Clothed in galaxies

It’s past midnight, and I should be asleep; but there’s no way I can close my eyes and have nothing happen, so I’m sitting here having a lunch of ale, ice cream, and aspirin; rewatching a certain episode of a certain TV series about people that no longer have a pulse; forcing myself to write. I really need to start taking better care of myself.

But not tonight. Tonight I’ll forgive myself the terrible meal, forgive myself not going to sleep, forgive my brain on fire, and pretend I had a serving of vegetables by eating two olives. Oh, damn. This ale is incredibly bad. So bad. It smells good, but it tastes like dirty shoes.

The photo you see above is of leggings I bought a couple of weeks ago. I like to wear things—cheap or otherwise—that represent who I am without saying a word about who I am, and my galaxies leggings do that for me. When I feel bad, or downtrodden, or I’ve had a bad day, I break out my giant shoes or my giantess clothes or jewelry, and I might not feel better, but it puts my mind on the right road.

I love my leggings. When I look at them, when I touch them, when I wear them, I think of how tall I am, that I drape myself in constellations… that my little gigantic black dress is made of dark matter… that (somewhere interesting) in the deep space that my leggings encompass, Earth spins, and on it I can see everything and everyone. That I keep it safe or crumble it in my fist like a clump of clay, depending on how delighted or annoyed I become with its occupants.

To some of my readers, such a size is unmanageably large. An ultra giantess can’t possibly interact with a planet so small, and conversing with a single earthling is impossible. Not so. I am Me. I can do that, and much more. I can touch it, hold it, caress it, place it anywhere on me, and flirt with the only one person on it that matters. So what if he appears microscopic when compared to me? That means nothing when my focus is centered like a blinding spotlight on him. Nothing is hidden, nothing is out of reach. My Underverse is perfect.

But reality.

6 thoughts on “Clothed in galaxies

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  1. I’m up too. Time is so precious right now. I have four days to myself, and the hours flow out the door like water. I try to get writing done during the day, but one thing or another gets in the way. I try to check off my to-do list each night, but I can only manage about half of everything I have planned. And then it’s very late at night and I won’t get enough sleep.

    I had a dinner of smoked oysters, Laughing Cow spreadable cheese, and roasted garlic Triscuits. Now I’m having a late dinner of multivitamins, fish oil, and red wine. When I’m done typing, I’ll get up and floss and brush, gather the cats into the bedroom, and pass out as quickly as possible.

    Lots of writing yesterday, not so much today. Tonight I sent out a bunch of emails to miniaturist artists around the world, so that’s some kind of progress. Got to make the most of Wednesday, insist upon my personal time, close the door, steal a couple hours. Always so much to do.

    If I lived on a planet in a galaxy on a giantess’s thigh, I wonder if I could feel her energy. I wonder if I already do and I’m just used to it, wouldn’t notice it until it was gone. I wonder if that body heat or the living, loving energy of the giantess is what I feel passing through me each day, what I thought was solar wind or another radiation. I wonder what I could possibly achieve on this planet, being tinier than a proton, that she could possibly sense. Perhaps that’s just as far as it goes: I live on her and feel her life-force. She looks down and sees the larger solar system and supposes there might be a life form in there somewhere. Even if I could pull all the planets together in a line, it’d still be too small for her to perceive, so I’d wonder what the point of all this is.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. You and your Triscuits. I’ll probably emulate you in a bit, and have a second-midnight lunch of vitamins and more ale. I’ll fruss and blosh as well, and do some cat herding, but can only pray for passing out.

      I accomplished much today, but nothing in the size world. I’ll stay up writing, and something’s bound to end up on the page.

      In my mind, in my world, in my universe, there is no such thing as “too small”. We’ve already established how incredibly monumental I’d be in size. That’s a fact in my head. There’s no leap of imagination that must occur. There is no feat of brain power, so it follows that anything as simple as focusing my attention on any given point in space or time or light or darkness is all I need to do to observe. The size of a planet is not a limitation: it’s the appeal. The height of a human on it is not too small: it’s the whole point.

      The giantess you wonder about will—of course—follow your own patterns of thought… but in the story I tell myself, she simply chooses to overlook things until the time comes when she won’t. Maybe I’m projecting, because that’s how I do things. I overlook until it becomes impossible for me to continue to do so.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. I like “Underverse.” I don’t know what I would do if I sensed I was the focus of such cosmic attention. I’m pretty good at denial, but I hope I would find the grace to accept it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I love “Underverse” too. It’s where I live. What comes to mind (and I love the stuff that comes to my mind sometimes) is the idea that a man lives his life as best as he can. He weaves into existence every day. Then he finds that a being larger than the universe he knows is after him. What I love about that scenario is that it doesn’t matter what he thinks or feels, or what little grace he finds. Grace is irrelevant.

      Cosmic attention will wash over him inexorably. Should I tell you to be grateful you don’t live in that Underverse? Nah, I won’t. It’s my understanding that no one should be grateful to exist without the boundaries of my design, but that amounts to 99% sociopathy +1% wishful thinking. We are all alone in our heads.


  3. I love all manner of size-related stuff, including space. Right now (and for years, actually), I’m trying to find a birdcage necklace just the right size to fit a two-inch tall body.​


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