I've Come To Realise That Having Motivation Issues (linked To Executive Dysfuction) Is Like Owning A

(breath of the) wild geese by mary oliver

old polish* names are metal as fuck, cause they can literally mean something like "the destroyer of peace" (Kazimierz), "the rage has come"(Przybygniew), "the one that praises killing/murdering" (Morzysław), "the one that does not know peace" (Nieznamir), or, my personal favorite, "the one that avenges his comrades" (Mściwoj).

it gets even more badass - because the pre-christian slavic traditions and language were rather poorly documented, and throughout history, there have been attempts to erase the records, we can't actually know for sure what exactly some of them were supposed to mean, or how were they used. we're left with names that could belong to a demonic antagonist in a fantasy book, their sound harsh, their origin shrouded in mystery.

*many of those are names in other slavic languages, too, but i'm talking specifically old polish names because i am polish and that's the language i know the most about.

something about foreshadowing being more prominent the second time around reading a story but in a way that the meaning is changed forever and you can never view a story the same as you once did before. do you know what i mean.

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

immortality as theft (you have to steal life from something else) immortality as parasitism (there is something else inside You that is keeping you alive and you become less of yourself more and more the longer it stays in you) immortality as violence (everything is trying to kill you because everything is supposed to die and the universe will always try to find a way to right the wrong that is You) you understand

For you and your internet friends! 💙

Feel free to send these to them but please do not repost

They're singing wonderwall

Okok hear me out, boatem knights au but mumbo has a rocket launcher