s real and what isn’t.

Doubt all you please, I see no reason why I should care. But this is what I am right now, raw, unedited, and this is precisely what happened.

Spring break is either the greatest blessing or curse to ever be bestowed on high school students. On one hand, it’s a release from the grueling 8 to 3, and further, depending on your extracurriculars, the ridiculous social pressures that still somehow manage to reign supreme, and your typical, boring, town that you know like the back of your hand, but at least you can doodle on the back of your hand during class. For this particular year, spring break had been a long sought after week of independence from my family, a concept that had become almost alien to me at the time, as all of our vacations had been spent together. However, my dad had been sent on a business trip, and my mother, though she would never admit it, was desperately in need of a break from work and family, so I was permitted to travel with a friend. It didn’t hit me as to how knew this experience was until I was on the plane with my long time friend Fiona, her brother David, and her parents, staring faux wistfully out into the window, Paris pulling into view. It would be quite an adventure for my first vacation without my parents to a country with, let’s be nice and say lax, views on alcohol. Excellent planning as usual. The blur of not pronouncing hs, ridiculous border control, and waiting far too long to check into a hotel that was barely worth it passed by quickly enough with a conversation partner, and soon, I found myself on the balcony of a French apartment, a beer in hand, leaning against David, and peering out into a sea of like teenagers who called this evening a typical Tuesday. Losing my grip on reality, I too flowed with the waves of drunk teenagers that were now parading through the city, only to have them disperse into smaller groups. Noticing Fiona’s red hair branching off into the local park, I trailed after her, the way that a lost puppy does, only to find myself in the tempest of horny students against trees, with Fiona having ventured further into the forest. I plodded along, the alcohol pumping through my skull blocking out the rising din of groans that would be doing a detriment to my focus. If I had any, that is. I saw her perfectly straightened red hair disappear behind yet another tree, this time she had her lips already interlocked with a blond haired boy that was surely not in high school, but I’m very certain that her mind was on something entirely. I sighed. If I had perhaps bothered to mingle instead of allowing myself to be dragged along on someone else’s adventure, then maybe I wouldn’t find myself in the worst possible situation. There’s often a misconception that it sucks to be the only sober person in a room of drunk people. Well, that’s not necessarily true. It sucks more to be the only sober person in a French forest of people having sex. My fingers wiped away some of the dirt still sticking to a beer, still sweating, though not from the incredibly steamy surrounding environment. Even though I was surrounded by things so much more interesting than mine, I could at least find solace in knowing that alcohol would always be my friend. I downed yet another, my collected conscience dissipating for good, and I fully lived in the bliss knowing that I would forget all of this tomorrow.

I wake up. I look to the left, and then the right. Sunlight is flooding through the windows, speckling the rest of the furniture in the room, but everything is so blurred that it looks like a warmly colored Jackson Pollock painting. And now, there’s spots of red hiding within it. I sit up. I’m in a storage barn, lying among hay and smelling like shit and copper. There’s hay in my hair. I look down at my clothes, still being unable to decipher what was written on my graphic t-shirt last night, though I can see slivers of my pale skin peeking through parts of my jeans that I’m certain weren’t ripped before. I recall looking down at my hands last. They were covered with dry blood, the copper stench still permeating the atmosphere. I would’ve screamed, cried, or had some indication of horror, but nothing came out. Instead, my mind went to work analyzing all that was there, whilst past cases of drunk “accidents” flooded through my skull. I stood up. My green flight jacket was to my left, so I was still generally together when I came to, and possibly fled to, this barn. I examined the pockets, relieved when my fingers felt the smooth, cold, phone screen still there. I pulled it out, not exactly excited to look at the messages there, but still desperate as to discover exactly what had happened last night. I pressed the home button, feeling yet another wave of relief when a bright picture of my family at Disney World flashed onto the screen. It’s 11:45, and I still had battery, which also means the potential at looking at drunk pics. Oh, great. I heard a creak coming from the presumed direction of the door. I’ve always been a run first and ask questions never type of person, and, no matter how well I knew whoever it was that was approaching, I will always arrive at the conclusion that no one is pleased with finding a hungover person in their barn. I peered to my right, knowing that I would probably have left some damning piece of evidence there. My blue backpack was there. At least I hadn’t left it somewhere else. With unknown speed, most likely due to the adrenaline pumping through me at the speed of light, I slung it over my shoulder and instinctively grabbed what was underneath. I darted into the corner, and jumped over another bale of hay. The comfortable feeling of my sneakers pounding on the ground was welcome. I land into a wall of hay, not tumbling through it because my knuckle is pushing upward on yet another block. The shouts of whoever had entered reverberated through the labyrinth of hay. They were older, male, and had a British twinge to them that was not uncommon in Europe, but a tad odd in France. Whoever they were shouting for didn’t respond, and, if I was correct, whoever they were shouting for had taken the one chance that they had and made a mad dash for the door, run around to the back of the barn, and put her back up against the chipped red paint. My grip tightened on my backpack as I had surveyed the scene. The undulating emerald hills housed a small dirt road, that lead out into a distance hub of action, which appeared to be a somewhat traditional market, buzzing with life and people, though I couldn’t discern which. The only thing between me and that marketplace was an oddly ramshackle fence. Rural France would’ve been intimidating to anyone else, but as someone in French honors, I was certain that I could find a way to finesse myself out of my current predicament. I checked my phone again. No service. Fantastic. How I had arrived here was my smallest concern now, however. I could hear the person inside the barn giving up on searching the inside, and deciding that it was time to take a look outback. I swore to myself briefly, and simultaneously promised that I would present myself to this person and apologize when I found myself in a better state. I bolted away, not bothering to examine the rest of the barn, and found myself hastily scrambling over the fence and rolling down the hill. Princess Bride style. I landed at the bottom, noticing that I’ve attracted the attention of a couple of shoppers from the market, closer in view now. They were wearing some odd choices, but I had come to the conclusion that it made sense for rural France. One of the men came down the hill, approaching me. I backed up slightly, hoping that as soon as I had regained my composure he would recognize me as a drunken force not be meddled with. He continues approaching. I finally found the strength to push myself up, failing to reach the level of coordination that I had prior, despite the hangover. The man looked into my glazed eyes, and I finally had the chance to view him fully. He wore clothes that were oddly medieval in style, with a brown tunic, plain shirt, and black trousers covered so heavily in dirt that they were almost brown. The only thing that was somewhat familiar about him were the biological human traits, like his eyes and hair, which was incredibly curly, so it hid his ears. I noticed another man bounding down the hill, this time accompanied by what must have been a woman, wearing a very medieval dress. I turned to face the original one that had approached me, only to find myself looking down into his earnest eyes. I blinked. The couple coming down the hill joined him, their clothes fitting with the rest of the scene. I suddenly took notice as to how alien I felt at the moment. The smaller man looked up to the others, similarly only reaching the shoulder height of the woman. He was the first to speak. “Are you alright, miss?” I found myself examining him completely. His feet were uncovered, and fit disproportionately to the rest of him, as well as having an unnaturally hairy outer layer. My thoughts were interrupted further. “My god- is that a Dwarven dagger?” I drew back slightly, putting the supposedly Dwarven dagger behind me, feeling as though I might need it in the future, as the company I found myself in appeared to be at least a tad bit off their medication. I looked at the woman, examining how work worn her face was, expecting her to say something that made sense, though my prayers weren’t answered. “Uh-“ I stuttered, quite out of character for me, my usual confidence fading. “Well,” the taller man said, “answer the Halfling’s question.” “Umm…” “Oh can’t you see she’s clearly distressed. Come, dear, what’s-“ “Um, no!” “Hm?” “No, it’s not a Dwarven dagger. It’s my dad’s. I’m bringing it to him.” “I’m sorry, what?” The “Halfing” was unconvinced. “Yes, he left it in this barn, and I was taking a shorter route.” It was at this moment that some sense came to me, and I realized that they weren’t speaking French, and there was not a trace of a French accent in their perfectly dictated English speech. I would’ve been more conscious of my Brooklyn accent, but one quickly becomes numb to that in Europe. “He lives here, does he?” The hobbit raised an eyebrow. “You are from around here, then?” The taller man had joined him. “Um, no! He lives… back there!” I pointed to the distance, only now bothering to realize that the gloomy forest that happened to be there looked rather unwelcoming. “Past the woods, then?” “Yes, out there, and I’m really late, so I have to go. Bye!” I waved and used every bit of athletic prowess that I had accumulated over the years to dash straight into the forest, and not look back, for I’m certain that I would’ve met with some confused countenances, though they matched my own as soon as I ran deep enough into the woods, approached a tree, and banged my head into it repeatedly, hating myself for everything that was last night and trying to recall some sort of explanation. I opened my phone again, desperately flipping through all of my pictures, faces of my mom and my dad and my family flashing by, but absolutely nothing from last night. I felt tears tempted at the edge of my eyes, but I refused to let them flow. I wouldn’t cry. There was no reason. I was just confused, but I would escape this. I would get out of this. Little did I know that that would become my future mantra. My crusty blood hand still grasped the dagger, some of it smearing with the metal. My eyes scanned it carefully, or, as carefully as I could, with a hell of a headache deciding to enter the conversation, as a reminder of just how much I had drank last night. There was something of a beautiful drawing carved into it, though I couldn’t really interpret what it was. It appeared to be too patterned and structured. I squinted and looked at is closer. There was some sort of recognition in the back of my mind, but I just couldn’t reach it. I threw my head back against the tree, sighing deeply, faux sanity once again reigning supreme. Khuzdul. That’s what it was. Khuzdul. Where the hell was going on?

Battery: 34%

Time: 11:45 AM

Date: Wednesday, April 4

Service: Nada, not even the weird foreign French kind

Background: Family at Disney World

Inventory: Backpack, 60 euros, flashlight, headphones, charger, hoodie, Princess Bride, The Maltese Falcon, The Killing Joke, sewing kit, hair ties, brush, two granola bars, knife with Khuzdul writing

Mood: Hungover, shitty, confused, determined

#the hobbit #thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield #company x reader #thorin imagine #thorin x oc #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit imagine #the company x reader #the company imagine #the hobbit fanfcition #kili x reader #fili x reader