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GREEN [front cover] Extended Play Artwork

GREEN [back cover] Extended Play Artwork

ToFF - GREEN

GREEN the EP by ToFF available now on all major streaming platforms.

Green - EP by ToFF

3R33N [Prod The Based God]

ToFF

ToFF

eldritch-sorcerer:

Limelight Potterhead

Hey guys. Doxx girl is back. Let’s get this blog deleted, and I hope y’all can feel assured justice will be served, because I WILL be emailing her college with the receipts behind her continued harassment of 2 users. She’s gonna get the hammer. I will also add on some texts that she sent from a new blog (she’s done this 4 times), and I’ll be adding the username for what appears to be another blog of hers.

!!!

nederys:

deckerprestonsmoak:

nederys:

lesbo:

lesbo:

I kinda don’t understand the concept of fandom. What similar interests can have 30 year old mom and 16 year old lesbian? How do these people “create” a fandom?

@agaporae hdjdjdjdjd i mean that like. Fandom especially on tumblr or whatever. Headcannoning, shipping. Like, I could never relate to 40 year old cishet man who’s in the same fandom as me, 21 y/o nonbinary lesbian. I just mean that as concept fandom is a… weird thing

not to be blunt, but i’d rather be around “fandom elders” 20 years older than myself (like 30-40yo) than around people “my age” or in my “safe spaces” who treat sexual orientation as a personality trait. incidentally that’s what i’ve always done, first unconsciously and now consciously that i can tell what profile of user i’m gonna get along with or not. i mean, i have fandom friends of all ages, but i do have a lot of older friends.

i have a lot to thank to fandom “mums”, queer and straight. i’ve started friendships, shared interests and culture, vented about my personal life, gotten advice, improved my writing, exchanged gifts, practiced other languages. it’s fun, not bad for hanging out in the internet at all, compared to other forums.

what we have in common, usually - hobbies. for me that’s fandom. i post a gifset for a rarepair and someone hits like and we strike a conversation and we enjoy talking to each other, next month i find out their age or gender identity, and nothing changes. i think the idea that you can’t have anything in common with “a 40yo cishet man” is backwards… like, you’re both human beings. 

are we really…. Why are people doing this? Why isn’t the question “how can people who grew up in different cultures create a fandom?” because you’re basing that different experiences and points of origin makes it impossible to enjoy something together? To find anything in common when it comes to this one thing both of them enjoy? 

The point of fandom isn’t that it is a homogenous group with homogenous opinions. When you engage with people of all ages, walks of life, orientations, experiences, cultures, etc. you find yourself in a fandom with many different perspectives and you might actually learn something even when you think you know all you need to know. 

As nederys said, it’s not like we begin the conversations with people saying a/s/l? so it’s not as big of an obstacle that you make it out to be. Interests are not tied to an age

As nederys said, it’s not like we begin the conversations with people saying a/s/l? so it’s not as big of an obstacle that you make it out to be. Interests are not tied to an age

I think that’s it actually? Which confirms that people who say “mandatory outing culture” isn’t mandatory are full of shit. It’s not that people aren’t free to put their sexual orientation and mental health clinical history in their bios, and seek communities… it’s that we shouldn’t take a space that exists on its own, fandom, and make that a coercive norm to make it “progressive”.

How do you know it’s coercive? When people that don’twant to give you their personal information are, by default, treated as part of the out-group. How is that NOT a red flag??? Well, I think the only people who wouldn’t see it is if they were raised in it and everyone around them did the same. 

That’s the only way you assume you won’t have anything in common with [identity X], because you can’t even imagine meeting someone outside of starting the conversation with your personal information. I mean not to exaggerate but once I knew someone had been sexually assaulted before they told me their name…..

If I don’t mention my age and I disagree with a 15-25yo pastels lmao blog, I’m assumed older. If I disagree with a queer person and I don’t mention my orientation, I’m assumed straight. If I disagree with a feminist and I don’t mention my gender, I’m assumed a man. If I disagree with a genderqueer person and I don’t mention my gender, I’m assumed cis. If I disagree with a person of color and I don’t mention my race or my nationality, I’m assumed white American. If I disagree with a disability or mental health blog and I don’t mention my clinical hisory, I’m assumed healthy neurotypical. If I talk about abuse and I don’t mention my trauma, I’m assumed to not have said trauma. Etc etc etc

Not even the fact that this is measurably toxic and problematic (eg stealing other people’s voice, potentially misgendering, triggering, etc) - stops people from having their purity boner in identity politics at any cost. Like at this point we should just have the actual descriptive bio on its own category and just call the trend “social justice credentials”.

I’m curious do people literally don’t understand that violent death threats or wishes aren’t normal, acceptable or adequate, or do they just not care?

15. Delhi

19 million people, waking up in the morning,

going about their lives, from one corner to

another, jumping on one route and reaching

another. Delhi, you beautiful beautiful city,

I hear you carry, within, a soul so old that

you age with time. Oh Delhi, you beautiful

mistake.

19 million people, 573 sq. mi long city,

so many lives, so many dreams. Delhi, you

infuriating mess. Ask anyone they’ll have a

story to tell, of a time not known to you, a

time not understood by me but a thousand

people willing to stop and listen along with

their daily cup of tea.

Everyone in here experiences this city in a

way that quite differently do align, and they

are definitely unconnected to mine. Mine

starts with a gate, number 7 it seems,

a chamber block with III written on it and a

floor to see what is unseen. Oh Delhi,

you are so full of mysteries.

On the 7th floor fire exit, you can see the

glory of this city in one place. If you look at

the expanse, I swear you can fly. From the

magnificence that is the Raisina Hill, running

along the Parliament and the tricolored

beauty of India gate. Hold on, wait for a

moment. Absorb the lights, the Grandeur

and move one.

The chilly breeze, often takes you with it to

the never ending work in progress that is

Pragati Maidan which literally translates

to “progress grounds” and to the ruins of

the Old fort, which once was the residence

of the huge empire, resonates the losses

and the gains.

The 7th floor fire exit captures the beauty

that is Delhi, but it also takes you on a

journey to the gems lost in time. If you look

around, you’ll see the Jawaharlal Nehru

Stadium, sitting on the high chair, looking

down at the city. If you go a little further,

you’ll find the Lotus temple.

Right there, just there, stop and think. Look

beyond the temple and you’ll find yourself.

You’ll see where you’ve reached and the

place where you started from. Delhi, you are

the reason for my suffering and the reason

for my contentment.

There are 19 million people in this city and

the 7th floor, Chamber block III is my place

of solace.

14. Sympathy Pains

As she stood there, waiting.

Waiting for a sign, a reason perhaps,

I’m glued to the television, knowing

Her world is about to collapse.

The pain in her heart, is mine

too. Her eyes all cried out, staring,

directly at the camera, I can sense it

in my bones, it’s obtrusive, glaring.

I hear she screamed when she saw,

the pool of blood and people oscillating.

Her whole world destroyed, in a moment,

truly vile, nauseating.

I’m a mere spectator, in this dysfunctional

world. Forcing my thoughts, evaluating.

And there she is, fighting every day,

running, crying, dying, alternating.

I move around my house, helplessly.

For I only know her pain, not understand it,

hating the world, the people, everyone,

for the crimes they didn’t commit.

Will she get the justice she deserves?

I do not know, but I do know

that tonight, we’ll both won’t sleep,

we’ll both see him, alive, breathing, a shadow.

13. Maria

Like a devout inside the temple and

the lonely outside, I too aimlessly

look for little notes in the books that

I buy. If they could speak, they’d tell

the story of their being. When they

were there without a promise to be

kept perpetually but with one to

alternate consecutively. They whisper

as if calling my name and I swear my

name becomes more powerful, but I

digress. I found a note today, it was

perhaps, addressed to someone I

might never meet or to someone who

barely existed. It read “my dearest, I

want you to have this book in hopes

that you won’t be hoping for me. I leave

you with my love for I don’t want to

live in a world where you aren’t.”It’s

absolutely grotesque how one man’s

loss is another man’s gain. The

whispers came back again, this time

it wasn’t my name that they took, it

was hers, it was Maria’s. As the

whispers grew louder, my powers

weakened. The whispers turned into

voices. I looked in the mirror, trying to

make sense of things until I realized

it wasn’t my reflection staring me down.

My heart jolted 100 beats per minute,

my limbs making sounds never heard

before. A voice, mouthing something

in the background, trying to run away,

I could tell. Weak in my knees, still

standing. With each beat of my heart,

I gained the power once lost and at that

moment, I realized,

I was Maria.

12. Sorceress Supreme

It so happened some years ago,

a story of the past it seems,

the room was wide and huge,

absorbing the echoes of her screams.

Her tale is told in those corridors still,

where she roams, almost as if free,

the ghost of her bolting/shutting doors,

what happened that night, I couldn’t foresee.

Loud banging waking up the dead,

calling them to join her quest,

the dead following her in the night,

In that hostel only dead did rest.

I hear her sometimes still,

in what I believe are dreams,

I swear I saw a light on the ceiling,

of her, sorceress supreme.

11. Mesophonia

Echo of tugnaw,

a ghastly pandemonium,

Prithee, kindly stop.

10. Sunday in the Saxena household

This is a story about a family, a Ghazal and a realization.

Sunday morning brings the age-old

Saxena household convention. The

sweet sound of Jagjit Singh ricochets

our heart’s desire. There’s something

called peace and then there’s association.

Sunday morning in the Saxena household

brings one close to life, the understanding

of and of ourselves.

Sunday in the Saxena household passes

as hurriedly as a snitch, as if is too eager

to jump to the next one. The morning starts

with the beauty of Adrak walee Chai, the

pleasant aroma of Halwa Nagori and the

soulfulness of Jagjit Singh. A sight not to be

missed, a feeling, incomprehensible.

The birds chirp too sweetly, the people

speak a bit softer, the traffic

disappears on a Sunday morning. We

dream of perfection, we strive for it too

but when it’s a Sunday, perfection becomes

you in the Saxena household.

“क्‍यों डरें ज़िन्‍दगी में क्‍या होगा, कुछ ना होगा तो तज़रूबा

होगा” (why should we fear life, what will

happen, if nothing else, we’ll gain

experience), these words once echoed

like a recurring dream is now, the motto of

my life. So many dreams are made,

discussed, so many decisions made and

lived on a Sunday in the Saxena household.

I’m not hovering around the days to end,

rather, I lie here in wait for the next Sunday.

——————————————

Adrak walee chai (Ginger Milk Tea) - The national (Indian) tea, famous for its herbs and the power of curing almost all of your life’s problems.

Halwa Nagori - A dessert famous in the northern part of India, could honestly, be termed as the national breakfast as is devoured by families for generations.

Jagjit Singh - A famous Ghazal (sung poetry) singer, whom the world lost too soon. The voice of whom still echoes in our heart.

8. Rajma Chawal

The visibly yellow set, a bus stop

and a being of excitement. The

taste buds now saved from all the

vices, to not ruin what was promised

in the morning. As far as promises

go, this was the best yet.

A ride full of bumps is nothing

compared to the bumps that are

currently wreaking havoc in my

stomach. The thought of holding

that metal plate, with copious

amount of kidney beans– pause-

correction, the copious amount of

Rajma Chawal not only gives you

the immense satisfaction of eating

something so elite but also, after a

long day, is what home actually is.

7. To my English Teacher

At an approximate distance of 2 benches, you stood there, every day explaining how two negatives makes a positive. I remember, that day, ages ago, when you told me that I was special, and I knew you meant it. I know you’ll mean it even now because I believe in you. That very same day, my best friend and I sat on the extreme left row and waited for you to enter. I remember the look on your face when you saw that in a class of 60 students, there were only 2. I remember the anger, the agony and peace. I see your face in my dreams sometimes and when I do, I see peace. Peace in your eyes, smile on your face and words, so many words. I remember how you waited outside our exam hall to wish us good luck and I know you don’t know this, but I really needed that. I’ve never told you this, but the majority of my life seems wasted, but that one moment is what covers up for it.

I don’t want to tell you what all you taught that have made a huge difference in my life, but I really want you to know that what I’ve achieved, yet, is less of me and more of you. You were supposed to teach us a language, correct our grammar, give us essays and yet you taught us virtue, morals, taking responsibility and I owe all of my ideals to you. While we were being taught about calculus and accounts, you were teaching us how to be a human being. I’ve never had an epiphany like this before, but today that I’m standing between what is right and what is correct has made me realize what you meant when you said “we make our choices based on what standards we set for ourselves.”

This one time, the last time that we met, you looked at me while crossing the road and smiled. At that moment I realized that I didn’t need anything from you, just the fact that you recognized me was enough affirmation and I shall cherish it all my life. I don’t think I’ll ever have the courage to send this to you, but I really hope that you change the life of many vagrants as you once did mine.

Love,

M

6. The idea of You

A deep brown collar, lurking from

underneath the green plaid coat.

A smirk on your face, as you turned

the page of your favorite book. “To

define is to limit”, I feel my maroon

muffler tighten around you in a

pursuit to choke me, but I resist. I

resist your raspy voice, your stubble

trimmed to perfection, your quoting

of Fitzgerald and Wilde, you, I’m trying

to resist you. There’s something deeply

intriguing when we dissect the movies

that we watch. I swear, my heart

fluctuates when we leave one another

notes where mine consists of all the

books you should read and yours are

filled with words describing your last

bowel movement. Last night, we danced

to Johann Pachelbel while you whispered

Rilke in my ears. Did I tell you that we

were communicating with our eyes, but

your eyes somehow spoke fluent

German? But I’m resisting you, I’m

trying. I manchmal stand in stillness

and wonder if you can listen to my

silence. “The only way to get rid of

temptation is to yield to it.” I hate it when

you take Dorian gray as an excuse to

solve, almost all of our problems.

People just laugh around you, the mom

-ents stop and look at the vision that is

you and I, I stand here, motionless, com

-posing my body, my brain, my heart, my

gentle gentle heart. Alas, it’s time for me

to wake up.

5. Walking around the city on a Monday evening

I remember it being green. The

color so sublime that it takes

away melange of misery. The

wallowing self in the streets

that leads nowhere. I remember

them being brown. The path so

stern that you might want to mi

-ss it but it is so hard to do just

that. It often reaches to an aban

-doned building, the cracks and

crevices are hosting a lot of

yellow within it. The kind of yell

-ow that makes you want to have

ice lollies. I remember the building

being grey. Carrying on it’s should

-ers the dullness, the hate, the ugly

associated to it. The yellow tells a

different story. It doesn’t care

about the green, the red, the grey;

the misery. There’s blue directly

diagonal to it and in it there’s a who

-le expanse of pigments. The hues

and the tints that are just wondero

-us for many but for yellow, it’s

what the world is. This city is beige,

it always has been beige but if you

squint your eyes at a precise angle,

you’ll see lavender falling down the

sky and everything will be fine.

4. Maladaptive Daydreaming

A hand full of bliss,

with life’s contentment, I

woke up desolate

3. Utopia

In a perfect world, you are making me coffee, just the way I like, point two five cream, and point five sugar. It is a perfect world because I can hear you sing and we know how you hate it. It is 7 in the morning and we’ve woken up early because that’s what we do in a perfect world. Love happens in little moments in a perfect world. We collect these mementos and god knows we have a jar filled with these. You look at me every day and don’t wish for anyone else and since it is our perfect world, I wish the same. We move out of this place, we go to work, we come back home and it is perfect. It is perfect.

Is it perfect?

I swear I saw you gag on the soufflé I made, I hear your audible annoyance when I asked you about your favorite anime. There are moments in our conversations that are lopsided, flaky, downright awkward. There are moments in our jar that are okay, just okay. We reach out for each other’s hands but somehow they get twisted instead of getting entangled. It is like being handcuffed with a tree and the tree never grows. But it’s a perfect world so we go to sleep and wake up with you making me coffee and I wishing for no one but you and it’s perfect.

2. Bondage

I often look at my bookshelf and it dawns on me the beauty that it holds is far  greater than what I ever will see. In all that it seems and what the eyes see, what the heart seeks, I shall never know. I often look at the dust that is now taken hostage of these marvels. I try to brush it off and I stop, as if forcing it to take me too for my story is in there, somewhere, not known to anybody. I often hold my breath and try to count all those stories that reminded me of mine, I hold my breath in hopes of forgetting to breath for I shall seek solace in my dusty host drifting to the world that is my own.

1. Casting My Way Through Life

She wandered alone, swam even

through the depths of her insolate

heart. A shiny blue metal did caught

her off guard. The rebel in her,

trying to run and entrap the beauty

that surrounds. A true hodophile in

this respect.                                

 The iron cast jamming her legs,

stopping her from the destiny unknown.

Unbeknownst of the surroundings,

undeterred by the same, she’d loosen

the metal chain that drowns her,

she’ll jump again.

What makes you lose your sleep?

Is it my broken heart or just the music?

You know, how some people have this voice, the voice oh, so very strong yet gentle. The kind which makes your heart flutters in passion and you know it in the depths of your body that they must be amazing storytellers and then they utter that first sentence. A sentence so mediocre but royal and you know in the depths of your skin that you are going to melt and that you soul is leaving your body and that you no longer trot in this world and are just trapped, living and breathing in the world of this mesmerizing stranger. I want that.