veryroundbird

mary oliver stan account

i hate the internet but at least my wife is here


website ๐Ÿ 
birdwrongs.sh/
dreamwidth ๐Ÿ““
veryroundbird.dreamwidth.org/
ko-fi โ˜•๏ธ
ko-fi.com/veryroundbird
games ๐ŸŽฒ
smallbird.games/
mastodon ๐Ÿ˜
digipres.club/@ruiyi
ham radio mastodon ๐Ÿ“ก
mastodon.radio/@kd9vdm
twitch ๐Ÿ“บ
twitch.tv/veryroundbird
gemini ๐Ÿ”ญ
gemini://tilde.pink/~smallbird
gopher ๐Ÿ•ณ๏ธ
gopher://tilde.club/1/~smallbird/

abyssal-love
@abyssal-love

love is such a precarious, precious thing. there are people in my life that i love so dearly and so fully and so desperately that it feels like i could spend a lifetime or two or three or dozen or million living off of literally nothing but how much i love them, doing nothing but opining about how much i love them, and i will still come away completely distraught and brokenhearted about how i haven't managed to express even the slightest amount of what i feel in a way that's at all comprehensible within the constraints of the humanity we're forced into in this world. but still, i'll try. for love.

love is the perfection of the hunt. love is the flapping of wings in panic and the sudden cessation of movement, the cracking of bone and tearing of sinew and the silence in the treasured moment - the long awaited after - that fills the air.

love is music (another love, which can never be expressed fully. here i sing my songs - carved upon the marrow and flesh and blood and soul and existence of all those who bear witness. please bear witness. let me be heard. let me be understood, if even for a second.)

it is the captivation of victory, the sorrow of loss, the feeling of triumph and the rush of defeat. the conclusion of all we've worked for, the eternal work that will never end.

love is violence. it is violence against those you love, against oneself, against those who would harm you, against reality itself. it is an awful and terrible weapon, the glistening fangs and claws of an existential predator that is bashing against the boundaries of what can be, trying to find its way to what is, harming itself and everything in its way as maximally as possible, over and over and over and over and -

so: to those of you i love, thank you. thank you so, so much. i will hunt you and i will find you and i will fight you and i will bleed and we will bleed and our viscera

(yours, mostly, i hope. mine, mostly, i dream.)

will mix and drain and maybe what grows in the aftermath will be beautiful or not, forgotten or remembered, in the end it will be what mattered most: there. inflicted upon you. inflicted upon me. inflicted upon reality itself, which we-i-you-us-love hopes shatters into a million little incomprehensible pieces, as inconsolable-but-beautifully-satisfied as we are every second of our lives.

to the rest: this is what love is. it is out there. it will find you. it will make itself known, and it will tear you limb from limb. it might be tomorrow, it might be forever, you might scream and cry and tremble and hate yourself and tell yourself you don't deserve it

but you do. and there's no escaping that. this beast is love, and this beast loves you.


You must log in to comment.