The Arsonist

I am Dilpreet.
I write things. I made robots once a year, for four years of high school, which immeasurably changed my life.
Lead Design and Build for Team 1259, Paradigm Shift, 2013.

And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

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Reddit Prompt: Make the reader love the person you love

A/N: wrote this one a while ago, don’t think I put it on reddit or here. well, it’s here now.

She’s broken, yeah. She doesn’t have a whole lot figured out, no, but neither do I. Sometimes, I disagree with her. Sometimes, I get frustrated with that, and it gets the better of me. Sometimes, she hurts me, and sometimes, I hurt her. Her past follows her like a darkened shadow, constantly pecking away at her insecurity, mockingly, maliciously. Sometimes she handles it, sometimes, she doesn’t. It makes me angry—not at her, but at what brought her to this. I would never believe in a thousand years that I’d be the one for her.

I remember when I first saw her, first became aware of her existence on this plane of reality. It was a long time ago, when we met. At the time, I thought nothing of it, nothing of her. But soon, we grew closer, good friends eventually. She let herself open, partially, I think, more than once. I never quite got to the center of her being, though, not then. I still don’t think I’m there.

But, eventually, I woke up free of certain burdens upon my person, and there she was. She greeted me with a smile one morning, over a table with coffee sitting on it. I wasn’t so sure what it was then, but something about her drew me in, inexplicably, unabashedly. I had to know more. I had to understand, I had to have her.

It was her laugh. The smile. The funny faces she would do and the funny faces she’d coax out of me. The way, when we hugged—even before I had her—she’d hold on tight and I’d quietly hope that she’d hold on a little longer than she did the last time. The anxious nerves I’d get around her, wondering if she knew, if she knows, just how much I’d like to be next to her more often than I am not.

It’s the way I’d throw myself in front of a fuckin’ car if it meant she’d be okay, the way I’d just love to ruin anything that tried to hurt her. When someone or something wrongs her, I want to step in and remedy the situation, let the absolute worst of me come out to do the absolute best for her. Not many things make me feel that anymore and when they do, I know to hold on for dear life, even if I can’t fix everything for her. She believes I am the better human even though I know she’s the better half of our equation. She lets me feel human and pushes me to; she acknowledges my other half instead of stifling it. She deals with him, even when he strikes out at her. She makes me think everything around me is worth it, she makes me think I’m worth it and makes me believe I’m gonna be okay in the end.

She does all of this for me, without question. I could ask her to follow me to the end of days and I know she would, without question if she believed in me, without hesitation so long as she knew it was what was in my heart. With her, I feel like less of an iron man, an iron robot. Without her, I feel lost and alone, damned by the world. She’s my light in the dark, one of the people in my life that I’d follow into the void, one that I’d suffer the eternal depths of hell for.

I can’t imagine not having her, and I can’t imagine where I’d be now if I didn’t tell her that.  

Reddit Prompt: Describe yourself the way an author would in a novel

The boy wasn’t always like this. He used to be happier, more willing to strive for a peaceful resolution; patient, calmer. His innocence had let him be kind to all, rather than few. The alcohol is what exacerbated the ignition of his fiery temperament, at first. Not his, mind you…but his father’s.

An alcoholic father crippled by his addiction made for a poor role model. It made everything a struggle, a bitter fight to survive without letting the flames consume him. His father dealt with his own anger with alcohol, poisoning himself to kill what was inside. A life ridden with tragedy beyond his control—a foreclosed house, financial problems his entire life, more recently, his house burning down…the boy ended up like his father in a way. Defined by fire.

He’d always been hyper-focused when he was fuming like this. Moving forward…left, right, left, right. Unstoppable, swallowed up by his fury, built up over years, bottled and contained within a cage. Forever enduring, rolling with each blow, the anger slowly bleeding into his brain; that cage broke, ruptured, tore in half, the fire bursting forth, inevitably engulfing him and seizing control of him.

There was a certain air to him, a kind of bold energy that he’d exert upon his surroundings. Some described it to him as empowering; others, intimidating. There was a certain darkness to that air, a heavy feeling of sorrow and pain that he resolved with the enflamed passion his anger spurred. At first, he couldn’t find a good way to deal with it other than bottle it up. He certainly wouldn’t follow the path his father did—he would never be able to bring himself to drink.

He learned, as most do, though, that containing it simply wasn’t possible—to harbor that much pain and hurt only led to a violent cascade of explosive breakdowns that not only hurt him, but those around him. After years of being hurt, he wasn’t going to be the one that caused pain to the undeserving. Plagued by his problem, he moved forward still. Left, right, left, right.

The solution, he found, was in his interests. His passion for the things he enjoyed doing led him to realize it was something he could use that anger, use that rage. A childhood dictated by mediocrity and a feeling of extreme inferiority to everything around him led to a burning desire to become better, to do better, work harder. It began to come naturally to him—to be angered and turn that fury around into something productive. Taking fire, a force of destruction, and using it to create became his method, his way of doing things.  

Yet, despite the strides he’d made in using his anger for something much better than the darkness it brought to him, he held on to that darkness. He realized without it, he didn’t quite stand as tall, didn’t quite fight back as forcefully when attacked. With it, he felt powerful in a way—the way his mind changed when he was angry and let it get to him felt burningly satisfying. The way he’d let himself become an arsonist, metaphorically, gave him power. He’d feel like a different person entirely when he let the fires swallow his mind whole, and that person was dangerous, uncontrollable, headstrong and most importantly, a safeguard. With that person, he’d always have a backup.

He was lost within the fires of his own darkness, sure, but he didn’t quite dislike it. He began to recover, to some extent.  In time, he became a bit of a cocky individual. He knew his strengths, he knew what he was good at—of course he’d show it off! His anger became multifaceted; a tool that he could extend from his hands and lungs to impact whatever action he took. His anger isn’t the only force driving him anymore—do not be fooled, reader, it is still there and just as prominent—but it is still the strongest.

It is said quite often that holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it; that the holder is the one burned. I challenge that, dear reader—I say that the example of this boy proves that such a dark emotion as anger can bring some power, of a beneficial kind. Anybody can become angry. That is easy; all of humanity knows it intimately. It takes a certain kind of person to know when it is appropriate to become angry to hurt another, and when it is appropriate to become angry in order to move forward…left, right, left, right. 

lovealwaysethan asked: Hi there! How are you?

I’m…I’m alright. I really appreciate that you asked. 

How are you?

Describe a color without using the name of the color, or the names of any other color.

A/N: It’s alright, I’m not the biggest fan of it. Funniest thing is the color of the gatorade I’m drinking right now is—

It’s dark in here. I feel like I can’t breathe anymore. Fleshy, organic matter lines the walls and ground while some kind of ancient scream beckons me to get going. I take one step forward, the squelch of the surface beneath my feet alerting everything around me to my every move, and freeze. The roar echoes again. Scattered breathes, hasty steps.

I was scared of it; I know what it does to me. It’ll take control, rip me out of my own body and replace me with something, something more evil, angrier. A cacophony of deafening, guttural roars urges me to keep moving. My feet sink further into the floor with each step I take, every step more difficult to pull out and move ahead.

It’s getting closer…but I’m not as scared. A part of me wants its power. A part of me craves it. It knows that, and it’s empowered by it. Eventually, I’m rooted in place, unable to move any further away, but I don’t want to anymore. I can hear it but I can’t turn to see it; I’m in down to my hips by now. Each step it takes is firm and calculated. All the same, there’s haste to its actions, a certain fire to its presence. I find myself unable to keep my eyes open.  The sounds grow louder until the now pleasant euphony of its cries engulf my ears, and it grabs me violently, rips me right out of the ground and spins me around in the air to face it.

By this point I succumb to its desires. I can feel its warm breath on my face. A snort.


I open my eyes, and find I’m staring at a man. Brown skin, dark hair. A cocky grin. He looks very familiar, but I can’t quite place him. In his eyes, flames.

He roars in my face again, and all I can see is—

nothing is going right

seriously, fuck me. nothing I do helps, nothing can be done to help, in the end I’m just bringing her down by being as heavy an anchor as possible. 

everything I look forward too is soured by something. I really can’t say it enough. I hate 2014, so much, and it continues to spiral out of control. 

I’m really not in a good place, dear reader. The answer has always been “I don’t know how to help you”, from literally everyone. The only conclusion is that I figure it out alone or just let the things I can’t figure out eat at me until I’m just a shell. I wish it was just as easy as not dwelling on it.



what the fuck is wrong with me

Oh, right. I’m an insufferable asshole who can’t find any common ground with anyone anymore. I internally freak the fuck out to certain things that trigger old memories I have no intention of reliving, yet I consistently fucking do. It’s the one thing I can’t handle, I still fucking can’t. I’m always worried that I’ll be replaced because that’s all that fucking happens anymore.

Mere words don’t help me, physical methods don’t help me. Nothing reassures me because I’m so absolutely certain that there are better people out there that will click better, listen better, and be more relate-able than I’ll ever be. The worst part is that it’ll be natural. No one ever makes the conscious decision to replace me…but it’ll happen, dear reader. 

I’m so fucked in the head right now that I only hurt the people I care about more than I help them. I’m so down in the dumps right now that I just want to wake up happy consistently, and I can’t even do that right. It translates to my relationships, and all that ends up happening is me realizing I don’t make much of anyone happy anymore. I can’t even enjoy things with anyone anymore. I’ve either just been uninvited or it’s so far out of what I want to do that I end up doing it, but entirely unhappily. 

I haven’t really enjoyed anything I’ve done lately, and my fucking birthday is on Saturday and I know I’ll be going into it bummed, I’ll be bummed the entire day whether I want to or not, and then Sunday will suck just as hard.

There’s always someone better, always someone else that fills in for me in other people’s lives. I’m not that special at all. 

Fuck this year, seriously. It started off on a high point, hit an all time low, climbed a little bit, and dropped right back down. 

Inspired by (x)

oh, but I will definitely do so for myself. 

one of the biggest reasons I want to read Game of Thrones is because of the insane fire metaphors throughout just like this. The show seems to barely scratch the surface and for those of us that know fire intimately, the edges of the flames are much less satisfying than the core.

(Source: tywins, via libbykamen)

From one of the students on 1259. I used to be a student on the team and am now a mentor. This made my fucking week, probably.

"Oh and Dilpreet, I want to say thank you for everything you and Sri have done for me these past few years. From the beginning you pulled me in and began teaching me everything when I knew nothing. You two have shown me what it means to be a leader, and have been the best role models in my life, so…… Thanks dude"

Words can’t describe. I’m not even that special, but he still said that.


I’ve been reading some of my older stuff

and I love how fucking cocky I am, all the time. 

Go cry about your stupid problems.

This hasn’t been a good year, I’ve said it in bunches, but I really didn’t think so much suck could be bundled up in the first three months. Going to be a guaranteed fourth. Sophie’s birthday is close to mine and the day Sam died is in there too. No goodbye for either.

Fuck off.

So if you’re interested
I’ll take you anywhere
I’ll buy some beat up car, we could get out of here

sigh. that works out for everyone, I guess. 

everyone but me, but I’ll deal. probably not going to be a good birthday, honestly. Maybe I’ll change my mind on going, but honestly I doubt it’s worth the trouble. Not a whole lot is, which might explain the calmness. I just don’t give a fuck.