Melancholia - Blog Posts
To Naseebo.
Wine by the window.
Norma Jeane Baker.
(June 1,1926 - August 4,1962)
Full disclosure, I've never actually seen Melancholia, but from your video, I arrived at a very different interpretation of Justine's character… it occurred to me that, if someone was used to hearing that the world was doomed, and had both ruined their own life with their actions and come to full acceptance of the fact that they had nobody to blame but themselves for their situation, that discovering that the entire planet genuinely IS doomed, in short order and quite demonstrably… wouldn't that come as a great relief? None of the guilt or crises would matter any more, because the advent of Melancholia would be so much more immediate… and since nobody can do anything about it, there would be no pressure to try, no pressure to be "productive."
It doesn't quite meet the definition of sanity in the ordinary sense, but when inevitable doom is rushing towards the entire planet, I kind of think the definition of "sanity" would shift, as values and priorities shift, because most of what we think matters… would suddenly no longer matter.
On a weirder note, I used cosmic bliss-horror when I put unicorns into my original high-fantasy worldbuilding project. In that world, unicorns are fearsome interdimensional incursions that cannot abide the impurity of the world's setting… Mesmerizingly beautiful, but lethal without exception. But they also contain a Mr. Toots reference, because I simply cannot help myself. Yes, my unicorn's ultimate ability is a discharge of superheated, rainbow-colored plasma (B308), shot out of its ass. But it's magical plasma, and when it burns you right to the bone, you fall under the Ecstasy spell (M139) as an affliction.
Who's afraid of the big bad eldritch horror?
And what happens when you're not? We made a video on it!
Lost home
Glass ceiling, concrete floors
wooden, white painted doors
curtains made of yarn
walls which lost their charm
I remember sitting on our kitchen isle
feeling like i was up high a mile
though never really scared of falling
knowing someone would hear my calling
Now i strive through my lost home
realising now i am alone
searching for memories far gone
not wanting my stay here to be done
I remember mum and dad playing games
the rememberance hurts like burning flames
Watching TV, cooking, laughing
Two in love, through the living room dancing
All of this is lost now, nothing to last
Not my toys and kindergarden crafts
Nothing here for me to keep
walking to the future is a leap
I remember my dear sister
Every day came home with blisters
From playing, living life without worry
not having her loving mind yet to bury
But through all the melancholia
Through fear of future, my phobia
There is this need to keep on going
Reaping what my parents once were sowing
Have to move on, don‘t lose myself to past
Forget for a moment, nothing here could last
My life is waiting out there, not here inside
What yet to come drowned in blinding light
Będąc uzależnionym od miłości nigdy nie będziesz szczęśliwy.
Ale kochajmy się mimo wszystko
“The Strongest Of The Strange”
you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they are not.
those odd ones, not many
but from them come
the few good paintings
the few good symphonies
the few good books
and other works.
and from the best of
the strange ones perhaps
nothing.
they are their own
paintings
their own
books
their own
music
their own
work.
sometimes I think
I see them – say
a certain old
man sitting on a
certain bench
in a certain way
or
a quick face
going the other way
in a passing
automobile
or
there’s a certain motion
of the hands
of a bag-boy or a bag-girl
while packing supermarket groceries.
sometimes
it is even somebody
you have been
living with
for some time –
you will notice a
lightning quick
glance never seen
from them before.
sometimes
you will only note
their existance suddenly
in vivid recall
some months
some years
after they are
gone.
I remember
such a one –
he was about
20 years old
drunk at 10 a.m.
staring into a cracked
New Orleans mirror
facing dreaming
against the walls of
the world
where
did I
go?
~Charles Bukowski
͙ೃ࿔ ⋆♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡⋆.˚♡ ⋆.˚♡⋆.˚ ͙ೃ࿔