Post by anna on Aug 21, 2020 19:47:31 GMT -5
There was an ancestral home.
She knew because they all had one. Every time tot belonged to a House and each House had a home. Xianthellipse was no exception. It was one of the Great Houses, a name that everyone knew even if they didn’t catch up with the gossip. If the times lived were the olden times--the peak of all moments--that would’ve made one top of the pops no matter what. But she did not live in the olden times
(no it was before all this when they threw us in we were just kids we were just kids we were)
and that in a warped sense was the biggest blessing ever given. Nothing like her could’ve existed in the olden times. The Laws made sure of that. She surely would’ve been killed from the first second she drew breath, if not before then. Besides she wasn’t really a Xianthellipse anyway. Merely a byproduct. You know how in Earth commercials they always say things like SUGAR FUDGE CUBE by BETTY CROCKER or INCEL KEN by MATTEL? Her name was the same thing, really. Written down, she could always break down what it really meant. ANNAPERENNA, fifth of Project Omnicrex, by HOUSE XIANTHELLIPSE. Buy now nOW NOW! Call meh nao fer yer free readin!
So she never saw the home. Never even smelt it. Is that a real word? Smelt? I mean in the way that it’s phrased. I know you can smelt a sword but...whatever. You get my point. However, she had heard about the houses. What they do, what they are. They were buildings and they were alive and they were old. They weren’t alive like the TARDIS was alive. They breathed. Every bit of furniture might as well have been another member of the “family”. The footstool could decide at a whim to dart away from your legs to bark at another person. If you have a tutor, it was some clockwork menace with a big stick and a harsh face. Hearing her peers talk, you would think it was a magical wonderland compared to what they would end up in.
Yet the thought never came to mind to be jealous about it. Even now, there is not even an idea of want. For a long time, she didn’t want to be treated better. She just wanted to be treated decent. God damn, decent would’ve been nice, ya know? But like all things, times change. Lives change.
(You deserve so much better. But you don’t know how to get it.)
People.
People change. But it’s not done easily. There’s a struggle involved. The old combats the new and even when the new wins, there is always a twinge of guilt about it. The eternal struggle is to fight against said twinges. To live boldly. Fearlessly. It is so hard to give up the old ways. So easy to slip back into them. To stay miserable as the ocean overtakes you. And there are days when the same old sludge is caked into your systems even as you try to convince yourself otherwise. And there are those rare precious days where you feel like brand new art. Art for art’s sake.
For the sake of honesty, perhaps the only other one who could understand the struggle...no, wait, that’s a disservice. The only other one who lives it. Is one Daniel MacNamara.
He blackens the runes etched ‘crossed his skin and calls the whole bloodline cursed all the while knowing full well that he himself is also cursed. Perhaps moreso. Perhaps he would’ve been no matter which side of the trifecta birthed and claimed him. He can wipe his ass with the mighty king’s pelt and take up the sword. He can run their opposite. He can risk death. But he also knows what he is. No matter how much he struggles, a doggo is still a doggo. And a doggo is dangerous. Especially a stray.
(Is that why we get along?)
Maybe. Though somehow, they seem to more or less get along with all the wolves--or at least the ones that matter--despite her very much being “Weaverkin”. They always found that vision of life as so...novel.
(There is no difference. We are everything.)
Is there magic in those steps one takes to reject everything one knows? It’s debatable. We came to this planet to reject our Gallifreyian heritage. To be human. Only for humanity to fail us endlessly fail us. The weakness makes the Time Lord’s complacency almost desirable. But even that gives us a distaste. It’s all disgusting. Is a doggo once one always one? Or can it be something more? What happens if the new path one takes is also a giant flop? You cannot change what you are but it can be mutated. Corrupted. Like the sword.
Thinking too deep.
Snarl.
Growl.
Claim you’re the best while beating your chest. Isn’t that what they want?
(Embrace me. Let me lead.)
We are misfits from noble backgrounds, the doggo and me. He is a mutt with ambitions of a king. We are a grunt with the vision of a goddess. And we want more and better whatever better is. Our better might be different from his better. But getting there...getting there is so hard. So hard hard hard. It’s so easy to become flooded. To sink into the dark. To choose self-death over life. The humans around us do it every day. They’d rather die than thrive.
It’s hard because he already is a king.
It’s hard because I’m already a goddess.
And we’ve been programmed to believe that’s impossible.
Or maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he’s less like us than we think. But we think we’re closer to truth than lies. And where is our sword anyway? We would like to have a proper duel for fuckin’ once, eh?
Ah, no matter. We’ll take off his head the old fashioned way.
Teeth and claw.
Because we hunger.
________
...aw shit.
I still have to do more words, don’t I? But what is there left to say? I more or less wing it and start and stop as I please with these promos and that up there feels like the perfect end to a ramble through the head, yeah? At the same time, I was taught that if you want anybody to give a fuck about what you write, the magic number is 1,500. It’s not too small and not too large. It’s a perfect number, just enough to show people that you’re serious but not too much to feel like you’re overstaying your welcome. Punching back up to that amount is hard sometimes. Ain’t that sucky? When you know what the goal is but can’t think of anything else to fill it?
So here’s this then. I, One-Who-Writes, member of the multitudes wasting valuble time while the rest of my kind are debating in our head. Who should she be. Where she should go. There’s a jangle of an answer from the vapor that whispers to the vessel. But what do I know? I’m just the one that writes the book, so to speak. I write what’s here from the ever shifting perception of self. Sometimes, the delusions are laughed off and sometimes they are real. Too real. Unbelievably real.
“You should call your opponent a cunt every now and again.”
Lisa told us this once. Problem is everybody’s been called a cunt nowadays. It has lost its impact. The oomph of being insulted is gone. We’ve long lost count of how many times the word’s been wielded against us and I’m sure you have too. So what’s left? Cuck’s been used to death. Simp? Simp is fucking stupid. There’s no punch in it. Try screaming out YOU’RE A FUCKING SIMP! It may sound good when you’re drunk and slurring it to kingdom come, but that’s about it. If this is the age of the silly sounding insult, we might as well circle back to the olden days. There’s a lot of them there.
For instance, you can easily call us a gowpenful-o’-anything. It would confuse literally anybody else, but we’d be entitled to agree with your assessment because it’s fucking true. We, in turn, could call you a yaldson and given how slutty most human’s mothers tend to be nowadays, we may be correct. Fuck it. We might as well call everybody a ʒəz and get it over with. It’s such a bastardized corroded word, yet so is everything else around here. The original might’ve been something nasty.
No. No, that wouldn’t work either. But trying it certainly wouldn’t hurt either. We would gladly stab someone just to hear something that hasn’t been heard by us before. The same old is boring. The same old is always boring. Boring snoring boring. I’m getting sleepy just thinking about it.
Give me something different. We want something else!
She knew because they all had one. Every time tot belonged to a House and each House had a home. Xianthellipse was no exception. It was one of the Great Houses, a name that everyone knew even if they didn’t catch up with the gossip. If the times lived were the olden times--the peak of all moments--that would’ve made one top of the pops no matter what. But she did not live in the olden times
(no it was before all this when they threw us in we were just kids we were just kids we were)
and that in a warped sense was the biggest blessing ever given. Nothing like her could’ve existed in the olden times. The Laws made sure of that. She surely would’ve been killed from the first second she drew breath, if not before then. Besides she wasn’t really a Xianthellipse anyway. Merely a byproduct. You know how in Earth commercials they always say things like SUGAR FUDGE CUBE by BETTY CROCKER or INCEL KEN by MATTEL? Her name was the same thing, really. Written down, she could always break down what it really meant. ANNAPERENNA, fifth of Project Omnicrex, by HOUSE XIANTHELLIPSE. Buy now nOW NOW! Call meh nao fer yer free readin!
So she never saw the home. Never even smelt it. Is that a real word? Smelt? I mean in the way that it’s phrased. I know you can smelt a sword but...whatever. You get my point. However, she had heard about the houses. What they do, what they are. They were buildings and they were alive and they were old. They weren’t alive like the TARDIS was alive. They breathed. Every bit of furniture might as well have been another member of the “family”. The footstool could decide at a whim to dart away from your legs to bark at another person. If you have a tutor, it was some clockwork menace with a big stick and a harsh face. Hearing her peers talk, you would think it was a magical wonderland compared to what they would end up in.
Yet the thought never came to mind to be jealous about it. Even now, there is not even an idea of want. For a long time, she didn’t want to be treated better. She just wanted to be treated decent. God damn, decent would’ve been nice, ya know? But like all things, times change. Lives change.
(You deserve so much better. But you don’t know how to get it.)
People.
People change. But it’s not done easily. There’s a struggle involved. The old combats the new and even when the new wins, there is always a twinge of guilt about it. The eternal struggle is to fight against said twinges. To live boldly. Fearlessly. It is so hard to give up the old ways. So easy to slip back into them. To stay miserable as the ocean overtakes you. And there are days when the same old sludge is caked into your systems even as you try to convince yourself otherwise. And there are those rare precious days where you feel like brand new art. Art for art’s sake.
For the sake of honesty, perhaps the only other one who could understand the struggle...no, wait, that’s a disservice. The only other one who lives it. Is one Daniel MacNamara.
He blackens the runes etched ‘crossed his skin and calls the whole bloodline cursed all the while knowing full well that he himself is also cursed. Perhaps moreso. Perhaps he would’ve been no matter which side of the trifecta birthed and claimed him. He can wipe his ass with the mighty king’s pelt and take up the sword. He can run their opposite. He can risk death. But he also knows what he is. No matter how much he struggles, a doggo is still a doggo. And a doggo is dangerous. Especially a stray.
(Is that why we get along?)
Maybe. Though somehow, they seem to more or less get along with all the wolves--or at least the ones that matter--despite her very much being “Weaverkin”. They always found that vision of life as so...novel.
(There is no difference. We are everything.)
Is there magic in those steps one takes to reject everything one knows? It’s debatable. We came to this planet to reject our Gallifreyian heritage. To be human. Only for humanity to fail us endlessly fail us. The weakness makes the Time Lord’s complacency almost desirable. But even that gives us a distaste. It’s all disgusting. Is a doggo once one always one? Or can it be something more? What happens if the new path one takes is also a giant flop? You cannot change what you are but it can be mutated. Corrupted. Like the sword.
Thinking too deep.
Snarl.
Growl.
Claim you’re the best while beating your chest. Isn’t that what they want?
(Embrace me. Let me lead.)
We are misfits from noble backgrounds, the doggo and me. He is a mutt with ambitions of a king. We are a grunt with the vision of a goddess. And we want more and better whatever better is. Our better might be different from his better. But getting there...getting there is so hard. So hard hard hard. It’s so easy to become flooded. To sink into the dark. To choose self-death over life. The humans around us do it every day. They’d rather die than thrive.
It’s hard because he already is a king.
It’s hard because I’m already a goddess.
And we’ve been programmed to believe that’s impossible.
Or maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he’s less like us than we think. But we think we’re closer to truth than lies. And where is our sword anyway? We would like to have a proper duel for fuckin’ once, eh?
Ah, no matter. We’ll take off his head the old fashioned way.
Teeth and claw.
Because we hunger.
________
...aw shit.
I still have to do more words, don’t I? But what is there left to say? I more or less wing it and start and stop as I please with these promos and that up there feels like the perfect end to a ramble through the head, yeah? At the same time, I was taught that if you want anybody to give a fuck about what you write, the magic number is 1,500. It’s not too small and not too large. It’s a perfect number, just enough to show people that you’re serious but not too much to feel like you’re overstaying your welcome. Punching back up to that amount is hard sometimes. Ain’t that sucky? When you know what the goal is but can’t think of anything else to fill it?
So here’s this then. I, One-Who-Writes, member of the multitudes wasting valuble time while the rest of my kind are debating in our head. Who should she be. Where she should go. There’s a jangle of an answer from the vapor that whispers to the vessel. But what do I know? I’m just the one that writes the book, so to speak. I write what’s here from the ever shifting perception of self. Sometimes, the delusions are laughed off and sometimes they are real. Too real. Unbelievably real.
“You should call your opponent a cunt every now and again.”
Lisa told us this once. Problem is everybody’s been called a cunt nowadays. It has lost its impact. The oomph of being insulted is gone. We’ve long lost count of how many times the word’s been wielded against us and I’m sure you have too. So what’s left? Cuck’s been used to death. Simp? Simp is fucking stupid. There’s no punch in it. Try screaming out YOU’RE A FUCKING SIMP! It may sound good when you’re drunk and slurring it to kingdom come, but that’s about it. If this is the age of the silly sounding insult, we might as well circle back to the olden days. There’s a lot of them there.
For instance, you can easily call us a gowpenful-o’-anything. It would confuse literally anybody else, but we’d be entitled to agree with your assessment because it’s fucking true. We, in turn, could call you a yaldson and given how slutty most human’s mothers tend to be nowadays, we may be correct. Fuck it. We might as well call everybody a ʒəz and get it over with. It’s such a bastardized corroded word, yet so is everything else around here. The original might’ve been something nasty.
No. No, that wouldn’t work either. But trying it certainly wouldn’t hurt either. We would gladly stab someone just to hear something that hasn’t been heard by us before. The same old is boring. The same old is always boring. Boring snoring boring. I’m getting sleepy just thinking about it.
Give me something different. We want something else!