u/Fanfox4444

There lies before me a vision most tranquil, one not born of sorrow, but of acceptance. A life not of grand halls filled with laughter, nor crowded streets where voices clash and vanish into nothingness, but a life gentle in nature, quiet in breath, and slow in passing.

I envision rusted iron gates standing solemnly amidst the forest, weathered by rain and age alike. A long winding driveway stretches beyond them, embraced by towering oaks whose branches whisper with the evening wind. And there, late into the night, I close those gates with weary hands and cast the key deep into the forest, where neither memory nor man shall seek to find it again.

Within that abode of old wood and creaking floorboards I shall dwell. Brass-handled doors shall groan softly as they open to halls lined with forgotten paintings, dust-kissed furniture, taxidermy preserved by time, glass cabinets filled with bone, feather, hide, and relic alike. The fireplaces shall burn warmly with wood I myself have chopped beneath the pale winter sun.

In the kitchen there shall rest but one plate, one cup, and one lonely set of cutlery, though loneliness itself shall not dwell there. For solitude and loneliness are not one and the same.

Upstairs my aged cat shall sleep peacefully upon the bed beside a great window overlooking the darkened forest beyond. My animals shall rest within their enclosures, warm and cared for beneath quiet lights powered by the sun itself. And there, within those silent rooms, music from a record player shall drift softly through the halls like a ghost from another age.

The gardens shall flourish behind the house. Roses shall climb old fences, vegetables shall grow rich within the earth, and perhaps even a maze shall stand amongst the greenery, overgrown and beautiful alike. There I shall tend to beasts and garden with weathered hands, gathering milk at dawn and chopping wood come dusk.

Books shall line my walls as though they themselves were companions. A chair of deep velvet shall rest before a cabinet of curiosities, and there I shall sit with tea warming my hands whilst poetry and philosophy fill the quiet air.

And one day, as all things must, time shall overtake the house. Cobwebs shall gather in corners untouched. The gates shall rust shut forevermore. The gardens shall grow wild. Dust shall settle thick upon the cabinets and floorboards alike.

Then perhaps, years after my passing, another soul shall wander through those gates and into that forgotten house. There they shall find but a skeleton seated peacefully in a chair, a poem resting upon its lap, surrounded by history, memory, and silence everlasting.

And perhaps they shall understand then:that this was never a life of sadness.

It was simply life.

For one cannot truly be abandoned by another soul. One is only abandoned the moment they abandon themselves from within.

My Reading of Frankenstein

I finished Frankenstein tonight.

What a sorrowful ending, yet such a beautiful conclusion.

At first, I believed the creature to be the monster. Yet by the end, I realised Victor Frankenstein himself is the true horror of the story. Not because he created life, but because he abandoned it the moment it opened its eyes.

Victor wished to conquer death. He feared mortality so greatly that he sought to create life itself, believing that through science he could transcend the natural order and become something greater than man. Yet in doing so, he created suffering everywhere around him.

The creature was not born evil.

It was born alone.

That is the tragedy.

The creature longed for love, companionship, understanding, and connection. It watched humanity from afar with admiration. It wished not for violence at first, but for acceptance. Yet the very man who gave it life looked upon it with disgust and horror.

Victor gave life to a being, yet refused to give it humanity.

He wanted the glory of creation without the responsibility that comes with it.

And that is where his downfall begins.

The creature begged for compassion. Begged for another like itself so it would not wander the earth in isolation. Yet Victor, so consumed by fear and self-absorption, tore even that hope away.

In doing so, he created the very monster he feared.

There is only so much weight a bridge can bear before it collapses.

The creature’s bridge collapsed beneath abandonment, rejection, hatred, and loneliness. The murders it committed were horrific, yes, but they were born from suffering. It became the reflection of the cruelty shown to it.

Victor spends the entire novel believing himself the victim, yet he rarely acknowledges that he authored the suffering in the first place.

He feared death so deeply that he destroyed life itself.

That is the irony of Frankenstein.

Victor wished to escape mortality, yet his obsession with immortality killed everyone he loved. William. Justine. Clerval. Elizabeth. Even his own father. One by one, death followed the very man who tried to defeat it.

And by the end, both creator and creation realise the truth too late.

Victor realises he failed his own creation.

And the creature realises revenge did not heal its loneliness.

It only made the emptiness greater.

That is why Frankenstein is not simply a horror story.

It is a tragedy about responsibility, isolation, love, rejection, and the consequences of creating life without compassion.

A creature can only be shown hell for so long before it begins to believe it belongs there.

My Reading of Frankenstein

I finished Frankenstein tonight.

What a sorrowful ending, yet such a beautiful conclusion.

At first, I believed the creature to be the monster. Yet by the end, I realised Victor Frankenstein himself is the true horror of the story. Not because he created life, but because he abandoned it the moment it opened its eyes.

Victor wished to conquer death. He feared mortality so greatly that he sought to create life itself, believing that through science he could transcend the natural order and become something greater than man. Yet in doing so, he created suffering everywhere around him.

The creature was not born evil.

It was born alone.

That is the tragedy.

The creature longed for love, companionship, understanding, and connection. It watched humanity from afar with admiration. It wished not for violence at first, but for acceptance. Yet the very man who gave it life looked upon it with disgust and horror.

Victor gave life to a being, yet refused to give it humanity.

He wanted the glory of creation without the responsibility that comes with it.

And that is where his downfall begins.

The creature begged for compassion. Begged for another like itself so it would not wander the earth in isolation. Yet Victor, so consumed by fear and self-absorption, tore even that hope away.

In doing so, he created the very monster he feared.

There is only so much weight a bridge can bear before it collapses.

The creature’s bridge collapsed beneath abandonment, rejection, hatred, and loneliness. The murders it committed were horrific, yes, but they were born from suffering. It became the reflection of the cruelty shown to it.

Victor spends the entire novel believing himself the victim, yet he rarely acknowledges that he authored the suffering in the first place.

He feared death so deeply that he destroyed life itself.

That is the irony of Frankenstein.

Victor wished to escape mortality, yet his obsession with immortality killed everyone he loved. William. Justine. Clerval. Elizabeth. Even his own father. One by one, death followed the very man who tried to defeat it.

And by the end, both creator and creation realise the truth too late.

Victor realises he failed his own creation.

And the creature realises revenge did not heal its loneliness.

It only made the emptiness greater.

That is why Frankenstein is not simply a horror story.

It is a tragedy about responsibility, isolation, love, rejection, and the consequences of creating life without compassion.

A creature can only be shown hell for so long before it begins to believe it belongs there.

For at the hour of six, I sat upon my old throne,
a red velvet chair with mahogany wood,
deep-seated and worn kindly by time itself.
A wooden footstool rested beneath me,
lined once more with red velvet,
and a blanket lay across my legs
as my dressing gown wrapped warmly around my skin.

Beside me sat a cup of tea,
warming my throat with every sip,
while my glasses rested gently upon my nose,
windows through which my weary eyes might still see clearly.

And there, within my hands,
lay a book opened at page two hundred and seven.
Frankenstein rested quietly in my grasp
as the evening settled around me.

And as I read,
I wandered not into the pages alone,
but into the future itself—
into the unknown,
into what could be
and what may never come to pass.

And there I found a tranquil thought,
one that sat so heavenly upon my chest.

I saw myself once more in that very chair,
yet older now.
Older in face, in thought, in soul.
My hair had turned grey with the passing of years,
my skin lined softly with the stories
of the past, the present,
and the soon-to-be future.

I sat within an old wooden house
where the floorboards creaked beneath wandering feet
and the walls groaned quietly at night
as the house settled with age.

Before me stood glass cabinets
filled with treasures of the past and present,
objects touched by history,
objects touched by memory.

To my left rested my animals,
older now, as I too would be older,
yet still beside me all the same.

A different book rested within my hands,
a different tea beside my chair,
yet the feeling remained unchanged.

And there I sat,
with only the quiet cracking of the night to accompany me—
the settling of timber,
the creaking of the floorboards,
the distant dripping of a pipe somewhere within the walls.

Just me.
My books.
My animals.
My cabinets of memory.
And the silence of a life fully lived.

For at the hour of six, I sat upon my old throne,
a red velvet chair with mahogany wood,
deep-seated and worn kindly by time itself.
A wooden footstool rested beneath me,
lined once more with red velvet,
and a blanket lay across my legs
as my dressing gown wrapped warmly around my skin.

Beside me sat a cup of tea,
warming my throat with every sip,
while my glasses rested gently upon my nose,
windows through which my weary eyes might still see clearly.

And there, within my hands,
lay a book opened at page two hundred and seven.
Frankenstein rested quietly in my grasp
as the evening settled around me.

And as I read,
I wandered not into the pages alone,
but into the future itself—
into the unknown,
into what could be
and what may never come to pass.

And there I found a tranquil thought,
one that sat so heavenly upon my chest.

I saw myself once more in that very chair,
yet older now.
Older in face, in thought, in soul.
My hair had turned grey with the passing of years,
my skin lined softly with the stories
of the past, the present,
and the soon-to-be future.

I sat within an old wooden house
where the floorboards creaked beneath wandering feet
and the walls groaned quietly at night
as the house settled with age.

Before me stood glass cabinets
filled with treasures of the past and present,
objects touched by history,
objects touched by memory.

To my left rested my animals,
older now, as I too would be older,
yet still beside me all the same.

A different book rested within my hands,
a different tea beside my chair,
yet the feeling remained unchanged.

And there I sat,
with only the quiet cracking of the night to accompany me—
the settling of timber,
the creaking of the floorboards,
the distant dripping of a pipe somewhere within the walls.

Just me.
My books.
My animals.
My cabinets of memory.
And the silence of a life fully lived.

For the longest time, I wished to hear your voice.
For the longest time, I wished to see your stare.
For the longest time, I wished to feel your hug, your touch, your kiss, your presence.

For the longest time, I shattered mirrors that I looked in.
For the longest time, I scarred my skin.
For the longest time, I refused to look within.
For the longest time, I thought it was me and I, it was the problem.
For the longest time, I hated myself.

For the longest time, my body became my grave, until I realised the truth.

I looked within.

No longer did I need you, no longer did I want you.
Truth is, I’ve seen what you were, I’ve seen a love that was never there.

For the longest time, I wished for something that was never there in the first place.
A fake romance, a fake society that you had built within.
A fake image that you’ve kissed my face with.
An image that speaks a thousand words.

They say fall in love with the eyes, because eyes will never grow old.
And I do, I fall in love with the eyes.
There’s some eyes, the vast of the devils.
They hold deception and lies.
Some eyes will give you heaven while sending you to hell.

For the longest time, I thought I was the problem.

You…
You will never be anything.
You’re destined to become nothing.

I laid my seed in you, and it grew a blossom and flower which you extinguished with fire.

For the longest time, I believed you could be anyone.
Now I see that you’ll be no one.

Destined to skin your knees upon the ground at a single step.
Destined to crawl and never walk.
Destined to be blind than to see.

For only the devil has your eyes, and that is clear to see.

Good evening to all I’ll be picking up a juvenile bluetongue later this week I’ll be getting a 4’ x 2’ x 2’ enclosure
Some backgrounds of animals already have I have snake bearded dragon frogs, birds ,scorpions ,rabbit cat and the dog
I was just wondering if I could have some advice on feeding as I know there’s a lot of different videos and information out there I know that dog food snails brought from the store veggies, eggs and fruit of sometimes
Just wondering if I could have some advice when it comes to feeding a blue tongue with how often and what types of food you guys feed yours? And any other general advice on keeping a blue tongue just so I am fully ready, thank you.

Only I and myself will always know me.

Only I will see the marks upon my skin and my heart.
Only I will feel the hollow—
the quiet concave within.

Only I will feel the tears,
and only I will see them fall.

For no other soul shall bear witness
to the way my face weeps—
so softly, so tragically.

For the horrors of two doves,
tangled in shattered lies,
in truth, in tears—
that crimson river from within.

It is like a flaming lake,
a place where one screams without a tongue,
and feels without a heart.

Is this the place of total isolation?
Or merely the place within—
before the mask is worn,
before the smile is painted,
before the laughter is rehearsed,

and I return to the world
as something seen,
but never known.