I used to tell myself that art was a good substitute for love. That if I didn’t find someone, I’d just drum harder and write with blood in my pen. But on the days I felt particularly hysterical and silly, I promised myself that one day, I’d hunt down Warlord Nygård and make him mine.
(gif pillaged from dontpokethewarlord)
So, let’s cut this loose. Much like a tent spelled with an Undetectable Extension Charm, the psychological space that got me to this point is much larger on the inside than it appears from the outside looking in–mostly because I’m great at making like a black hole and squishing myself into small spaces the density of me really has no business being in in the first place.
Interrogation time. Why him? Because I’ve only ever been attracted to musicians. Also, I spent hours running through the woods, listening to the songs he spawned with Turisas. Because, after all, you make deep bonds with the music you listen to while your pulse runs in cut time.
Also, it gave me something to laugh (hysterically) at whenever I felt alone and emotively deprived. Too shy to open your mouth and say I like it when you sing, it’s like your voice is crawling up my spine? That’s fine. At least you’ve got the guts to crawl into bed with that bloody-faced warlord!
And this is the truth: I am shy, and unbearably feral, all at once. I may seem cold, but really, I’m just getting out of the way, and once, on a switchback somewhere in the Cascades, it probably looked like I was smelling a bunch of fiddleheads–but no. I was saying goodbye.