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I Wonder - Blog Posts
no rizz. just big bambi eyes and many unsettling things to say.
I sorta wanna whip out a playboy magazine during silent reading and see how far I get before the teacher sends me away-
Using 🙏🏽 palette when your icon says you're pastier than Elmer's glue is blackface
My dude.. I have brown skin
besides what does my icon has to do with anything..?
should I...?
Are u excited to see me?
Do u miss me when I'm gone?
How often do u think about me?
What do u think if u do?
What is it that u see in me?
...And I wonder.
...And I wonder.
I’d like to be a Hufflepuff so bad. I’d like to be kind and hard-working and caring and loyal. I’d like to be a Hufflepuff, because then it would be possible for me to say “I’m a good person after all”. It’s hard to say it now. Now I fear that I am not. I fear that I’m not kind or smart or brave or ambitious. I can take the other ones (even tho they bother me sometimes, especially the smartness).
But the kindness is killing me.
Ya know what I can’t stop thinking about digital circus? That both Pomni and Kaufmo are clowns (I know Pomni looks more like a jester but you get the idea) I wonder if that link is on purpose since they’re both desperately searching for the exit. Or Caine already knew Kaufmo abstracted and figured that the next person to get trapped would need to be a clown since they’re a circus staple and they just lost the one they had.
Honestly... The darkness scares me more now rhat i have a life im excited to love for. i actually have peolle in my life that care about me and i realize that, which is terrifying because i dont wanna hurt them like i wanna hurt myself ya know?
Why am i trusting him with my body if i cant even trust him with my mind?
Ive memorized every part of you. I can remember how your hair feels in my hand. I remember how perfect your teeth are when you smile. I can recall perfectly how your lips felt on mine. I can visualize your perfect face. I can still hear your laugh. I can feel your breath as you whisper in my ear. I remember your hands, and how they fit perfectly in mine. I can remember how close you hug, and how your hand slides down my back. I can remember every single thing about you so clearly. I remember every single thing you made me feel. Whenever i remember this, it makes me want you again. Thats what i'm sure about. So i guess my question is; Why arent you sure after all thats happened between us? Do you remember every detail of me? Do you think about me as much as i think of you?
Hey there.
I know this isn't mainly a social platform of writing, and if you don't care for reading my long-ass bullshit, you're free to scroll. But I was very eager to post here a summary of my Oc, Marjorie's Ford life since her birth to when she first joined the Marigold Gang, at least for that couple of people who will care enough to bother reading, since I've always left you in the dark about most of her past up until now. I will make a storyboard with actual drawings to make it more interesting to the eye at some point, but it'll take long, so for now, enjoy what I have to offer.
The recurring year is 1894, and yet another baby girl is born under the prosperous (not for too much longer) Kingdom of Italy. But not just any child, falling short of aristocracy in terms of wealth: daughter to the Opera singer Caterina Casiraghi (Ford) and the handsome but opportunist American notary who snatched the Italian beauty as soon as he saw her, Christian C. Ford. Second to nobody in her own home but her older brother, Malcom Ford, Marjorie was still spoiled and pampered from all sides, and for a while, they were happy.
But of course it was too good to be true, and soon enough Christian's misdeeds came biting back to him, after a life time of biting more than he could chew: the notary and most of his official possessions burnt to ashes in a fire, and although the cause was officially concluded to be an accident, his family knew in their hearts it was nothing but arson: between what remained of the man's belongings, in fact, the wife found multiple letters of a minatory nature coming from some unspecified shady client of the man's, that he had evidently proceeded to ignore. The widow, left on her own with a man to bury and two children to raise, had no choice but to roll up her sleeves, and the broken family spent the next six years of their lives incessantly hopping from place to place, partially for the matron's role she played in different courts across all Europe as a requested and appreciated soprano, partially to avoid meeting the same early end as the late father and husband may his killers spot them if they stop in a single place too long.
Such circumstances weren't the most normal for the youths to grow up in, and the siblings came out as... not any normal really: while the weight of responsibility hung on the eldest's shoulders, stuck in the role of the "man of the house" and becoming gloomier with each day, the younger could only long to receive that much attention. Daughter unsuitable of inheriting anything, too young to get married to another rich man, and with a voice too small to follow her mother's footsteps into the world of Opera, she soon veered towards theater, her frame, just as small as her voice, nimble and agile, her movements graceful, her scenic presence lovely as she had learnt to emulate from her mother. Still feeling the psychological pressure that was truly only inside her own head from being both female and the younger child, where she couldn't follow her mother's footsteps she instead followed her late father's, soon adopting less-than-savory methods to get ahead in her career, eliminating the competition before it even got the chance to become such.
All prestigious careers however have as much of a raise as they are doomed to have a fall, and in 1914, when the Great War officially broke out, the entertainment business collapsed, specially fields as frivolous as dancing and singing, and the next thing which dropped at dizzingly fast speeds was... the Ford Family's bank account.
The Ford widow, ever the loyal mother and wife, used the last funds she had to send her children to their fatherland America like many other immigrants of the time to seek luck and a better life, and we all can imagine what happened to her, next.
The sole survivors of the Ford Family, at this point aged respectively 21 and 23, were soon separated yet again, however: not any more than a few weeks after they had successfully disembarked in Mexico, in fact, the Italian government spotted them, demanding that Malcom came immediately back to motherland to fight in the army along all other male, able-bodied Italian citizens of age. The boy, after a lifetime of accepting responsibilities, had it drilled into his very subconscious by this point to always answer the call of duty without question, and so he did one last time, taking leave from his sister and all the money they had left. He wrote his sister letters and send her more money for some time, directing them to Mexico City where he had left her. After a while however he stopped receiving answers from her altogether, an no sibling ever heard from the other ever since.
This is because Marjorie after some months of permanence in Mexico, working some gigs here and there, plus the money she was receiving from her brother, finally saw an opportunity to build a new life all for herself, where she would be the sun, the star of the scene, rather than a mere moon in the backlight of not one, but TWO suns in her case, both mother and brother. Having been a nomad all her life Marjorie never learnt to truly form bonds and emotional attachments to people, always knowing she'd lose them as soon as she had to move yet again; hence the loss of her mother and the betrayal she inflicted on her brother never weighted much on her mind, or so she tells herself. She traveled all the way up to Missouri, where she soon started working as a maid at a certain Maribel Hotel, where a "kind", if sorta odd fella by the name of Asa Sweet welcomed her in his den in exchange of a mere few favors which would cost Marjorie nothing but a constant smell of bleach on her person, due a variety of reasons, and the sanity she had already long lost anyways.
Opportunist sociopath born out of heritage, of circumstances and most importantly of the intrusive thoughts of inferiority inside her own head nobody ever bothered teaching her the strength to fend off, the rest is history.
Of all of the tracks I’ve produced, this one from @markpheonix is one of my favorites!
Dark Phoenix sketch
I wonder
If my exes ever feel like a little burst of emotion when they read my name, or see a text from me in a group chat they long forgotten I was a part of
cause while I haven't blocked any of them (we all ended on mostly chill terms) I still don't enjoy interacting with them
like I could not read their story for practically a year, and then I randomly do once
I wonder if they get shocked, or happy, or sad, or reminise (however tf you spell that)
I don't really care, I'm just curoius
If they feel any emotion readin my name, even if it's pure hatred or absolute happiness, I feel like I did a job well done to make them still remember me like that
The only difference between fruits and berries are that berries are small (and they don’t have pits, but some fruits don’t either). But how small is ‘small’? Is an apple a berry?
Through My Mother's Eyes
tw// mentions of blood and slaughter (not graphically described) Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder what she truly sees? Does she see me or the sight of a little girl who once was free? A girl that soon was forced to clumsily grow up under the weight of familial expectations beyond extreme. Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder, I truly wonder what my mother sees when she looks at me.
Am I still her precious little girl? One created from the most delicate of flower petals, the warmth of the first rays of dawn, the patience of a familiar ordinary thing—a World's Best Mom mug. Maybe. Or does she perhaps see me as an accommodation? One I know her heart made room in a tight life; a difficult space to receive. Another burden. Maybe she sees a silly little girl handed not one, nor two, nor three…but six toddlers to take care of. Of course, still not yet counting all the other little children playing in oversized adult suits.
Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder what she truly sees? Perhaps I was being too soft, too idealistic with my words before. Maybe she sees me as the inconvenience I know I am to her somewhere deep down. A culmination of early regrets, a dozen of 'too soons', a handful of 'not readys', a pinch of resentment and a drink of guilt induced apologies to wash it all down.
What should I feel guilty for this time, mother? Your husband's indifference, your mother's relentless disappointment, the dreams you had to give up, the weight of the world you have been insistent on carrying? Perhaps I should apologize for being your only daughter.
What should I feel guilty for today mother? Just let me know. Because everytime I look in your eyes, I see the sweetest little girl who would serve her heart on a platter if it means another person could have one more moment to feel the comforting beating. I see a little body trembling but oh so filled with determination–to get this right; to bring everyone along even if it means pushing a boulder uphill. She wants to get this right. She needs to get this right.
But do you know mother, that when I look into your eyes I see nothing but a little girl deserving of tender love? A girl I would sacrifice my own heart for if it means she would get another moment to stay her curious and wonderful self. So what should I feel guilty for this time mother? Just let me know. Because although in your eyes, I may be a sacrificial lamb upon an altar of shame and guilt that was never yours to carry, I would still allow you to slaughter me upon that altar. Maybe the warmth of my blood would comfort you—maybe that warmth would finally reach you. Or perhaps it would touch the hands of all the women prior, who suffered the same fate as you.
To be fair, I indeed do not know; I am pondering after all. This can be full of assumptions, illusions or maybe some truths. One thing I do know is I would continuously extend my hand of unconditional love towards that little girl even in death for she deserves the world. If only you'd finally let her see it too.
~Elunara W.
The Weaver of Tunes
"I wonder if the wind giggles in fondness or even gasps in excitement when they discover a being who hangs windchimes. I wonder if the air stops for just a moment in complete awe…as if breathless at the sight of glistening beams under the sun's rays. I wonder if it then rushes forward, a complete, wholehearted laugh swishing by…oh so willing to play a tune. I wonder how many people truly hear the whispers and hums of the pure wind. Maybe it can be a lonely thing sometimes but oh I still wonder…the absolute joy in finally playing its own unique tune, oh so open and willing to sing for anyone who'd stop for a second to listen." ~Elunara W.
Visualisation of wind weaving through wind chimes. We should stop and listen to the song of the wind sometimes. Maybe we may learn a thing or two <3
The Life of The Candle
"I wonder if the candle wick knows of pain. I wonder if it feels grief as it eventually withers away. Or perhaps…I wonder if it knows of the beautiful light it radiates, the soft, comforting glow within the darkness. Maybe that makes it worth it. Maybe the candle dances unapologetically as itself, unabashedly giving off such a bright light. Maybe it knows of its temporary time here….temporary time to leave a mark. Does the candle wick feel grief or does it fade away with a last laugh, leaving behind a cheeky wink in its wake? Who knows…? But we do know that it shines brightly." ~Elunara W. Gaining a new perspective of life through the eyes of a candle
“Sometimes I’ll start a sentence and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.” - Michael G. Scott
Neural pathways of "finding words" along the way…there are stories….words waiting to be channeled…existing until we happen to stumble across them…I wonder how they feel? I wonder if they feel lost, I wonder if they feel lonely…a desolate place…or do they sound hopeful…ecstatic even at the mere thought of having you stumble upon them? Or maybe they feel everything yet nothing at all…maybe they just…are. Maybe they aren't lost and maybe they aren't searching either but neither of us can say that experiencing each other was a mistake…or a wrong turn down a pathway. There are stories, energies, messages, existing within a liminal space that aren't beckoning us nor pushing us away…yet they're willing, oh so welcoming to share their space…not only theirs…our space. They didn't call. I didn't call. Neither of us called. Yet here we are…and here is perfect and here is now…but rather, here is everything when we're together. Here is expression. Here is suppression. Here is life. Here is death. Here is love and its many faces. Here is meant to be. ~Elunara W.