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hiding behind my face
Thu, Dec. 27th, 2018 21:42I always loved being a changeling.
This statement probably needs some contextualizing.
I had to use the Wayback Machine to find this. Since the purge, you can find the author on twitter. RIP every tumblr post that was put behind a cut for its juicy, juicy length.
( Here is a story about changelings: )
This all came up because I was reading this piece today, wherein the author describes a series of nightmares that follow the changeling narrative. Her dreams involved a profound sense of being an impostor, pretending to be the real version of herself. For her, being found out was inevitable and horrifying.
Anyway. I was a changeling. At the time, I conceptualized it more as being an invisible friend for the real inhabitor of my body, who had died suddenly and left me in her stead. I was aware of the exact moment when she died and I came into existence. I wanted to protect her and do her justice, but I didn't feel beholden--a sensation I try to channel towards my younger self. I felt like I actually became a new homunculus.
I was a changeling and no one believed me. My parents constructed an elaborate persona around the OG, who grew at the same pace as me but otherwise bore no resemblance. I haven't spoken to either of them in years, but I can tell based on the occasional email I receive that their habits haven't been disrupted by my absence. They love me too much to entertain the ~inherent deception~ and obliqueness of my existence.
I'm a changeling who remembers my roots, and chooses to stay.
This statement probably needs some contextualizing.
I had to use the Wayback Machine to find this. Since the purge, you can find the author on twitter. RIP every tumblr post that was put behind a cut for its juicy, juicy length.
( Here is a story about changelings: )
This all came up because I was reading this piece today, wherein the author describes a series of nightmares that follow the changeling narrative. Her dreams involved a profound sense of being an impostor, pretending to be the real version of herself. For her, being found out was inevitable and horrifying.
Anyway. I was a changeling. At the time, I conceptualized it more as being an invisible friend for the real inhabitor of my body, who had died suddenly and left me in her stead. I was aware of the exact moment when she died and I came into existence. I wanted to protect her and do her justice, but I didn't feel beholden--a sensation I try to channel towards my younger self. I felt like I actually became a new homunculus.
I was a changeling and no one believed me. My parents constructed an elaborate persona around the OG, who grew at the same pace as me but otherwise bore no resemblance. I haven't spoken to either of them in years, but I can tell based on the occasional email I receive that their habits haven't been disrupted by my absence. They love me too much to entertain the ~inherent deception~ and obliqueness of my existence.
I'm a changeling who remembers my roots, and chooses to stay.
