This Hurts Me - Tumblr Posts
they’re called. th. they’re called responsibilities bechause theyh keep fucking respawnjng
Sephiroth and cadet cloud spend the day together!
Sephiroth is out on a solo mission and brought Cloud along to teach him the ropes. After a long day of work, they settle down at their campsite.
The glowing fire heats their faces, the cup in Cloud's hand is warm enough to lull him into a sense of safety, and he just can't get a thought out of his head.
"Sephiroth?" Cloud asks after a period of mutual silence.
Sephiroth looks up from his own tea. "Yes?"
Cloud looks back down at his tea. "Do you think we're friends in every universe."
Sephiroth considers.
"I don't know," he replies. "Are there others besides this one?"
Cloud begins to swirl the liquid in its cup. Anxiety has sunk it's teeth three inches deep into his shoulder blades.
"Maybe there are. Maybe there's one out there where we're enemies, you and I."
Sephiroth's eyebrows flash. He makes a quiet noise of amusement before setting his own cup on the ground in front of him.
"Well, if such a life even exists..."
Cloud feels Sephiroth's gloved hand weigh on his shoulder. He looks up, surprised to see the older man smiling at him.
"I'm glad we're not a part of it."
“shitty memory” aesthetic
-giving ur friends the same information over and over because u forgot u ever gave it to them
-opening up a new text post only to forget what u were going 2 say
-never changing a wall calendar/needing to look up what day of the week something will be
-literally not being able to remember what happened yesterday/an hour ago/five minutes ago
-forgetting where ur going/what ur doing in the middle of doing it
-flipping through the beginning of a book because u forgot some characters and plot development
-making a typo, make a mental note to fix it, get up to do something, keep typing without fixing the typo
-”haha ur memory cant be THAT bad”
-it can be
-reminding urself 2 do something but u forget
-writing reminders, forgetting that u wrote a reminder/forgetting what was on the reminder/forgetting where u put the reminder
-”just put something in ur room out of place before u go 2 sleep” and ur room has so much shit on the floor u wouldnt even be able 2 tell whats out of place
-alternately: doing the above and then forgetting what it was supposed to remind u of
-did that happen or was i dreaming
-i was gonna put something here but i FORGOT it and i HATE it
laurent should be allowed to let go of control, not even because it’s hot or necessarily having to do with sex in any way (although it can), but because he deserves it. we all know that this mask he’s carefully constructed isn’t natural to his personality - it’s hard won, born from trauma, created amidst incredible emotional pain, and when it’s all done, when they’ve won, laurent (beautiful, smart, deeply kind laurent) would have the freedom, for the first time since he was 13 years old, to be himself, if not for the world at large to see, at least privately, in the safety of damen’s gaze and enveloped in the warmth that is their unbreakable shared trust. he’d open up, have time to reconnect with old interests and develop new ones that aren’t important solely for their strategic use in the painful silent battle that has been most of his life, and, most of all, he’d be able to breathe– and finally heal
Finale of the Rainworld Roleswap's Hunter Campaign
[LIVE BROADCAST] - [ANNOUNCEMENT] Five Pebbles to Local Group [ This will be my final broadcast to the local group. ] [ Between now and approximately several cycles, I will collapse onto the citadel below. Tightly sealed documents, containing eons of history, will be destroyed in the process. ] [ Myself included. ] [ ... ] [ As for the one responsible... ] [ Looks to the Moon. I placed my trust in you. You, of all beings, should have understood your role, should have never stooped so low to hurt your own kind. ] [ ...and yet, you failed. You left me to decay, to a slow, humiliating demise. You couldn’t even face me for one final conversation. ] [ You ruined me, and I will never forgive you for it. ] [ Whatever methods you take going forward, I hope these words linger in your memory until the moment you fall apart like I have. ]
[ ... ] [ What am I doing?! Recording this like some kind of diary entry. Have I truly lost myself to the concept of death? It doesn't matter now— I am too far gone. ] [ I must accept what lies ahead. ]
[ Throughout my lifetime, death was never something I feared. ] [ Now, I fear it. This method of dying is neither a form of ascension, nor pleasant. It is painful. ] [ At the very least, I can take some comfort in not facing it alone. ] [ That, in itself, makes all the difference. ]
I was the minimalist computer user in the early 2000s. Give me more webpage real estate, please. Minimal toolbars. But my parents loaded every browser bar known to man, like they were going to actually use them or something. Such a pain visiting home from college and having 1/3 of the screen as actual usable space.
Yes, my parents' desktop was similarly cluttered.
another internet thing kids wont experience is toolbar stacking:
for those who are lost at sea
Word Count: 2106
Hershey, sometimes I can barely get out of bed. Sometimes the only thing fueling me is the fact that my Satellite will save so many people like my father. That no one will ever be stranded out in the ocean, that deep blue sea that's deeper than any expanses of space to me. That no one will ever have to watch their father sink into those depths-- swallowed entirely. Watch him disappear, know that he didn't know his place in the world when he died. OR A letter Nova never sent to Hershey.
(A plaque, found at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History:
A LETTER FROM DAME ANNA HANOVER, TO SIR JOHN HERSCHEL
September 1834
Measures 11 inches by 5 inches, 4 pages. Written using a black fountain pen (see exhibit 4), on parchment paper.
This letter contains words from Dame Anna Hanover, seemingly never sent to her friend, Sir John Herschel, while he worked at The Cape of Good Hope. It is one of the only records we have on just why she decided to build the Satellite, a peek into the mind of a true scientific genius. It goes over her deep friendship with her scientific equal, and talks of her history previous to the Satellite’s construction.)
Dear Hershey,
I can’t sleep. I’m writing because I hardly know what else to do about it.
I know, I know–that’s hardly new for either of us, isn’t it? I remember when we used to take turns hauling each other off to sleep in university. Telling each other that the exams could wait, that we would fail either way if we were falling asleep in the middle of the lessons. You used to get this constipated expression as I had to tug at your coat in order to get you to rest. I’m half-convinced you still do—what I would give to have a portrait of it! It truly was a ridiculous look.
I suppose we both knew we’d never stop. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t get each other to take care of ourselves.
I’m not with you, and I am awake. And since I cannot speak with you late into the night, distracting myself from such things, I must do the next best thing. I may not get your wry comments, or your half-laugh when I say something witty, or the way your brow furrows as you think over a problem I have proposed. All I have right now is this pen, and memories of those times.
So, how is the Cape of Good Hope? How does your map of the stars fare? Do they invite you to those ridiculous parties there, all those stuffed shirts that hold our funding in their pockets? I don’t miss those parties. Honestly, you getting this project so far away truly has saved my soul there–
Oh.
Oh, I don’t–I don’t know if I can continue pretending as if everything is normal. Even if only in a letter. My mind is a whirlwind, Hershey, and the only thing that even partially calms it is these words. Writing down, documenting what exactly has happened to me.
I know exactly why I can’t sleep, and I just–
(The words become illegible here, through heavy scribbles.)
Damn it.
I don’t plan to send this, so what should I care about here? It’s nothing but throwing my feelings into the void? I need to write this down, to say something about this before I scream aloud.
Tonight was the anniversary of my Father’s death.
And it was a day like any other.
I didn’t even realise until halfway through the day. I was so caught up in checking the flywheels, making sure the bricks were not crumbling. Organising the workers, because you know I don’t rest when it comes to that. Tasks I’d completed a thousand times over, a steady routine. We’re still relatively well-staffed, so I was mostly just checking over work, encouraging the bricklayers.
But, while I was in my place in the Township, I saw the sea from my window.
I saw the waves swirling and rippling, and felt my heart freeze, icy seawater seeming to wave over my heart.
I was thrown back to all those years ago. I feel I must have gone light-headed, as a thousand memories of that day burned through my mind in an instant. I don’t even remember the next couple of minutes–by the time I came back to myself, I was gasping on the chair of my room, trying to get back steady breath.
I didn’t get much more work done after that.
It’s been seventeen years and yet, I still feel my heart sink and sway whenever this day comes around, when I remember just how long it’s been.
That’s why I’m writing this letter. After all, I ran out of tequila a couple of days ago, and haven't bothered to replenish it.
I miss you. I know why you’re gone, and I know that I can run this project by myself. That’s not why I need you. You’ve called me indomitable, and I know I live up to that. I don’t lie to myself, Hershey. The project is working, and every day I grow closer to seeing that new Polaris brightening the night sky.
Instead, I miss having someone I could truly talk to. Spend hours speaking on the stars, on celestial astrophysics, on just how far we still have to go. On old memories of university, of those horrible parties we were both forced to attend, but made bearable simply by your presence. I miss being able to talk about my grief, even if I’ve never been brave enough to tell you its full extent.
Who else is there to tell?
Because I certainly cannot speak to Charles about such things! That man hates everyone and everything in this place. I swear, every time I’m left alone with him, I grow closer to knocking him over the head with one of my heavier books. If I hear him muttering about Americans one more time—
Ugh, I’m getting off track. Perhaps I would rather focus on something else, but these feelings will consume me if I let them. So I cannot do anything but write.
I work above everyone else here. While I may be friendly, this is not the sort of thing you can tell a casual friend. My grief fuels me, just as it makes it harder to truly function some days. How do you explain that? Even with science on my side, I’ve never been able to say all of it aloud.
Hershey, sometimes I can barely get out of bed. Sometimes the only thing fueling me is the fact that my Satellite will save so many people like my father. That no one will ever be stranded out in the ocean, that deep blue sea that's deeper than any expanses of space to me. That no one will ever have to watch their father sink into those depths-- swallowed entirely. Watch him disappear, know that he didn't know his place in the world when he died.
God.
I think that's the deepest blow of them all. I had to watch his eyes lose their light, his confidence replaced by fear and confusion. He had always known where to go, what to do, what next to say–but did he, really? Or is that just a child’s fantasy? A little girl’s dream, believing that her father would never falter?
I’ve lived so much longer without him than I did with him.
He’ll never know the woman I became. He’ll never know that I never abandoned my dream of the sciences, never fell for a man. He’ll never get the chance to truly know me, because I wasn’t even fully formed when I lost him. I was still becoming, still changing–and yet, he died only knowing a version of me that quite possibly no longer exists. Every time I think about it too long, Hershey, I swear it’s like I’m adrift again, the waves crashing over my small form. Being stabbed with blades of seawater.
I do this all for him, and he will never know it. He will never know the woman his daughter became. I believe that he would have still loved me, still cared for me. But I’ll never know for sure, will I?
Sometimes, I wake up and I'm back on that sea. Clinging to that driftwood like it's my only tether to the world. I was just as lost as my father, really. I was just the one who got to survive. Kicking, kicking, kicking, frantically trying to move towards a land that I wasn't quite sure existed.
I nearly gave up, Hershey. I was a child. Not even a decade past of life, having just lost–my world. My everything. I had nothing but my books, my father, and his crew - a life spent at sea, sailing the Caribbean, gone forever. Before that night, I believed that the sea was a home. That the waves would never overwhelm me, that they’d always bring me back to shore safely.
I’ll never be that little girl again. There’s a reason I bring navigation gear everywhere, you know. …well, of course you don’t know. Sorry, Hershey.
Every day, I wonder how I found the strength to survive it. You don't know how tight of a grip exhaustion can have on your heart, swirling around your skull, lulling you into letting go of everything you know. Until everything you have ever loved is gone in one storm. Those who are lost, never found again.
But even as a child, I didn’t want to let myself be lost.
I would not let Father's sacrifice be in vain.
Not then. Not ever.
So I fought against the sea for weeks. I had my own personal battles with the waves, clinging to that driftwood like it was my Eden. I fell asleep, woke again gasping for air, fighting against tides roaring above my head. Even after so long, those memories don’t fade. I remember them as vividly as they were yesterday…even as my father’s laugh and voice fades from that same memory. Seawater tastes so bitter on your tongue, your blood racing up and down your veins as you scream into the stars, your voice going unheard for thousands of miles. Even writing this down makes me want to shudder.
Now, it still makes little sense to me. It makes even less sense to me knowing more about the world. I should have died of hunger, of thirst, of lack of sleep. That risk should have killed me a thousand times, a child fighting against too much to bear. But I suppose even back then, the woman I would become, the indomitable Anna Hanover had started to emerge.
That little girl survived, making it to shore. Only I remain of the Hanovers.
My father is gone.
But I will make his legacy live on. I will make it so that no one is never lost at sea, unsure of where they are in the world ever again. So that no children have to struggle against the sea, too tired and afraid to yet get to mourn.
It is a vow I’ve made over and over, and one I will continue to make.
God, it truly is late, isn’t it? I don’t know if as many of these words would have left me otherwise. My hand aches, the ink running low. I suppose I’ll have to replenish it in the morning. Add another task to the neverending pile.
Anyways. I doubt I'll send this.
But maybe one day I will.
Maybe one day this letter will be meaningless, because I will have said all of this in person to you.
But I don't–Hershey, I just don’t know. Imagine. Me, not knowing something. Not being able to talk about something! You know better than anyone just how much I can go on and on. It's heavy, this grief. It's been over fifteen years now, and I don't think the load has gotten any easier to carry. Father’s memory is the reason why my life’s work exists, after all. My grief and old love for him weigh on me almost as heavy, if not heavier than my Satellite.
Given how much I care for you, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to share my truth on these matters. If not you, then who? I may take lovers, may have friends—but you have been my dearest person for so long. You have gotten me through so much, been my friend so long, and yet the words die whenever I think of trying.
Good night, Hershey. I think I’ll try to sleep now. My eyes grow weary, and my hands shake. After all, I need to be up rather early tomorrow in order to . Sleep may be hard to come by. Perhaps it will come easier after baring my soul in this letter.
A woman can only hope.
I hope that wherever you are, your night has been more peaceful, more filled with stars, than mine.
Your friend,
NOVA
victory stands on the back of sacrifice (x)