The Last One Tho!!!!!! Dorcasssz..

2+2=5. "When a lie has been told enough times, it becomes real." Two and two is five. Every morning I tell myself I like who I am. How many times do you repeat the lie?

I don't hate myself. I love myself too. I'm surrounded by myself, hounded by my own cries, caged inside my own ribs. I love myself. My body is my temple but some days it feels like the ruins of Petra. I love myself. I just don't like myself all the time.

On rainy days full of blues, I'm tired of this body, of this mind. 2+2=5. If you could sell all your bad memories, only on the condition you'd have to give away the good ones too, would you still do it? Are you your memories or are you the vessel that houses them? Are you the product of your thoughts or the manufacturer? When you repeat a lie enough times, it becomes part of the truth, expands and births itself anew.

Two plus two is five. Am I the voice in my head or the notes of my heart? Am I the lies I tell myself? Lies of consolation, lies ot condolences. If I love myself, why do I keep seeing my corpse at the bottom of the ocean, on a road, slumped on my chair, buried in the dirt? If I like myself, why do I keep hearing four, four, four? Two plus two is four. Where do lies end and god's honest truth begin? Because lord I'm tired of not knowing.

-Ritika Jyala

summary of act 1

This is the first Audio Post I’ve posted, but I felt really strongly about this poem written by Pencap, it’s so gorgeous and full of emotion that I felt I would do my best to bring it to life. Thank you for giving me permission to post it as well!

You can analyze your favourite writers' techniques. You all know that right?

When you read a book or fic or whatever and are blown away by how amazing the writing is you can just go, "huh, how is the writer doing this? what things are they doing to get this affect?"

And if you can't figure it out you are allowed to google it. Check out YouTube videos, blog posts, and the wealth of posts on Tumblr even. If the writer is famous enough there might even be full-length academic papers on Google Scholar or JSTOR, or even 100+ page published books dissecting their style (Tolkien, for example, if you like his style). If you still can't find the information, ask someone. Ask more experienced writers or writers who write in a similar style. Ask writing advice blogs/channels. Ask the writer/author themselves.

And if you still can't figure it out, you can keep trying things and reading similar stuff, observing until it clicks.

I just say this because, well, reading someone else's writing and feeling like yours is horrible in comparison is pretty much a universal writer experience. I see a lot a posts on Tumblr offering encouragement like, "it is okay if you writing isn't like theirs, you just have different strengths," and "actually your writing is better than you think it is, you've just been staring at it too long." And these are valid.

But also, just because you can't write like that now doesn't mean you can't learn. You don't have to resign yourself to a particular style just because it comes easier to you. It is completely okay to be happy with the style you have, but it is also okay to not be happy with it and wish you could write like your favourite writers instead.

Just... when you get that, "oh my gosh, I will never be as good as them," feeling, maybe try figuring out what it is they are doing that you like so much. Maybe being patient with yourself doesn't mean accepting that this is your best work. Maybe it means accepting that this isn't and that it will take time, knowledge, and practice to get there. But you will, you just have to keep trying.

This is his home and I’m just a vacation.

.

.

this line broke me-

(my sis is literally singing 'hold back the river' as if it isnt completely out of my control already)

Fault Lines pt. 2

Fault Lines pt 1 here

In which Remus and Sirius are divorced and doing their best while also raising Harry.

(about 3k)

--

July 1987

Remus stayed behind to help clean up after the birthday party, their newly seven-year-old slowly losing steam minute by minute and heading for a sugar crash, judging by the quieting sounds from the sitting room.

“You were better with the mess this year…” Remus commented absently, putting paper plates into a large trash bag as Sirius stored the leftovers, magic moving around him to wipe off the counters.

“I’ve been…working on it.” Sirius replied, smiling a little over his shoulder, “But, in all fairness, seven-year-olds are better at mess control than six-year-olds…and this year the theme wasn’t Sandcastles.” Remus couldn’t help but smile back, thinking about Harry’s birthday last year. The first birthday after separating where they both tried to compensate and acquiesced to every ask their six-year-old had, including turning the backyard of Number 12 into a makeshift beach. Remus had stayed to help clean last year as well, watching as Sirius cleaned the floor free of sandy shoe prints three separate times. He also watched the whole party as Sirius made a mental list of the sticky doorknobs, spills in the kitchen, his smile never faltering and his voice never changing. As if nothing was bothering him in the slightest. Sirius always knew how to put on a good show, even when their relationship was pulling apart at the seams, and Remus’ would have to fight down tears in public spaces. Sirius could hold it together. Sirius could smile and say thank you, expert at lying between his teeth.

Part of Remus always circled back to wondering if that’s what started the rip in the first place. But the other part knew that there was no longer time for pointing fingers and it just was now.

“Still going to wash the floors tomorrow?”

“Shite, I'm washing them tonight after Harry goes to bed."

Remus laughed softly, the last of the used paper cups going into the trash bag as well. Sirius let out a contented sigh, eyes scanning the kitchen with a look that clearly said this will have to do, before extending a piece of cake in Remus’s direction.

“I already had some,” Remus told him, shaking his head.

“The tiniest slice. Even though I told you there was plenty. You deserve a proper one.” Remus accepted the slice, still unsure of when he should excuse himself to leave, thinking there should really be a book on this sort of thing. He noticed Sirius had his own piece in his hand as he jumped to sit on top of the counter, finally relaxing for the first time all day. Sirius was always the last to eat. Sirius always made sure everyone else got some before he did and on party days, focused more on Harry having a good time than remembering to eat himself. “Cheers, Moony."

“Cheers.”

Filling the gaps hadn’t gotten easier. Neither had dropping Harry off after the weekend, or leaving Number 12 on the rare occasions he had stayed for dinner, though he had found the courage to stay a few times now. It seemed unfair that Remus had to choose between loving his apartment and the way it felt to not be tiptoeing around arguments and his family. Though, if you asked Sirius, and Remus had, he felt it was unfair Remus got to be the one who left. Sirius felt it unfair he had to be the one who sat with the memories because his house was the one Harry felt comfortable in. Another show. Make sure someone else is comfortable before addressing what you need.

Remus sometimes wondered if his own selfishness was what caused Sirius to start pulling at the existing rip in the first place.

Did I push you away?

Did you ever love me or did you just want to make me happy?

Usually, Sirius was the one who took the step to make the palatable silence between them feel less awkward; less jarring. Remus noticed that in addition to not minding mess nearly as much, Sirius had also stopped doing that. Sirius had stopped doing a lot of things for Remus when he realized he didn't have to anymore.

Some days Remus missed it. He had admittedly grown accustomed to a life with someone who catered to him. Not just financially. But Remus missed coming home from work to dishes that were already done, waking up to a kid who was already dressed for the day, to favorite desserts and thoughtful notes left on bathroom mirrors. He missed having someone who always corrected baristas when they got his order wrong. Remus had drunk a lot of incorrect coffee since being separated.

Did I ever say thank you? How many times did I roll my eyes instead?

“It’s…the sun is going down.” Remus tried, around a mouthful of chocolate cake, wincing as he heard the sentence leave his mouth.

“It happens every day,” Sirius replied, raising an eyebrow in amusement, “You know…we used to be good at talking to one another. We used to be friends.”

“Yeah, how’d we do that?”

“I…think we would just…think things and then say them out loud.”

“Okay.”

“So...how are you?”

“You know…still pretty lousy most days actually, but today was good.” Remus finished, already bracing himself for Sirius to return with an answer that would add insult to injury. Already bracing for I’m just fine; I’m enjoying being single again; We get on swimmingly without you.

“Me too.”

--

June 1988

“I don’t understand why you’re still insisting you play by their stupid rules, Remus! He’s your kid just as much as he is mine. I know it, you know it, they’re just--”

“Because I can’t afford to break the rules, Sirius! How is that going to look?”

“If you do I’ll just--”

“And I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. This isn’t something your piles of money and last name can just--”

“It is actually. You’re so fucking stubborn…”

“And you’re not?”

“Just…” Sirius made a small noise of frustration in the back of his throat as he continued packing a trunk for Harry for the month. Their kid was spending the afternoon with Andromeda, giving the two of them time to work out any particulars and argue without the fear of their almost eight-year-old overhearing. Aside from losing his best friend in the divorce and the hangovers he endured coping with the fall-out when Harry was with Remus for the weekend, trying not to argue in front of Harry had been the hardest part. Sirius was always so proud at Hogwarts and the years following that he and Remus rarely argued. They rarely fought.

Love is the easiest thing in the world. He had said. And maybe somewhere Sirius still believed that because he didn’t love Remus any less now that he had an apartment across town and a whole life that Sirius didn’t get a play-by-play of. Love could be easy. Relationships weren’t though, and it was more common now that they would meet up while Harry was at school to calmly argue at coffee shops. Public places to settle disagreements, where they both had to keep their heads, never wanting to cause a scene, and not wanting to move backward. Because the first months had been full of name-calling and shouting matches that left both of the high and dry and bleeding out. Remus waved the white flag first.

“It’s been over two years at this point. You have a job and a flat and a car that I’m sure you drive very cautiously in. You've taken him to Healer check-ups, you've been on time to meetings... Just let me appeal--”

“It is not your job to intervene, Sirius.”

“Like hell it’s not!”

“Why are you arguing with me about this? All it means is you get Harry less.”

“I know.”

“You lose.”

“Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to win? I don’t want to win this one because that means Harry loses. He’s the one caught in the middle of this,” Sirius told him, hastily throwing socks into the trunk, not bothering to count how many there were or if they were matched properly, “And he’s the one who is missing out on spending time with you because the adults just couldn’t keep their shit together. That’s bullocks.”

Remus smiled softly, “You’re not folding his pants? This is a very messy trunk.”

“Shut up.”

“Sirius, come on, don't--”

“No, I mean it, shut up for one second,” Sirius said taking a breath as he closed the dresser drawer, flicking his wrist so the pants and socks would organize themselves in the trunk. Even though he knew it would be ruined the second Harry unpacked at Remus’s and that when Harry came back at the end of the month, it would be haphazardly thrown in. This was the second summer they had done this. This was the second summer Sirius would spend all of June alone in his big empty house, crossing off days on the calendar until his kid came back and the walls of Number 12 could be filled with laughter instead of ghosts. They had both agreed to this arrangement, but that didn’t stop the frown appearing on Remus’ face when he dropped Harry off the last day of June a year ago. It didn’t stop Sirius from looking out the window of Grimmauld Place a half-hour later to see Remus still parked there, tears running down his face.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make this about me. It’s just…hard. This is his home and I’m just a vacation.

But Remus didn’t hear the times Harry started calling for him and then had to stop himself mid-sentence. And Remus wasn’t around the first week of July where Harry couldn’t stop talking about the park near Remus’s flat and the time they had ice cream for dinner. Remus wasn’t there for all the bedtimes Sirius tried to read the book Harry had been reading with Remus only to be told you’re doing it wrong and it’s okay, I’ll just wait. Sirius didn’t want either of them to be a vacation destination--he wanted Harry to have roots in two places.

Point A.

Point B.

So no matter what happened, Harry would always have two clear places to go.

“This isn’t about money,” Sirius started, once the blood in his brain had settled and he could think straight, “Maybe at first it was…and I think if you take a second think about it, you’ll admit that you weren’t ready to have a five-year-old staying with you for an extended period of time when you first moved either…”

Remus chewed his lower lip for a moment, “No, you’re right. I wasn’t.”

“But it’s not anymore. It’s not about…I’m not just throwing money at you, Remus.”

“The galleons in Harry’s trunk say differently.”

“It’s pocket money!”

“He’s eight, how big do you think his pockets are?” Remus asked but there was no heat to his question. It was the same tone and same expression that Remus used to wear when Sirius would go overboard with baby clothes or toys.

“So I’m…indulgent. Okay? I admit that. But maybe you can admit you’re being stubborn about this? Harry deserves more than every other weekend with you. And to be honest, you know I can’t read and his books are getting more and more words in them.”

“You can read…” Remus smiled a little and sighed, “What is admitting it going to do? We signed a contract.”

“Contracts can be amended.”

“To what?”

“What do you want?” Sirius asked, though he already knew what the answer would be. All the time. So he’s mine. Usually with ex-boyfriends, you could go the rest of your life and never hear their name again. It was much harder to move on when the ex was your husband and his name came out of your child's mouth every other breath. “I mean, obviously we can’t…the all together under one roof thing isn’t going to work. So, what do you want to do? Just tell me and I’ll be down at the ministry and I won’t leave until--”

“I don’t know how many times I need to tell you that I don’t need you to fight for me anymore.” Remus told him, eyebrows knitting together, “That’s not your job anymore.”

“It’s always my job.”

“No. You aren’t just going to sweep in and handle this for me but--”

“For fucks sake, Re--”

“Let me finish, would you?” and Sirius crossed his arms, the trunk long forgotten as he stared at his ex-husband expectantly, “You don’t get to handle this. Because it is not a you situation. It’s a we situation. So we can go handle it together.”

We.

Maybe there was a different version of us to be found.

“I can work with that.” Remus rolled his eyes at the response as Sirius walked to Harry’s closet, going through t-shirts, trying to remember which ones were his favorite to wear at the moment. Blue.

“Hot head…”

“Stubborn arse.”

--

December 1989

“I don’t think there are enough presents here,” Remus mused looking around at the towering boxes of gifts on the floor. It was after midnight, and as usual most of the gift wrapping was left until the last minute, Remus sitting in the parlor of Number 12 with Sirius a bottle of firewhiskey between them. It would’ve taken less time had they both not wanted to have at least two very stiff drinks following Christmas Eve dinner at the Weasleys before starting wrapping. The first hour after Harry went to bed was spent recounting the evening, a back-and-forth occurring between the two of them that had been pushed aside years ago. Like a double-trapeze artist act at the circus that had retired and came back around for a farewell tour, Remus still remembered how to counter quick remarks from Sirius. And for the first time in such a long, long, time, had been thankful to have Sirius next to him at the Weasley’s dinner table while he bit his tongue and they shared looks that no one else understood.

Dusting off the cobwebs of a foreign language both of them had forgotten to practice. Tongues were clumsy around the words, pronunciation a bit off, but a conversation could be had nonetheless.

“Kid is spoiled.” Sirius returned, “James and Lily would hate this. Christmas is about love, not about presents, Sirius," he finished in an impression of James that Remus hadn't heard in quite some time.

“He was such a bloody tosser sometimes,” Remus smiled around the rim of his glass, “Tell us all it’s not about presents and it’s about a feeling but you know he’d be the first one writing us about what he got from his parents.”

Sirius laughed, “Like it was a contest too. We get it, Prongs, you had a good childhood. No need to rub it in our faces. I remember one year, I think I had gotten a set of dress socks from my parents…this whole new, expensive wardrobe, and a magical planner to help me organize my classes. James writes me with Pads, I got a new broom and my Mum made my favorite cookies! Honestly, more--”

“Jealous of the cookies, right? Mrs. Potter’s were the best.”

“They were…”

“You make them pretty well too,” Remus told him, taking a sip of his drink. The fireplace crackled quietly, warmth enveloping the both of them. “You think they’d be upset?”

“About what?”

“Us?”

“I…can’t think about that.” Sirius told him, “I do sometimes and it gets way too dark up there," he said tapping the side of his skull with a tattooed finger, "and…it’s better I don’t. I think…they’d just want Harry to be happy and taken care of…and if we’re happy too, even better. But not required."

"Like a side effect?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Remus looked up from the amber liquid in his glass to meet Sirius’ eyes from across the room. The same dark curls, as thick as it was at seventeen. The same lopsided smile that Remus fell hook, line, and sinker for. Except now he was 29 and Remus wasn’t falling, wasn’t hurting, wasn’t anything but glad to be able to sit in a room with his best friend without wanting to claw his eyes out or play the blame game.

“You…you know…what I realized?” Remus asked, Sirius’ eyes meeting his own.

“Hm?”

The ache is gone.

“I don’t think we’ve been in a room this long together in…years. And…the funny thing is, I’m still looking forward to being here tomorrow. I don’t even want to pretend I’m going to the lav when I’m actually smoking out the window.”

“I knew you were doing that…”

“You never said anything.”

“Yeah, because that’d be very hypocritical of me when I say I need to go to check the wards when I’m actually smoking.” Remus laughed, Sirius’ smile catching the firelight as he spoke again, “It was rough waters there for a little bit, Moons…but, I think we did alright.”

“Yeah.”

“Except, you know…James and Lils would really hate that we’re still smoking.”

hello, grey.

i just had a question of sorts???

its just well, do you ever feel left out?? or like you are missing out on stuff?? how do you cope with it??

wish you a good day.

hi sweet anon. first of all, hearts to you--if you are currently feeling this way, its never fun ❤ uhm, idk what i have in me regarding advice but...ill do my best?

short answer-- yes. Fomo is a real thing, feeling left out and excluded is real. i think i am older and therefore...i tend not to feel this way much anymore (last time i did was probably when my nephew was born and i wasnt physically in the room delivering the baby and the waiting room just didnt cut it).

But a much younger grey DEFinitely felt this way. Not being asked to dances, not being able to attend certain things because i prioritized studying and learning.

How I cope?

At the end of the day...Im my favorite person to spend time with. I love my own company and if someone else doesnt want to share my company with me...thats their loss!

I make art, I make my own party, I make my own event for just me (or call up my friends and do it with them). Its okay to sit in your feelings, and feel hurt and take care of that--and you can nuture yourself through a butt ton of self love. What do you LOVE? What do you NEED? To support yourself through the feels?

When i feel like im "missing out" (ex: like a social gathering because i stayed home or wasnt invited and i just see the photos on social media or something), I make sure that whatever Im doing is STILL important to me. If it is-then alright.

If its not....do something that IS. (or ya know...just show up anyway. Nothing matters)

wake up,

open tumblr,

get my heart fucked,

sleep.

oh and repeat! :)

"They made each other better."

Would you be happy for me to screenshot your comment and reblog it with my reply? This is in ref. to the bi/pan post

You can dm me rather than reply here if you would prefer.

yea absolutely, thanx for asking tho :))

kids remind me, often, of the things i've taught myself out of.

i have a big dog. he looks like a deer. he is taller than most young children. while we were on a trail the other day, a boy coming our direction saw us and froze. he took a step back and said: "i'm feeling nervous. your - your dog is kind of big."

goblin and i both stopped walking immediately. "he is kind of a big dog," i admitted. "he's called a greyhound. they are gentle but they are pretty tall, which is kind of scary, you're right. their legs are so long because they are made for running fast. i am sorry we scared you. would you like us to stand still while you move past us, or would you feel more safe in your body if we move and you stay still?'

"oh. i didn't know that about - greyhounds. i think i ... i want to stay still," he said. at this point, his adult had caught up to us. "i'm nervous about the dog," he told her, "so i'm - i'm gonna stay still." she didn't argue. she didn't make fun of him. she just smiled at him and at me and held his hand while goblin and i, with as wide of a berth as we could make, crept our way through.

behind us, i heard him exhale a deep breath and kind of laugh - "he was really big, huh? she said it's because greyhounds have to go fast."

"he was big," she said. "i understand why that could have made you a little scared."

"yeah. next time i - next time do you think i could maybe ask to touch him? when - i mean, next time, maybe, if i'm not nervous."

later, going to a work event, in the big city, i stood outside, trembling. my social anxiety as a caught bird in my chest. i took a deep breath and turned to my coworker. she's not even really my friend yet. i told her: "i feel nervous about this. i am not used to meeting new people, ever since covid."

she laughed, but not in a mean way. she said she was nervous too. she reached her hand out and held mine, and we both took another deep breath and walked in like that, interlinked. a few people asked us - together? - and i told the truth: i feel nervous, and she's helping. over and over i watched people relax too, admitting i feel really kind of shy lately actually, thank you for saying that.

the next time i go to an event, and i feel a little scared, i ask right away: wanna hold hands? this feels a little dangerous. i hesitate less. i don't hide it as much. i watch for other people who are also nervous and say - it's kinda hard, huh?

i know, logically, i'm not good at asking for help. but i am also not good at noticing when i need help. i've trained myself out of asking completely, but i've also trained myself to never accept my own fears or excuses. i have trained myself to tamp down every anxiety and just-push-through. i don't know what i'm protecting myself from - just that i never think to admit it to anyone.

but every person on earth occasionally needs comfort. every person on earth occasionally needs connection. many of us were taught independence is the same thing as never needing anything.

each of us should have had an adult who heard - i feel nervous and held our hand and asked us how we could be helped to feel safe. no judgement, and no chiding. many of us did not. many of us were punished for the ways that we seemed "weak".

but here is something: i am an adult now. and i get nervous a lot, actually. and if you are an adult and you are feeling a little nervous - come talk to me. we can hold hands and figure out what will help us feel safe in our bodies. and maybe, next time, if we're brave, we can pet the dog that's passing.