Religious Guilt - Tumblr Posts
Do you guys remember how kidnap fantasies were popular on wattpad because young girls and queer teens were both made to feel shame at the thought of their own sexualities, so the fantasy of being kidnapped totally against their will was a way for them to engage with a romantic or sexual fantasy without feeling morally in the wrong for doing so? Added bonus that the fantasy involved being whisked away from repressive environments like home or school, right?
Finding out that Bram Stoker was in a sexless marriage and that scholars believe that he very likely was closeted gay puts the entire book into perspective as to WHY it reads EXACTLY like a self insert wattpad Dracula kidnap fic:
“I TOTALLY love my wife and would never do anything that an upstanding Good Straight Working Man wouldn’t do but oh nooo, big strong man with broad back and strong enough arms to carry me back to bed like a princess trapped me and claimed me as his, completely against my will 👉👈 But he protects me against the bad evil sexual women (who I assure you, I am TOTALLY sexually attracted to, as any straight man with a choice would be) but trust me, I do NOT want ANY of this. What’s that? The Count is not capable of feeling love? Would be a shame if I had the special ability to change tha-”
What's this? Oh... internalized homophobia and religious guilt... fun...
dostoyevsky // nicola yoon // ada limón // john steinbeck // avainblue // sylvia plath
If you need more fanfics of Olrox and Mizrak, let me share this diamond with you
Five Suns
MeZaKi93
Summary:
"By lying to myself I lied to you, too... and I hoped my actions spoke louder than my words."
Olrox didn't want to allow himself to love again, but when he did, it gave him new purpose. New reason for his quest to protect his home and his world from a self-proclaimed goddess whom only a god could possibly oppose - even if he thought he was merely imitating one. The darkness was starving the land and it was time for a new Sun to rise.
The first half is set before the end of the season finale, the second part is after. Olrox-centric, inspired by the serpent-form he took in the first episode that is *not* confirmed to be Quetzalcoatl, but might as well be. Hope you enjoy!
Notes:
In Aztec mythology, the world was born when one of the gods sacrificed themselves to be the Sun. The world was destroyed four times and we currently live in the fifth world. I took inspiration from the fact that Olrox's serpent form - I know everybody calls it a dragon, but what if it was something else? - is most likely based on Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent who is a god of light, life and wisdom for the Aztecs. This is an interesting note if it's true and I played with this thought when I wrote this story.
It's 3am, I can't sleep, I am obsessively listening to Taemin's Haeven. I came across a post about how his songs concentrate on self worship and worship of his lovers instead of God and cannot help but feel connected.
I, who used to believe so strongly. I, who prayed on her knees like the good little girl I was taught to be. I, who wanted to bear many children and raise them in church. I, who is now learning to touch herself without feelings of shame and need for punishment. I, who only wishes to kneel at my lover's feet. I, who would only cry their names, never God again. I, who listens to Heaven and thinks of long nights spent in passionate embrace, never church, never God.
im certainly not a wonderful saintly christian by any means but idk at the end of the day i read the bible and pray and go to church and talk to people about God because i think knowing God is a worthwhile, meaningful, and rewarding thing.
but some people seem to just not view it that way and i find it very hard to wrap my head around all the underlying assumptions that lead them to beat themselves up for not reading the bible enough or, going cold turkey on movies because they're more entertaining than praying etc. but i guess i think that like, wanting to know God shouldn't be a struggle or constantly beating yourself up or guilting yourself into doing more Religious Things.
ok sure, a certain amount of discipline is kinda necessary for anything you want to do that's worthwhile. a writer needs to push themself to write sometimes. an artist needs to push themself to paint sometimes. even relationships-wise sometimes a parent needs to push themself to wake up early and drive their kid to saturday sport or whatever.
but i feel like your ultimate goal should still be something you genuinely want in a positive, joyful way. if you sometimes need to nudge yourself to read the bible everyday, but it's because you do overall want to deepen your faith, that totally makes sense; it's no different from making yourself run on a day you kinda don't want to because your ultimate goal is a marathon.
but when people view the whole thing as this weird internal struggle where God stuff is threatened by the allures of the world and whatnot it just... seems like an attitude towards faith that has problems at it root.
admittedly i kinda have it easy atm bc i have an autistic special interest in the bible and theology but. idk. it doesnt have to be 'ohno all these other things are dragging my attention away from the bible and prayer and etc' it can be 'ok, what are some ways i can learn more about the bible in an interesting way? what are some different types of prayer i could try?' or even 'am i actually driven by wanting to love God, or do I just feel pressured to be doing this?'
when alicent speaks again, there is nothing royal about it. just the broken infliction, her mind a loop of wanting.
“more. more. more.” damn the kingdom, the family, the law. she could feel wetness trail down her legs as her hands entangled in a mess of white hair, trying to pull rhaenyra impossibly closer. it’s immature love making. no ritualistic, mundane quick motion to rush to the end. the disgraced princess is slow with her tongue, sucking against alicent like she wants to tease from her a confession.
there’s a skirt hitched against the altar and knees bruised against cold stone.
—two slow dancers [last ones out] [wip]
another snippet but only because you guys have been kind to the last one. i’ll have it on ao3 as soon as i can, i promise.
oh? this piece of media has religious symbolism? with extreme religious guilt?????
perfect.
bittersweet symphony - the verve / unknown / the civil war - anne sexton / sun bleached flies - ethel cain / unknown / head of a young girl - jean baptiste greuze / @avainblue / sun bleached flies - ethel cain
what happens when you go
you love them so you will leave them with no traces to clean up
frames off the walls, not a nail puncture to be seen
the paints are given to friends.
the half empty tube of your favorite color won't get used.
instead, it's on the nightstand
they love you so they'll pore over your footprints
in dreams, you are drowning and they come along with a life jacket.
every memory is examined for clues.
your devout friend bellows at her precious god.
"tell me what i could have done. let me save them. why couldn't i? why didn't you? fuck, if only i was all-powerful."
the rosary is pulled into pieces from the strength of her grip.
at the wake, loved ones chorus together that they didn't know the pain was that bad.
whispers of how ill you really were carry around the room.
from beyond this world, memory drags you back.
in another universe, in another life, in another family
you're still here.
they knew how to love you right.
you got the help, you found the community.
the world kept spinning...and it was better because you were in it.
loved ones will try to let go and leave flowers in your favorite places
flowers so brightly colored they outline a trail.
here's the way back home, we still love you.
you can never come back
but every memory will cause your friends to wonder how they could have kept you painting, how they didn't notice the details enough.
it's all framed in guilt.
a crooked picture you can't correct.
stay.
stay for the galleries, the beaches, a breeze through your hair when the sky is tinted evening blue.
keep the possibilities.
i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am his only child so engaged in following his footsteps. the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say, but i am not an apple and he is not a tree. though his face is oaky and strong and mine is red and blistering, so different yet so alike, what differentiates us from one another will always walk a thin line of existence and delusion. i am still the embodiment of his worst qualities. i still harbor the nature that scared me as a child. though he was understanding and kind, though his eyes were gentle and blue, they could still grow cold. the weathered hands that once cradled me as a child were still capable of bleeding. the comfort in his voice could teeter over the thick bridge of careful consolation and could harden like ice, cold and unloved. i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am the only one so imbued in becoming just like him.
i wish to be a lover. i wish for my hands to be careful and soft. i wish to cradle the fists that have beaten me and wash the feet of those who have kicked me to the ground. i wish to love in any way that is not pathetic or desperate. i wish to be able to express myself without rage. i wish to be without rage. i wish to be without. i wish.
i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my very being is her burden. they tell me that this is what she had signed up for. that this was her duty as a mother. i tell them she should not have given herself up simply to cater to her children. i tell them she should not have given up. there was a time where she was free. where she could dance and sing and laugh without worry. where she could pursue her career and go home to an empty house with a big dog named after a flower. where she could cry and smile and spin around in circles with her arms in the air. where she could run down the streets of the city in the rain with nothing but the clothes on her back and the warmth of her best friend's hand holding hers. i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my existence has only caused her plague.
i wonder about the woman she would have been had I not been born. i wonder how much love she could have felt before she met my father. i wonder if she would have often thought about someone who has not yet existed. i wonder if she would have missed me. i wonder if she misses me. i wonder if she misses. i wonder.
i am a testament to my sister's loneliness. i am the final piece of evidence that everyone will leave her. we had grown close when we were younger. two peas in a pod, is what they had called us. opposite sides of the same coin. best friends on two ends of the same earth. different, yet so, so alike. so similar it makes me want to rot. we grew distant with age and time, as all siblings do, but have never reached that breaking point where we cave in and come back to one another. i wonder if i should have stayed. if i should have reached out one bleary night where the moon was drunk and the stars were slow dancing in the sky. if i could have done anything to make her feel less hollow. if i could remember that i am not her keeper, that her suffering did not have to bleed into mine. i am the testament to my sister's loneliness. i am a monster for not feeling guilty for it.
i crave guilt. i crave to let it consume me and turn me into nothing. i crave to feel something that makes me just a bit more human. i crave to hate leaving her, to regret it for just one moment. i crave to hate her. i crave to hate. i crave
Nothing like going home for the holidays after you have lost connection with the faith you once grew but without your parents having knowledge of you leaving; because peace will be lost once you tell them you have left their faith.
Confession:
I am seven years old and sitting in a room that smells of wood and guilt.
There is a wall next to me,
Someone is on the other side,
I hear him breathing.
“I don’t think I have anything to confess,” I say, voice small
There is grumbling from the other side.
“No one is without sin, you are not an exception. Confess”
I look at my hands,
I am ashamed.
I am a human, and this means that I have sinned.
It was branded on me from the moment I was born,
And now I must lay bare all the wrongdoings I have done since then.
I tell the Father of how I step on the ants I see in my room,
How I lied about eating a piece of chocolate,
That I don’t love my neighbor because she doesn’t play with me.
As I speak with the faceless man beside me,
I think of God.
Omnipotent God,
Who insists that I flay myself at his altar for his disciples to see,
As I bleed and cry from the enormity of the sins I have committed in my seven years.
When I am finished telling the priest about the bugs, sweets, and toys,
He tells me to pray.
To pray that I am forgiven and don’t go to hell for behaving like a child.
I sob and clasp my hands together,
My nails digging into my skin.
I try to pray but I forget the words.
Am I such a sinner that I cannot say the Lord's words?
The father scoffs before starting the prayer,
I join,
Praying for forgiveness,
So that a seven year old girl won’t rot in hell.