You tried to recall exactly what led you to be here in this moment. Your brain churned to remember where this all started and how the hell you ended up here. If you recall correctly… it began with a question.
“What’s going on, Doctor?”
You weren’t quite sure what was happening. One moment he had been leaning on the console and you against the railing of the TARDIS, laughing about a joke about something that was barely important at all and the next you were sent almost to your feet from the sudden jolt. Your hands had gone to grip tight onto the edge of the railing you had been close to and the strain of white had begun to appear around your knuckles as the shaking continues. It had been worse than normal, the movements. You had long ago memorized the familiar rocking of the TARDIS but this had been different. The Doctor hadn’t been laughing out in vigor this time. He had seemed almost serious. Yes, between
In turning cowslips into rays of sun
And floating over blades of grass, unbent
And drawing four conclusions out of one?
No mercy hath the stone and wooden fence
All rimmed with perfect glass which holds the sound
Of freedom outside. Dominating sense
Will pin imagination to the ground.
Forbear. The time will come when wind and rain
Will wash away the mud and dust of youth.
To cling to hope which calls aloud again
Is to rely on dust to hasten truth.
I turn my days of sunlight scattered over
And know the truth comes soon to wisdom's lover.
i asked a painter the other day
“paint me a portrait of black jesus”
and he looked at me
like he really did see the holy ghost
and he asked me to repeat my request.
“paint me a portrait of black jesus,”
“don’t you know that is blasphemous?”
“no, i do not know. i believe in him as you do--”
“jesus wasn’t and isn’t black,”
“have you met him?”
he seemed confused at my question,
“what did you ask me?”
“have you met him?”
“well of course i have,”
“and what does he look like?”
“he looks like--”
“no, what does HE look like?”
“i don’t understand…”
“did he come to you as a man or concept?”
“concept i suppose but that doesn’t--”
“yes it does.”
“get out of my shop.”
“may the lord bless you.”
I went to an all-girls school for all of my life and was raised mostly unaware of even the idea of sexuality. The concept of "having sex" was explained to me by my older sister at the age of ten. Like most kids, it was gross to me. At eleven my oldest sister told me about homosexuality. I don't remember the details, just that I became aware of it. I asked pretty normal questions, I think, like, "How do they have sex?" (I received the answer "oral sex," which I found befuddling un
You love the way he licks his lips twice before saying something important, exactly twice, like he’s counting out two seconds to reclaim his composure.
You love how her fingertips smell like turpentine and lavender when she finishes a painting because she doesn’t stop until her brushes are clean, and then she spends too much time trying to scrub her hands fresh.
You love how he sometimes mouths the lyrics to songs under his breath, just loud enough to be audible over the radio, and you love the way he smiles and blushes and stutters when you notice him doing so.
You love her expression when she reads, shifting and flowing like a hundred butterflies in response to the words on the page; you love the frantic