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thedeedarkthoughts · 2 years
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Figure drawing turned painting
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thedeedarkthoughts · 2 years
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Unfinished studdy of colour,light, and tone.
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thedeedarkthoughts · 2 years
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This is it before I glued it all down and added the rest. I think it looks better at this stage so I won't post the finished product 😅
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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The Brother That Was
The world got too rough, and mean, and violent so my brother put everything in a box and built himself a castle in the clouds through which he could experience life, muted, far away. This let him forget all the bad things. All the noise and fights and feelings he didn’t want were successfully whisked away. I just wish I wasn’t whisked away with it. It’s been 17 years, but I still remember the look on his face as we danced through the kitchen, him in his silly paper crown, me in my big puffy dress. We were surrounded by paper garlands we’d made ourselves and still thick as thieves, partners in crime, peas in a pod as close as close gets. I remember how I’d reach my hand out in bed to hold his, and the way the sunlight trough the window highlighted the freckles on his face and made his blond hair shine gold. I remember translating for him as we learned to talk because I always knew what he was saying. I remember loving him soo much I couldn’t possibly have been lonely, but why wouldn’t I have loved him, as twins we were experiencing everything together for the first time new and exciting and vibrant. I think of those first years of us together and I want to scream. We were so small, so full of light and love and happiness, but the world wasn’t kind and there was no one to protect us from that. My brother built his box and he built his castle and I understood because every bit of himself he reached out got swatted away like a stray fly, he was to loud, to messy, to curious, to much,  and everyone made sure he knew it. But I was in the box with all the rest holding the frayed end of the string he cut looking up at the cold castle I couldn’t reach. 17 years I’ve been pulling that string behind me constantly tugging on it even though I know there’s nothing on the other end, and I think about trauma and how the media portrays it as this unifying thing that people survive together. It’s not true. How dare they. Some people remember everything. Some people feel it and fight it and live with it. And some people put it away.  I’m 23 now and at 6 my brother decided life was to much to be present for. He doesn’t remember what I do. He doesn’t remember us as we were. He doesn’t remember how I fought and struggled and raised both of us. He just remembers me after. Because something else you don’t learn about trauma until it’s you is that sometimes you can be a superhero. Sometimes you can carry the world on your shoulders and win. But when its over and its safe to put it down that’s when you crumble, that’s when it crushes you. So I pull on that string because at the other end of mine is love and happiness and a cure to loneliness. But he doesn’t, because all he remembers of me is the mess. And that wasn’t something anyone would want especially when you’d tried so hard for so long to hide from it.
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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Some art for class spring 2021
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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Sometimes I exist within a weird kind of feeling. My heart beats and I go about my day but I feel in my chest a spring, a plucked string, the sound of a cello note right before it fades to silent. My feelings vibrate in my chest, not falling on anything in particular, just existing and making everything feel a little off quilter, my normal self just a half step away, out of reach.
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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that overwhelming feeling when standing at the back of the elevator at work leaning against the far wall, emotions like a string in your chest just plucked, shaking, on the ledge of something you’ve learned to step back from. it feels something like grief or homesickness or a line of 250 000 people lined up in your head to vast to understand, or maybe it’s just too much of all three at once.
Dec. 4 2020
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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I feel in some ways envious of that young girl that was me, she who refused to say I love you to her mother just because it was expected, she who let herself be angry, she who did not compromise or lie or silence herself with “small white lies” to keep the peace. because here I am having somehow gone backwards. in an attempt to let go of anger and bitterness I opened myself up to further suffering, of pretending love with someone you can’t get away from. but maybe worse, I set a precedent  for myself, think first of the consequences, think first of the other and not yourself. what a sad place to be when the words I love you feels more like a knife than a hug.
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thedeedarkthoughts · 3 years
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Kind off obsest with Jeremiah Lloyd Harmon right now, his music might have a lot of religious conotation but its still just phenomenal if anyone wants to listen. My favorite song is Almost Heaven wich is also the song that won him a spot on american idol and also makes me cry
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thedeedarkthoughts · 4 years
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My love is a cold thing now, where once it was bright and passionate and loud, it now sits cold in my chest a reluctant thing. I remember being young and not knowing better, saying I love yous and playing that stupid game of who loves who most, as big as this house, as big as space, as big as all the galaxies that exist in this world, and I remember meaning it despite the pit in my stomach and the tightness in my chest my heart was full. And when she wouldn’t get up I would crawl into her bed naked and hug her and feel her skin on my skin and thought that even if she wasn’t talking, or singing, or telling stories, that this was love, and the dark would scare me a little less.
 Even as I got angry I tried to love her, I would yell and scream and fight and reason and try to get her to see what she was doing to us with her lies and her yelling, her temper and the depression that left her bound to bed for days, I wanted to feel loved. So still I would grab her hand, and cuddle on the couch, and sneak into her bed, and say this is love, even as the pit grew, this was love. Even as she twisted my mind and made me think I’d forgotten horrible things, or remembered my life all wrong, or that my opinions and anger belonged to someone else I loved her, knowing it was wrong I loved her, recognizing how unhealthy she was for me I loved her, because sometimes loving your parents is a horrible thing.
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thedeedarkthoughts · 4 years
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Am I the Oppressor this Time?
Every time I think about Trump, not just in passing, but really think about him, I feel it in my bones. A shiver starts in my shoulders and my hands shake and I can’t feel my toes and I feel sick to my stomach with fear. I read post about the ten steps to genocide and people talk about Hitler and I think of what Trump has done and I shake.
 I think about the saying “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” and read posts about how sitting by and doing nothing is perpetuating violence and supporting the oppressors and I click on petitions and open pages to donate but I’m 22 and living on my own after struggling to get away from the unhealthy living situations I was stuck in with my parents that are that way because of the trauma they got from growing up with parents who grew up Jewish during the Holocaust, the genocide everyone is always talking about. And I think about how my dad has all this money I could never ask for, and how my mom has so much PTSD she’s been on Disability most of my life, and I look at my bank account and I can’t bring myself to donate any of it, and I feel guilty, and I wonder am I the oppressor this time?
 So, I open the tab with the petition and I click in the first box, what is your name? and I think of my mom who puts everything official under her white catholic husbands name unless absolutely necessary , and has a nickname 5 degrees removed from her real one, and how she only makes accounts with fake last names, and how scared she is to be found. And I think about how the Nazis found the Jews, even the non-practicing ones ,even the ones who did everything to be hidden, how they interrogated neighbors, and went through records, and scoured the world for any trace they could find, and my heart beats faster, and I understand my mother a bit better than I did before, and I type my name (because I am not on their side and black lives matter and the people of the world deserve better than this) but at the last minute the fear overwhelms me, I close the page and my heart breaks. And I wonder am I the oppressor this time?
 And sometimes I think about the girl I’m named after and how young she died, I’m older that she ever was now, do I owe it to her to be brave? Is this fear born of stories, this fear I pulled from the old suitcase in my mother’s attic full of photos of the dead from which I pulled a dead girls face, a place I was never to look, is this fear enough to justify my silence? I don’t think it is, but courage is much easier to talk about than it is to live.
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