#// a constant state of ennui in this one

[loftycries]

open to everyone / the gala, at approx. 8pm

REMI is not too proud to admit that he had anticipated that this night would go — well, badly isn't exactly the word he's searching for, but it's close. after talking to some colleagues at work earlier in the day, he had been under the impression that everyone would be more or less dreading the event. remi himself had to arrive a little late, as he had to rush to go and get ready in his apartment after work.

he's hovering near the bar, waiting for drinks, but since an hour has already passed since the event began, the bar is currently swarming with guests vying for their own orders. he's not surprised — it's more or less expected at an event that's offering free drinks on a friday night, especially when it's taking place at a location that's as nice as the ritz-carlson.

" i had expected fewer people to be so... thrilled to be here, " he says, more or less under his breath.

[luchicm04]

What is ENNUI, one of the new 4 emotions from Inside Out 2

The true emotion that hides behind Ennui

I decided to post this since I've seen many people, inclusing some of my friends, say that Ennui is a very irrelevant character, that she is just there to make jokes and nothing serious, some even say that the boredom is not a true emotion... Well, they're kind of right, but only because they don't understand what ennui is or what she represents. She's actually a bigger deal than a lot of people think, and it's a shame not many see it because I believe she's the best and most interesting and different of the new emotions.

In philosophy and psychology, Ennui describes a constant emotional state where a person always feels bored and apathetic, which may be related to depression.

It is not just feeling bored at a specific moment, but a continuous feeling of lack of interest and motivation in life.

It's an emotion that Riley uses as a "protection mechanism" that allows her to go from a high-drama situation to total indifference.

Source: X

[nehpetssanders]

What's up with you?

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This story was inspired from a headcanon I saw in a Tumblr post by @itwasntreal, where you are always so happy and cheerful suddenly become a lot gloomier than usual, and the story tells of what Cassandra would do to lift your spirits up.

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You are known as one of the most optimistic and cheerful students throughout Hogwarts, always greeting the day with a bright smile on your face and often being seen on the corridors on your way to classes with a gleeful skip on your feet. Witches and wizard practically called you a sunbeam in human form, capable of brightening even the gloomiest of days.

Cassandra Vole, the haughty and conceited Slytherin girl, had always regarded you with a mixture of intrigue and mild exasperation. She certainly seemed a bit more predisposed towards you compared to how she treats your other friends, but that was only because she believed you were hanging out with the wrong crowd, namely Ivy Warrington, still holding a grudge against her for nearly harming her with a Vanishing Charm, and Daniel Page, because of his family’s upbringing.

Those lively eyes, brimming with joy, were a stark contrast to Cassandra's own arrogant, icy demeanor. She had often observed your interactions with a raised eyebrow, unable to fathom how someone could exude so much happiness.

But then, one fateful morning, something shifted. As you entered the Great Hall for breakfast, the usual sparkle in your eyes seemed to have dimmed, like a star fading into the night. Cassandra was quick to notice the change. It was as if a veil of melancholy had settled over you, casting a somber shadow that resonated within Cassandra's own thoughts. Unable to ignore the transformation, she decided to address it in her straightforward manner.

"Can any of you little rascals tell me why they're doing that?" Cassandra's gaze bore into you, her tone laced with a mix of annoyance and curiosity.

"Doing what?" Daniel asked, genuinely puzzled and surprised that her tone seemed mellow, rather than her usual snark.

Cassandra gestured subtly to you, who sat quite a distance from your friends, lost in thought as you played with your porridge. "Doing that," she repeated, her annoyance evident.

Your lack of reaction when Cassandra was present left her feeling disoriented. The once-constant joy that surrounded you had been replaced with a stoic demeanor, and Cassandra found it difficult to believe this was the same person. From a distance, she observed you, noting the lines of sadness etched upon your face.

As the days stretched on, Cassandra's internal turmoil grew. She wasn't one to admit concern, especially not about someone like you. But she couldn't bear the sight of you in such a state. It was like a painting missing its brightest colors, and Cassandra felt an unexpected tug in her chest.

Frustration gripped Cassandra as she observed your friends' futile attempts to lift your spirits. In her eyes, their efforts were nothing but a collection of useless gestures. The twins, Colby and Fischer Frey, seemed equally perplexed and helpless in the face of your changed demeanor.

The monotony of Cassandra’s own life felt even more pronounced in your presence. With you lost in your own world and your friends occupied with concern, Cassandra found herself in an unexpected state of ennui. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and she disliked it immensely.

Eventually, Cassandra's resolve wavered. "I'll show you all how it's done," she muttered to herself, a hint of determination coloring her tone.

After classes, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you returned to your dormitory, your steps heavy with the weight of your thoughts. There, on your bed, lay an exquisitely wrapped gift in shimmering emerald, accompanied by a letter bearing an elegant and precise handwriting.

With a mixture of surprise and curiosity, you unwrapped the gift, revealing something you had long been eyeing on but couldn't afford back in Madam Malkin's Shop - an expensive, handcrafted and intricately designed scarf bearing the insignia of your house. The mystery of how someone knew about this longing only deepened your intrigue.

"You look hideous with that look on your face. Wipe it off. - C.V."

Only one person with this kind of handwriting and characteristic bluntness came to your mind. The initials on the letter immediately gave away who gifted it to you.

Cassandra Vole.

You smiled tenderly at the letter. Her words were harsh, yet you detected a hidden meaning behind them. The façade Cassandra presented to the world was crumbling, revealing a gesture of concern that Cassandra herself struggled to admit. You couldn't help but laugh mirthfully at this.

____________________________

The following morning, the Great Hall was bustling with students, the atmosphere buzzing with excitement. Amidst the chatter and laughter, you entered with a bright smile, the gift Cassandra had given you nestled safely around your neck. Your friends complimented you on how great you look with the scarf you had on you as they admired the material and stitching. They were glad you were once again back to your joyful demeanor The warmth of the gesture had managed to chase away the darkness you had been harboring.

Cassandra observed this transformation from the sidelines with calculated nonchalance. Her pride wouldn't let her admit it, but a secret sense of contentment nestled within her. The knowledge that her gesture had made an impact, however minuscule, was a small victory she held close to her heart.

Unbeknownst to anyone else, including you, Cassandra's heart held a tiny ember of joy. In her world of calculated gestures and hidden motivations, this act of kindness had struck a chord, revealing a facet of her character that she rarely allowed to surface. It was a vulnerability she had always concealed, tucked away behind layers of arrogance and pride.

One day, as the corridors of Hogwarts bustled with students hurrying to their classes, Cassandra was sitting alone on one of the alcoves, seemingly absorbed in a book. Her fingers traced the elegant calligraphy on the page, but her mind wandered elsewhere. In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of you walking past, your steps lighter and your expression brighter than before.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of her lips, one that was gone in an instant. She refused to give in to this uncharacteristic warmth, her walls of detachment sturdy as ever. To acknowledge the impact of her own gesture would be a breach of the persona she had so meticulously crafted.

As you drew closer, Cassandra raised an eyebrow in your direction.

"You seem rather cheerful," she commented, her voice carrying a carefully measured tone.

Your smile widened, genuine happiness lighting up your eyes.

"Well, I have a good reason to be," you replied as you sat beside her, tugging at the scarf you had received, your gaze meeting Cassandra's for a fleeting moment.

Cassandra's lips twitched, a subtle flicker of curiosity passing through her eyes. "Do share," she pressed, her tone only slightly more inviting than usual.

"You know, sometimes it's the smallest things that can make a difference," you said cryptically, your voice gentle but resolute. With a nod in Cassandra's direction, you continued on their way.

For a split second, Cassandra's composed facade wavered. Her eyes followed you, a shadow of contemplation passing over her features. She was caught off guard by your words, the weight of the unspoken message lingering in the air. A hint of vulnerability brushed against her heart, an unfamiliar sensation that she struggled to define.

"You do have a heart," Your words echoed in Cassandra's mind, a whispered reminder that perhaps her carefully constructed walls weren't as impenetrable as she believed. A tumult of emotions swirled within her, a maelstrom of conflicting feelings that she wasn't equipped to handle.

Cassandra took a steadying breath, her mask of detachment slipping back into place. The truth of your words remained hidden, locked away in the recesses of her heart. But in that fleeting moment, she allowed herself a whisper of acknowledgment - an acknowledgment that somewhere, deep within her, a spark of warmth and compassion had been ignited.

And as the corridors of Hogwarts continued to buzz with life, the enigma of Cassandra Vole became just a little more complex, the mask of arrogance and detachment slowly revealing the glimmer of a heart that dared to feel.

[midnight-laundry]

wrote this on twitter but i figure i should put my meta on the meta website

been thinking about the last episode’s title, and how this could apply to edizzy/steddyhands. warning: i’m very confidently wearing my clown makeup and wig and shoes and nose so buckle in.

where edizzy stand rn, it makes sense to want them to end things and move on, but does that really address the source of their dysfunction? when you’re young or just starting to understand relationships, it can feel like the best thing to do is end things whenever they’re no longer easy or supplying you with as much dopamine as it used to. but as you get older, and hopefully more mature, it could become more likely that you’ll look inward instead.

obviously, there’s a line between actual awful abusive relationships that should absolutely end, and flawed relationships where the ppl in them lost their way and stopped trying as hard. i’ve seen some ppl argue that izzy in the relationship IS abusive (i don’t agree, obviously, esp with ed as the one with the power between the two of them) but viewing their interactions and the way they’re familiar with each other, i really don’t believe that.

these two are in a dysfunctional spot when we meet them, “discomfort in a married state” “trouble in paradise” and so on.

ed is tired of blackbeard, tired of the role he plays and the life he’s built. but the show doesn’t try to tell us that /izzy/ is the reason life has gotten like this for them. it makes it clear that this ennui is a result of ed’s own unhappiness and restlessness.

piracy has gotten boring, he’s tired of the grind, of the constant planning and scheming. for ed, it feels easier to glomp onto this new guy and to run away to china. but better metas than this one have delineated why that wouldn’t have solved his issues, and the edstede relationship would’ve blown up eventually, either by ed becoming bored once again, or stede resenting that he left piracy after his “career” had barely even begun.

izzy has his own plethora of issues he needs to face, too. while he could leave ed and find another captain, what would stop him from repeating the same mistakes he did with ed? dedicating his life to one person, devotion without reciprocation, lashing out when the person doesn’t live up to the be-pedestaled image iz has in his mind?

what if, instead, edizzy can find a way to actually… change… for the better? what if izzy sees a different way forward than just “the only retirement we get is death” and is allowed the space and safety to find it? what if ed is given the chance to figure out who he actually is and what he wants, if he were to understand why he feels so restless in the first place?

could they learn to see each other as a whole complete person? not as just a loyal dog (izzy) or a wrathful god (ed) but as a lover, a partner, a confused man trying to make sense of the cards they’ve been dealt?

stede will have to go on his own empathy journey, but I’d love to see edizzy figure it out without stede. there’s still something there, these two built a life and it must’ve worked for a while for them. i think there’s still something there worth salvaging.

because “wherever you go, there you are” and learning to be better to each other would be how they can get somewhere else, because then they’d be /someone/ else. and what better way to fix their mistakes than with the person they’d initially made them with? i don’t know if this makes sense but: tl;dr edizzy should fix their relationship bc it seems to fit the show’s thesis of “talking it through” and dismantling previous notions of “how things are done”

edizzy are salty sea dogs but could still learn new tricks. and also djenks should give us steddyhands as justice for all the sad pirate threesomes that never came to be

[industria-adastra]

[WMMAP] - Magnum Opus: It's sad to be at the bottom of life, right? (4/5)

Prev - Next

Summary: It's amazing, really, how quickly love can turn to hate. Or maybe, it hadn't been love after all.

Note: Recently, I've gotten into Hazbin Hotel again. I ended up adding more stuff to the latter half of the original chapter 3 that I cut. I hope you like it, intended audience of maybe two people.

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There is a man who is always present in these events. A man who always hangs about on the fringes of the ever-increasingly elaborate parties in Jennette’s name, observing within the shadows. Athanasia finds him to look disturbingly similar to her father, even if she brushes off their similarities time and time again. And like her father, as she discovers in an accidental bump, he reeks of the magic that the Obelian royal family seems inexplicably chained to. 

She goes searching within the records, and already, his face appears only a generation away. Yet, Anastacius de Alger Obelia had been long dead, hadn’t he? But Athanasia has long learned to not believe in coincidence. Something strange is afoot. Will he become a test of what she’d do for her family?

At another ball, another celebration for Jennette, his dark gaze turns to her, and his eyes flash jewel blue, and, oh,  Athanasia understands now.

(She’s never tried spilling blood with her own hands)

Stiffening as he leisurely walks over, Athanasia’s mind rushes through potential actions she could take. On one hand, she could alert everyone within the vicinity, especially Lord Robaine, about her uncle truly living up to his name. On the other hand, remembering the bitter twist of his lips, staring at Father and her sister, Athanasia stalls.

(Perhaps it is a good idea, with the pressure of twisted magic she hadn’t truly noticed the strength of before. Something's wrong.)

Her vision blurs, watching him steadily walk over, the light clicks of his shoes like a war drum against her ears. His clothes don't seem to fit, a strange, ever-changing amalgamation of fluttering robes and crisp formal wear. His hair is neat and carefully tousled, and his hair is shaggy and unkempt.

(There is something deeply wrong about this man)

“It’s annoying, isn’t it, not being the golden child everyone loves?” It’s as if two people are asking this of her, with a strange mix of amusement, cold pity and understanding within his (their?) eyes. 

(Something about him is wrong, wrong, wrong)

Athanasia opts not to reply, shifting her gaze elsewhere. It’s a question loaded with enough weight to topple an empire. She’s quite sure that what that man means by ‘annoying’ is not as light as it sounds.

“I see,” his eyes move to catch her gaze. 

Before he moves to turn away, they give some last few parting words that render Athanasia stock stiff in her heels.

“I can’t wait to see what happens when you break alongside your ghoul of a mother, my dearest niece.” 

"Dearest descendant of mine."

The phrases overlap together, and before she can even blink, before she can let go of a tense breath, a body moves into her field of vision, blocking her view. Athanasia stumbles forward, hand outstretched to politely shift it away. But when it moves, they are already gone.

(It's as if they've vanished into thin air)

After that fateful encounter, Athanasia never sees him appear at another ball ever again. 

She wonders if she should have ever told her father about this meeting.

Then again, with his constant state of apathy and ennui during their regularly scheduled tea times with Jennette concerning anything relating to her, Athanasia wonders if it’ll simply pass through his ears like white noise.

-

Ever since the first one, the tea parties Jennette tries to host for the three of them are always painfully awkward. This one is no exception. Athanasia is eighteen now, and all that’s changed is Jennette’s choice of tea and snacks—this year is chamomile and imported sweets from Siodonna.

The overpowering taste of sugar accompanies the taste of rose. Paired with the chamomile, it verges on being too sweet. 

Without a need to contribute to the current conversation (consisting of Jennette rambling and her father barely even looking like he’s paying attention—he looks perpetually drowsy these days), Athanasia finds her attention turning to Bluey’s recovery. He keeps shedding feathers all over the place, and sometimes his muscles lock together involuntarily. Sustaining a life is harder than keeping it in stasis. She can’t push too much magic in, and neither can she give too little. Yet, there is no predefined value to sustain—there’s an unknown sequence yet to be found. She needs to find it soon.

“Just yesterday, I went to see Ijekiel—”

Clank. Athanasia’s teacup strikes its saucer perhaps a bit too harshly, rudely cutting off Jennette’s words. Because of that, she offers an awkward, sheepish smile to her audience of two. 

“My apologies for that, but I’ve suddenly realised that I have some rather urgent matters to resolve back in the Ruby Palace.” As she speaks, Athanasia moves out of her seat, ready to leave. “Please, have a wonderful rest of the day.”

(It isn’t as if they’d notice her anyway)

 “O-oh! Of course, we will! Right, Father?” At that, Claude only stares at her silently, yet all Athanasia can see from his eyes is apathy—a passive gaze with nothing attached. “I hope it’s nothing too serious…”

By then, Athanasia had already started to walk away.

(She wonders why she thought they’d call after her)

-

It all happens in a flash. Jennette, chatting with her amiably about the latest fashions and Ijekiel’s latest romantic gesture. And to clear her throat, she takes a sip of tea. But as she opens her mouth to speak again, her blue eyes widen, her mouth forms an “o” in surprise, and Jennette coughs up crimson blood before she collapses to the ground. The sound of breaking porcelain resounds as it crashes onto the ground.

Not even a second passes by and Athanasia has already rushed towards her, heart pounding in her ears. How will she explain this to her father? How had she been so lax in her vigilance? How had she been so blind as not to notice poison? Why Jennette? Why her? Her mana rushes out in an attempt to heal Jennette but she can’t properly do so if she has no idea what has been affected. What had Jennette ingested within the tea? Athanasia’s hands shake in terror as she scoops Jennette into her arms. 

“HELP!” She screams, heavy breaths coming out as tears start to flow. “HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE! ANYBODY! THE FIRST PRINCESS HAS BEEN POISONED!” Fearfully, Athanasia's eyes dart around, catching the eyes of a nearby maid, whose mouth is wide open in shock.

"What are you doing?! Go! Go get help now!" Athanasia so rarely ever raised her voice, but right now, she’d scream herself hoarse, scream herself mute if it’d save Jennette. 

Luckily for the maid, she quickly runs off toward the royal doctors. But now, there is nothing to do but wait, nothing to do but watch as the blood trickles down from Jennette’s mouth. Sweat is already building on her skin, and all Athanasia can do is hold her close and make sure Jennette doesn’t unconsciously choke on her blood. Jennettee’s eyes are still open, but Athanasia thinks that she cannot bear to close them, even for Jennette’s later comfort. As her heart continues to race, Athanasia finds that the only thing she can do is silently lament to her mother, and pray in her heart that all will be alright.

There is blood on her clothes. 

-

When Jennette is taken away to be treated, Athanasia finally collapses from the stress of it all. Yet when she wakes up, she sees neither the old, yet comforting walls of her room. What she sees are the grey stone walls; what she smells is the rotten stink of excretion and urine; what she hears is the rhythmic clanking of metal armour and the scurrying of rats. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that she’s in the dungeons—as unfamiliar as it should be.

There is still blood on her clothes. There is still blood on her hands. It’s brown and crusted and stinks of iron and Athanasia thinks she hears a woman weeping. Her gaze darts around, trying to see if her mother is here. If she was, Athanasia could get an explanation. If she was, Athanasia could have some comfort in this sudden new insanity.

But her mother is not here, and Athanasia is alone. There’s not much else to do but sit and wait.

And just a few moments later, her answers come in the form of three individuals. Duke Alpheus, Countess Rosalia, and last of all shadowed by the badly lit rooms but still standing out so strongly—the Emperor, her father. The three of them stare down upon her dirtied form with closed expressions (and what she can always recognise as barely hidden disdain). 

Athanasia decides to focus on her father. Not that it was hard to. 

“Your Majesty?” 

No reply. 

Athanasia tries again. “Is Jennette alright? Is she safe now?”

Instead of her father’s even monotone, it’s Countess Rosalia’s sharp, nearly squawking, shrieking vocals which answer her. “Jennette is safe from you, Your Highness.” She spits those words out venomously, almost triumphantly. 

It doesn’t take a one-in-a-million genius to understand what has happened.

Still, Athanasia tries to keep her calm, “What do you mean, Countess? You, of all people, should know that false accusations towards royalty are tantamount to treason.” Better to be blunt and be done with it.

This time, it is the Duke who speaks, looking down upon her between narrowed eyes, “Your Highness, there is no need for any more pretence. It has been found that you were the one who poisoned Jennette.” Prim and proper in his shiny white clothes and his always meticulously coiffed hair; in the depths of her heart, Athanasia couldn’t understand how a man like Ijekiel could be his son.

“And what evidence do you have to prove your claims?” Athanasia has learnt to smile like how Raven bares his teeth; sharp and quick, a warning to go no further. If there is anything else she’s learnt from Ijekiel’s friendship, it is that a smile grants both mystery and versatility. “Proper procedure states that I have the right to be subject to a fair trial, and a right to know upon what grounds you base such accusations on.”

She watches the countess artfully swing her fan up into a waiting hand, only to snap it open with a violent elegance. “Your Highness, there is no need for such tedious procedures when your guilt is crystal clear for everyone to see.”

Like a part of a two-headed snake, the Duke adds his venomous spit to the mix, “Out of jealousy, you dared to poison your own sister for your own shortcomings.”

“This is more fact than fiction—countless witnesses can prove to you that I had no idea what would happen to Jennette.”

“And countless witnesses can also prove that you’ve always harboured such envious hatred for your own sister. How wicked you are, to take away her fiancé—to take away my son—and now to take away her life.”

Still, Athanasia continues to stay calm. Her father would surely intervene at some point, wouldn’t he? “You must be mistaken, Ijekiel and I are merely friends. He is my future brother-in-law, and it would make no sense to alienate myself from him. And I care dearly for Jennette. I would do no such thing when it would only bring her pain.”

“But your actions speak louder than your words, Your Highness. Such pretty lies may come easily to you, given your blood, but we both know that you purposefully seduced him. Just like that crass, low-class whore you were born from.” The woman sneers, edging threateningly closer.

Athanasia snaps. She rushes to the bars, slamming into them with a strength and speed all too abnormal for a girl her size and age. Taking advantage of their foolish arrogance, she takes the opportunity to grab at their disgustingly extravagant clothes, bringing them eye to eye, and knocking their heads painfully on the steel bars. 

(They tell her to not let go, to keep moving, to keep shaking. Until they are but bloodied flesh and broken bones and as filthy as their tongues are. Better off as fodder, better off to be used for something grander than they could ever be.)

“Keep my mother out of your mouth! How can you be so sure that such a miscarriage of justice will—!”

“Be silent.” Finally, he speaks. His mana collapses onto her like that of a dying star, forcing her to let go, forcing her back onto the ground. But while it is painful, it is more bearable than the knowledge that her father simply did not care.

Ignoring the bodies quickly scrambling behind his protection, the Emperor simply comments, “Have you finished your petty tantrum?”

For the first time in her life, she gawks at him, at his apathy and unchanged expression. From the look on his face, Athanasia knows that he will never change his mind. He will never change his mind for her because he does not care. 

She’s known this for so long, and yet, and yet it still hurts.

And just like that, her verdict—her guilt—is decided just like that. She has blood on her hands because it is the word of the Emperor—Sun of the Empire, a ruler before he is her father (as it should; as it shouldn’t be so). Athanasia bites down harshly on her lips, casting her gaze on the stone floors, and nary a sound is allowed to escape. She wants to rage, wants to scream, wants to reach beyond the steel bars and tear at the cloth near her father’s feet—to beg for an explanation, to defend herself, to harshly refute her claims.

Who had she loved dearly all this time? Who had she worked for to the bone to gain just the slightest bit of approval and notice? Who had she idolised as perfection even as it was so clear that he was nothing but a statue carved out of ice? Her father—

(The child will die. He will kill her, like he slaughtered them, watching them breathe their last. She is her child my child our only child. She must live.)

Her mother’s cold hands tether her to reality, and Athanasia does none of that. 

“Breathe,” Diana says, right on time, pressing atop her, enclosing Athanasia within her arms. “Not in front of the Duke and the Countess, Dear. Later, when it’s safer, Mama will be here. You know Mama will always be here for you.”

Right.

She has always had her mother. Always had Lily and Raven. And now she has Jennette and Ijekiel.

It is enough. (It must be; She wants a father.)

Athanasia forces herself to hold it in, to stare straight into her father’s eyes and say, “Your Majesty is as efficient as always. Will there be a further investigation into this incident? After all, Your Majesty, efficiency without accuracy is just another way to describe sloppy work.” She smiles, ignoring the subtle shock and outrage—the lovely confusion—on the Duke and Countess.

“...You are the primary suspect. It will be enough to make an example of you.” Always putting in the most minimal of effort when it came to her. 

“I see. Then may I know if you have settled on a date for the execution?” Even now, she couldn’t let herself look any less insanely perfect in front of him. Even now, she still loves him—but perhaps no longer like that of a follower and their god. After all, gods cannot be flawed.

Unreadable as always, her father so graciously lets her know when she’ll die by his hand. “The dawn of the 8th day.” Cold, clipped—he doesn’t even seem to register that it’ll be her birthday. By the sun, moon, and stars—what a joke. This is the most attention he’s ever truly given to her.

After that, he’s already turning his back on her, moving towards the exit. The Duke and the Countess cast her cold, calculating looks before they scurry after him (like the rats they were).

When they finally leave, out of sight, out of mind, Athanasia finally allows herself to collapse into her mother’s ready arms. She shakes, she sobs, and she cries—but Athanasia still does not let a single sound escape. How unfair it is, to mourn something she never had from the start.

There is blood on her hands, but it is because of someone else.

(Athanasia doesn’t want to die.

“You won’t,” her mother promises with a whisper. “We’ll make sure of it.”)

-

“How far will you go for Diana’s—my child?”

“Anything for Athanasia,” the nanny’s sea blue eyes look straight ahead, resolute. 

“Even your life?”

“If it must be so.”

-

On the second day of her imprisonment, Raven brings him a thick, tattered book. It is hard to hide large secrets, but having grown up as an Alpheus, hiding them is but second nature to him. 

Drunk off his victory, his father grows sloppy—perhaps even mad, judging from the strange one-man dialogue he occasionally hears coming from his office. (Before…everything, they had conversed about noise-cancelling magic before.) His father’s lack of care is a boon when Ijekiel knows his actions will tear into the tapestry of success his father had so carefully woven.

He remembers being told that to love is to wish for someone’s success and happiness—to do all you could to ensure their dreams would come true.

Ijekiel thinks that to love is also to do all you can to stop someone from going past that line in the sand, the precarious precipice of no return.

Then again, he muses on the seventh night, sorting through all the information about guard rotations, patrol routes, floor plans and the like—it’s not even the most damning action of his right now. Ijekiel raises a hand to press lightly against his sternum, feeling the heavy weight of the key, the rough texture of the iron, even though it’s buried underneath all the layers of his clothing.

A haunting birdsong trickles in the open window, and Ijekiel stops to turn and gaze at the moonlight.

He thinks that, perhaps, also, to love is to be willfully ignorant.

-

Ever since her verdict had been so kindly handed down to her by her father, Athanasia’s days are now spent in the dungeon, rather than in the comfort of the library or her room. There are no books to read, so she spends time talking to her mother, practising the spells stitched into her memories. However, without Raven, they’re weaker, barely sparks yet still clearly noticeable. Strangely, no guard ever seems to be able to perceive any such practice; eyes glazed over every time. Nor are there shackles on her limbs, binding her down like an animal. She won’t question it, instead preparing for a hypothetical scenario in which she’s free.

(Mother had promised her.)

She’s sure that the guards all think she’s mad from shock. They look at her with disgusted pity and gossip about her as if she can’t hear at all. But their loose tongues help her hold onto the outside world.

Jennette is in a coma. For all their talk of family, she surmises that the most precious child of both the Countess and the Duke is power. Her father spends most of his time working. Athanasia supposes that there’s much to do when you’re executing a direct member of the royal family. Morbidly, she wonders if the Black Tower magicians would want her body for their research. Lily is that “crazy palace maid” who begs to be heard every day (no news on how her father reacted to it—but such a case is one where Athanasia sincerely prays that her father’s apathy will outweigh any annoyance, that Lily’s noble family will take her out of harm’s way before the worst can come to pass). 

Raven and Bluey are both missing (something’s coming). And Ijekiel… Last she heard, he’d been the picture-perfect fiancé, periodically visiting Jennette like clockwork every day.

At the same time, Athanasia gets a single stem of flowers each day. She wonders if Duke Alpheus knows about them.

Goldenrod, purple heliotrope, blue verbena, pink gladiolus, blue periwinkle, an iris suspiciously dusted with fur and downy feathers.

When will it be the hour of their flight?

“Wait and see, it’ll be like a fairytale,” her mother says, dancing all the while. “In the meantime, show me how you weave your magic again, Athy.”

-

It is cold within the dungeons. Athanasia will surely die tomorrow if nothing short of a miracle occurs. And yet, there is no worry in either her heart or her soul. Her mother had promised her, and to love, for Athanasia, was to devote and believe—to have utmost faith.

(She wonders what her father’s idea of love is—indulgence? A passive acceptance not too far from apathy? At least she knows that her mother’s love is undying, from beyond the grave. Lily’s love is steadfast and loyal, always trying to make the best of things. Ijekiel’s is inherent in every action, every move. Jennette’s is puppy-like, endearing.)

Athanasia hums as she finishes the final touches on her flowery bracelet, sliding it over her wrist with a sense of pride. The flowers are ill-suited to be bound this way, but such perversions of reality and logic are what magic is for. From behind, her mother gently combs out the knots in her hair with deft fingers, plaiting and pinning until all of Athanasia’s golden hair is safely pinned up.

“The midnight hour comes soon, Dear—Eumiellia’s always said that it’s the perfect hour for some…mischief.” Her mother says in a sing-song tone, drawing her up on her feet and guiding her to watch the way the light on the dungeon corridors starts to change and grow. In the depths of the Empire’s bowels, the echo of the nearing footsteps rings louder and louder in her mind.

Someone is coming.

“Is it time to go now?” Athanasia asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I already said it’s the perfect hour, Athy.” So they wait. It doesn’t take long for Athanasia to realise that alongside the light footsteps, another pair of feet pad forth as well. Excitement bubbles in her chest—she’s heard those footsteps before.

Athanasia sees Bluey first, the stitched bluebird squeezing between the bars to nuzzle into her awaiting hands, before leaping into flight once more.

Raven is next, her book grasped firmly in her mouth. Already, Athanasia can feel the electric rush of mana, from a steady trickle to rushing rapids. Were it not for the anti-teleportation wards, she probably could be free already. 

“I hope you don’t mind the lack of white horses, Your Highness.”

All of a sudden, she feels lightheaded, warm. “Ijekiel?” She breathes out, staring disbelievingly at his hooded figure, the glint of his golden eyes. He smiles back at her, taking out a key from underneath his collar. 

“The one and only, Athanasia.” Her door unlocks, and he reaches out to tug her forward into a tight hug, holding her so tightly and so closely that Athanasia can feel the skin of his neck, and smell the scent of his skin. “Did you like my message? I learnt it from the book about Obelia’s flower language we read together every February.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“That I’d be doing this in person? I don’t trust anyone else with your safety. After all, you’re my…friend.”

Athanasia finally hugs back, squeezing her arms around Ijekiel tightly. Her eyes squeeze shut with unshed tears. “I’m glad you’re my friend too. But what I meant was that I didn’t expect you to mean you were going to conduct a jailbreak.”

“Well, a nobleman should always have many skills.”

“Jennette is lucky to have you.” She feels Ijekiel tense momentarily in her arms, The break in conversation appears to drag on, long and uncomfortable, before she hears him let out a sigh.

“She’s lucky to have you as well,” he says in return, before seemingly tacking on as an afterthought, “as a sister.” At those words, he releases her from his grasp, pulling away, only to come close once more to wrap a dark cloak around her shoulders. His hands rest on her shoulders, and Athanasia isn’t sure if he realises how tightly he’s gripping her.

“We should get going now. The guards won’t stay out for long.”

“Are you coming with me?” They both know it’s a stupid question; both know what the answer will be; both know that she will never truly mean it. 

Ijekiel doesn’t reply, but his wistful gaze is enough. 

Athanasia smiles, and it is small, almost sad, as she makes a request of him, “Take care of her for me, and for her own sake, alright?” Gripping the front of the cloak, she looks off into the dark distance, the unknown of her impending freedom. “Politics was never her strong suit.”

“Of course, as Her Highness asks.” Ijekiel chokes out the words, and he lets go of her shoulders, turning away and towards the dungeon’s exit. “I’ll escort you to that place—as long as you can get out of here, you’ll be able to leave the palace, right?”

“Yes.”

And so out they go, past the numerous cells and past the unconscious guards, from the darkness, to the moonlight. The night air tastes of freedom; walking on the stone paths, past the patrolling guards, feels like a kind of liberation. Her magic wraps around them like a shield as they make their way to the place where they’d both realised they’d fallen in love with the sun. 

As they stand below the tree, Athanasia finds herself reluctant to truly say goodbye to him. 

So she doesn’t.

“Tell Lily I said goodbye, please?” The magic swirls around her feet, building, building to a crescendo, changing the colour of her hair, the colour of her eyes—held high in the air by a single thread of hesitation. 

Ijekiel cannot tear his eyes away from her. It’s only through sheer strength of will that he holds back from reaching out once more. “If it’s you, there’s no need to ask.” 

Athanasia smiles, bright and true, and she turns away. “I’m glad I met you, Ijekiel.” Her magic swallows her up, leaving not a trace, not even a spark.

It’s as if she were never there in the first place.

He speaks to the empty air, hand outstretched. “I’m glad I met you too, Athy.”

-

Athanasia jumps from inn to inn, hiding in plain sight, making sure to cycle through a number of features wherever she goes, obfuscating the Imperial guards’ search for her. Above all, she likes it best when her eyes are either pink or blue; when her hair is blonde or brown. Through it all, her heart crashes about in her chest, thrashing about in her ribcage even as she refuses to think about how she’s being hunted down like a criminal by her own father. Money (golden and shining and reliable in a way her father never truly was) is never tight due to her magic. Still, Athanasia is starved of genuine interaction with anyone but her mother. Yet it’s all too risky even to fathom making an acquaintance when she knows they’ll all bind her in chains if they ever know who she is.

Her mother helps as best as she can, whispering in her ear about the innkeeper was starting to become suspicious, or what rumours were being circulated here and there—helping her avoid areas where people are most keen to turn in the abominable villainess who’d harmed their beloved Princess (never her, never Athanasia, it was always, always Jennette who’d be so loved and accepted by all). Athanasia is oh-so careful, living as if she were dead, waiting, waiting, waiting as she always did.

Until she sees the body strung from a rope in the town square.

Horrifically injured, it is covered in a damaged maid’s dress, and matted brown hair covers its eyes. But Athanasia recognises the bend of those limp hands, the careful embroidery lining the apron and the skirt, the unseen tie so horribly torn and broken like her heart. Her breath feels uneven, all too loud for her ears in an environment that seems to press down on her. Mother’s ghostly arms pull at her as gently firm as can be, but Athanasia cannot bring herself to move. There is a scream stuck in her throat, and it claws with an animalistic ferocity to be let out. 

Faintly, she thinks that Ijekiel would’ve labelled this as the protagonist’s tipping point.

-

Lily is dead.

Mama confirms it too, with all the coldness and stiffness of flash-frozen water, the absence of spirit, her soul.

Not even days after she’s started running away, does she see the still corpse swaying in the air in front of her eyes. It’s already started the process of decay, the white pallor that marks her as gone having already overtaken her skin. Not to mention the unmistakable hole in her chest, the browning stains of blood on her always impeccably clean uniform, the doll-like stiffness of her body, and Lily cannot be dead because her Father hates her so but he is not a madman bereft of morals (as long as it does not involve her) he is a cold but stiff, still just ruler (as long as it does not involve her) because because because—

It had been fine as long as it was only her who bore the weight of such cruel apathy. 

Claude de Alger Obelia, emperor of Obelia, tyrant of Obelia has, had, killed Lily.

Her mama lays her hands upon her shoulders, ice-cold and sub-zero degrees burning Athanasia’s skin like a hot iron brand. Memories gleaned rush into her mind 

And he would pay.

He would pay for it. He had to pay for it. There were consequences to every action, everything you took from the world. Whether it was forcing the creation of your imagination into life, speeding up natural processes of growth, or ripping away a life unfinished. There was always, always, a price to pay. Equivalent exchange. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.

And Athanasia would become his debt dealer. His Thanatos, pounding, clawing at his door. 

She could fix this. Athanasia was a fool and a horribly, terribly blind idiot with a brain rotted with desire but she could fix this because if her Mama could come back to her so could Lily, and then she could apologise for being such a stupid stupid child. Everything would be back to normal. Back to the imperfect (no, they were perfect and unblemished) days of simply lazing around as a true family.

Lily wasn’t gone yet.

And Athanasia would make sure that she stayed, for good. Forever.

All she needs to do is prepare the stage, erase a few eyesores and tidy up this mess.

(The light of the torches cast long shadows as she took one step and another forward)

For that, her first order of business is to take back Lily’s body.

-

Early morning comes with the herald of the confusion of the masses.

(Poor, ignorant souls who have yet to realise what will be wrought upon their world)

The body of the example, the unremarkable maid of an unloved princess no longer hung from the noose. Only a snapped rope, roughly cut off from the rest of it, lay hanging from the wood.

Someone had taken the body, but who? Who would dare defy the order of the Sun of Obelia, Emperor Claude de Alger Obelia?

And within the shadows, a girl began crafting. Smoothing over blemishes, re-building foundations, and making once wrongs become rights. She fixes and repairs and improves because it is all for Lily’s sake. Lily must not come back in pain. She must come back to a body that knows no pain and will never know pain ever again.

But because it must be perfect (it must be, it had to be because she had to make up for it somehow and she knows it’s not enough but—), because she will accept no flaw, Athanasia needs practice. More practice than little animals and plants in various states of decay. Better practice than that. She needs people. 

(People who will surely, surely join her, who will always live up to her expectations. Because they will be reborn and reshaped to fit them.)

Athanasia always works hard for those she loves. Will always work hard for them and those she has yet to love. Because she is a starving child, and she will devour everything even if she’s full. So in return, she’ll do anything.

She gently thumbs the closed eyelids of a most remarkable maid, knowing that beyond them are dull blue eyes. It isn’t right for them to be such a colour. Her hand goes to her face to trace soft lines just below her jewel-blue eyes. That colour is a physical connection of “family”, an invisible thread tying them together. 

He didn’t deserve to have such a colour. Its beauty—wasted on him.

It’s a colour that Lily deserves so much more than him.

And Athanasia knows she can fix it. 

She has to.

[8bitsupervillain]

Higurashi When They Cry Hou Ch. 7 Minagoroshi pt. 21

I can only hold out hope that we’ll get more information on Hanyuu in Matsuribayashi. She is just such a fascinating character and I really wish we get to know more about her.

I think I can presume why the narrative changed to Keiichi’s perspective for a while. People generally don’t like these narrations from characters who are complete wet blankets. Just a pile of misery and ennui that aren’t very fun to be around. But who cares, the entire conceit of the chapter is you’re following a character who has died repeatedly and gruesomely for a century. You can put up with a character having self doubts and being a downer for a while.

But then again, one of my favorite games is Max Payne 3. That's like sixty percent Max just being a constant downer during the game. The other forty being the spectacular gameplay.

Who could’ve believed that kindly lecherous ol’ Irie was not only an embezzler, but also a would be murderer? I do like that even without the information the reader is privy to even Rika doesn’t buy this explanation.

There’s so much to pick apart here in these screens that it’s killing me to not just skip ahead to one of the big reveals from towards the end of the chapter. What I will say though is even though she has stated multiple times that people shouldn’t expect much from her since she is still physically an eleven year old girl (or so) she does have some pretty solid reasoning for suspecting Okonogi is working against her. I’m not entirely sure I’d be completely sold on Irie not being some variety of villain as well, but it’s competent guess work on her part about Okonogi.

Also I don’t know if it was meant to be revealed so casually in the narration here that Tokyo is in fact the name of an organization and not the city. But that’s pretty damn silly, that would be like setting up your secret society and naming it Denver. I don’t think it gets into the specifics about Tokyo until much later on in the chapter (maybe even a post chapter TIP).

In what seems to be a recurring trend of the police being useless for Rika, Ooishi is off to Gifu to get them to fess up for screwing up the Takano autopsy. Ooishi believes that if nothing else if Takano is alive she’ll be an invaluable material witness about Tomitake’s death. Rika uses this time to mention to Ooishi that some villager just out of the blue called her and told her that someone’s coming to kill her tonight. Ooishi promises to send some officers over to her house to keep an eye on her and her cadre of elite paramilitary guards. After the phone call he tells Kumagai to send a couple of officers to Rika’s house, because even if they’re not actually trying to kill her, better safe than sorry.

[oreganosbaby]

When I describe Roman as a "romantic," I mean it in that 18th/19th century sense. I've also described him as a nihilist which might seem contradictory but, I don't think so because the lack of ultimate universal meaning doesn't contradict a belief in the sublime because the sublime isn't always equal to the divine and doesn't necessitate any reason or meaning-- it just is. The way Roman thinks and operates is informed by both and combined with his passiveness, makes for something very contrary to Logan's ideals. He is in a constant state of ennui due to the alienation he feels from the social order imposed on him. He sees it as something that hinders true emotion and by extension, true aesthetic experiences. So, Roman views emotion as something sublime and therefore, more powerful than reason.

Romanticism arose around the turn of the 18th century so, the modern enlightenment ideas of reason, order and civilisation have already entrenched themselves in bourgeois and aristocratic society. Romanticism is a reaction to this and often, it's interested in the tensions between modernity and the sublime i.e., "nature" or the irrational/esoteric, that which is beyond our comprehension. It challenges modernity's mode of perpetual "improvement" via reason/logic and domination over nature by saying that humans are small in comparison to the unknowable sublime forces that rule us and that those forces exist both within and around us.

Regarding Roman, this speaks to his perpetual search for something "real." Roman's absolutely steeped in this disaffection and cynicism because the social order, not only that imposed by his father but the wider one outside that, is alienating to him. Everything has to be mediated through capitalism. It makes everything transactional, more hollow, cheaper, and limits access to pure emotional experiences. Everything becomes so boring to the point of ugliness so, the bits of pure emotion that leak through the cracks can often be beautiful and delightful. This is why Roman loves to witness people's unconscious reactions, why he thinks a good park ride is a horrific WWII VR simulator and why he wants Kendall to hit him. The conditions for Roman to receive his father's affection are literally mediated through capitalism and this is incredibly difficult for Roman to deal with.

*Also, Nicholas Britell's score for S3, arguably Roman's season, has more romantic elements in it and even borrows a bit from Chopin!

[thethirdvoerman]

For the writer's ask game, in the basics, 1, 2, 9, and 10? 😊

1 — music: I do! It's usually something ambient that fits the atmosphere of the scene, preferably no vocals so as to not distract me. I have amassed a small playlist on YouTube that I put in the background when I'm writing, it's mostly horror OSTs, one Midwestern gothic mix with a bunch of songs, and compositions I enjoy. Sometimes I just loop something and let it rip.

2 — pantser or plotter: A bit of both. Mostly stories pop up in my head as messages from God and I do not dare question. I make outlines, but rarely. My current WIP has a vague plan of events, and my Vampire chronicle has like 2 Google Docs and a conspiracy board, full Charlie Day style.

9 — current WIP: I've always dreamt of writing a book and I've been doing so sporadically ever since I dropped out of uni last year. It's called "Postmortem", I have the prologue and 4 chapters done, and chapter 5 is going smoothly. If I had to describe it, it's like a sci-fi urban coming-of-age story set in a small town in Nebraska about a dead girl and her dad hunting ghosts. My girlfriend calls it "pure anime" (affectionate). I'll enclose an excerpt from chapter 5 under the cut (translated into English as I wrote it in my native tongue).

10 — deadlines: I am bad with self-inflicted deadlines, so I don't bother. I don't feel like forcing words out of myself is right, my uni already does that for like 1000 bucks a term. Then again, that explains the leisurely pace of my book writing process doesn't it...

Mio spat on the pavement, then turned exactly ninety degrees with the precision of a soldier, and stomped away from Hunters’ Hall. She could probably wait around; the tiny patch of concrete here acted as both the parking lot and smoking spot for the locals. Yet the mere act of waiting seemed a grueling task in itself, not to mention talking. She could taste the ennui already. A stack of convenient lies upon more convenient lies made up the legend she’d repeat and slightly alter in each town Doc and her stopped at. This time it was “Mio Miyawaki”, yet another empty promise of a person, one that could answer every question about herself without ever telling anything important, nod along in conversation while never revealing what she really thought, and mislead everyone into believing that she was actually, truly genuine despite not even being real.

“Well that’s just great.”

Mio didn’t really hate this bleak reflection of herself. Neither did she like her.

She turned around the corner. The passing-by truck dragged a gust of hot air past her, and Mio instinctively clasped a hand over her nose. In Carrion, summer was always a haze of smog descending into the valley, a mix of exhaust fumes, burning trash and forest fire smoke. Unable to escape the clutches of the trees, like a sea not being able to escape its shores, the sickly fog of ash and stench stayed calm and still. Then, autumn winds would carry it away, and heavy clouds full of snow would come instead. The town, therefore, existed in a constant state of rigor mortis. No life was possible there – aside from, perhaps, the writhing of parasites in roadkill.

The smell of burning and grey ash didn’t feel as annoying as the odor of tobacco in the fog, both gently tickling and cruelly scratching at her throat from the inside.

Her jaws dragged against each other, an industrial chew of machinery, and Mio only felt it as a thin streak of blood ran down her chin. She’d chewed her lower lip into raw meat. Wiping the blood was a mechanical, meaningless gesture. The red of her uniform jacket soaked it up all nice. Neither blood nor ectocardium really stained it.

All so that the illusion of calm wouldn’t be disturbed.

[vevasap]

The Grey City

The first time we walked through the courtyard it was almost silent. Despite the lounging couples staring into each other's eyes and the families out to socialize their new puppies, there was a heaviness, as though a weighted blanket of ennui had been draped over the island. We got our coffee and we took the tram, finding ourselves lost, in much the same manner we had two years ago when we first visited. Fresh faced arrivals to the contended discontent of this city that at once holds two histories within it's recent grasp.

At that time we considered our disorientation to be the work of the heat advisory in effect; this time we had no such excuse and we didn't need it. In the same manner we no longer needed to break each silence, keep talking at all costs as without the constant stream there was no telling what anyone else was thinking. I still tended to break each silence with something inane, but only if I thought it would make my companions laugh. Otherwise, we simply let the pregnant pauses dissipate until they were no longer pregnant, and they were no longer pauses. They were just the simple state of being with one another.

With pommes and beers in hand we returned to the Roman overlook of the silent courtyard to find it no longer so silent, but just as steeped in Kafkaesque unreality. Performing for simply the love of it, a singer belted out Summertime Sadness, though I'd challenge anyone to find anything truly sad about the scene. Others tried to show off their dancing prowess and the dogs kept playing, basking in the deep drama of the park rather than despairing. They bathed, as did we, in the courtyard of ennui where we sat in the only truth we could capture and the only reality worth recognizing, the one based in the simple connections we had made.

[paulythide]

A teasing peak!

Hello, this is a small tease of the upcoming One-Shot (Or is it a One-Shot? I don't know. I am having so much fun!)

Nevertheless, please enjoy it. Also, I'll try to post some art about my Dragon Age characters!

Also, if you wish to support me, please donate to my Paypal account. It will help me with keeping up a constant set of updates and schedules, as well as putting more Art for my works!

-Paypal- paulydppal@hotmail.com

See you soon!

Prologue

The concept of immortality, once a lofty aspiration and a coveted dream, has become a reality for a select few whose lives have persisted for countless centuries. However, as time continues to pass without end, the novelty of eternal life has given way to a sense of ennui and frustration. What was once a blessing has become a burden, an endless cycle of existence without the hope of release. The weight of immortality was heavy, and those who bore it were left to grapple with the ramifications of their eternal existence. Especially to those who remember what it was and the old glories of past times.

Still, it left a sense of purpose to those who have lost something significant. Revenge was often the only reason an immortal person would continue on with their dull existence. And no one knew more about immortality and retribution than an old woman by the name of Flemeth. A human, a witch, an old woman with even an older soul. A lingering reminder of what took place such a long time ago. A carrier of vengeance which would not rest until the purpose would be concluded. But that was still a dream for her. While waiting for her ultimate revenge, Flemeth's role in history has been to look out for essential roles in history, sometimes even push actions that could change the outcome of crucial moments. Out of boredom? Perhaps. Out of a need to do the right thing? Maybe. Whatever the reason for Flemeth to involve herself in certain situations. Flemeth's goals were mysterious.

Nevertheless, Flemeth could feel the winds of change coming again as she stared ahead of her, watching the smoke and fire from a safe distance.

"And so, once again, the Blight comes back to the surface," Flemeth spoke, sensing and smelling such a familiar scent. "An old soul tainted again."

Flemeth knew that the Blight could become an uncontrollable force if it was left untouched and with the current state of the world. It could be perilous.

"I wonder, what type of hero will rise against it?" Flemeth muttered to herself, pondering about the possibilities of meeting such a person. If it comes to that, she'll help that individual or individuals, just like she has done in the past. Humanity could benefit or a new leader. Who knows? Flemeth's pastimes to see ages come and go were genuine without entertainment. However, deep inside, she knew that it would not be forever. Flemeth and her old companion were awaiting their final dance that would soon come. But until then, she'll make sure the world doesn't burn.

"Oh, mother, there you are," a voice snapped Flemeth out of her trance as she could recognise the voice of her daughter, Morrigan. "Looking at the view?" 

Flemeth snorted, hearing her daughter's peculiar snarky, and sarcastic tone, which shouldn't surprise her. Flemeth raised her to be like that, after all.

"The Blight is coming once again, child. And it's starting here, on the Korcari Wilds," Flemeth responded as Morrigan stared at the darkened smoke that the Darkspawn were causing. Morrigan's face frowned, and instead of fear, was a sense of intrigue.

"I see," Morrigan only replied. "No doubt, the valiant Grey Wardens would come and save us all."

"No time to jester, girl. If we are not careful, the Blight could spread all over Ferelden. And only a Grey Warden can kill an Archdemon," Flemeth stated, scolding Morrigan's lack of understanding of their current situation or how dangerous those old souls of forgotten times could be. 

Morrigan said nothing, just stared at Flemeth, simply munching her words. Before sighing. "Of course, mother."

Flemeth nodded as she glanced at the horde of Darkspawn slowly climbing their way up from the Deep Roads, corrupting everything they touched. It was going to be a long year for Thedas, for Ferelden. Especially if the Grey Wardens were slow.

"Let go, girl. We must make sure to prepare."

"Prepare for what?" Morrigan asked her mother with a confused face.

"I believe, soon enough, we may have some visitors."

Morrigan's perplexed expression deepened as she obediently followed her mother, Flemeth. However, their departure was interrupted by an abrupt and intense sensation that coursed through their bodies, causing them to shiver involuntarily. The magic within them reacted to the foreign and unfamiliar presence, catching them off-guard and unprepared. It felt as though something or someone had infiltrated their very being, leaving a fleeting yet distinct impression that lingered long after it had vanished. The unknown entity had left them with goosebumps and an unsettling feeling of being violated by forces beyond their understanding.

Morrigan had her staff in her hand as she took her time to breathe in and out, trying to calm herself and her magic. "What was that?!" She exclaimed to the forest ahead of her, warning of any possible threat lurking in the shadows. But she knew no one was there.

Flemeth, an old woman, who has known many songs, was left speechless. She had no idea what that was. It was so unnatural, unknown, and not belonging to their world that it took time for her to regain her senses. The soul within her, that spirit. Mythal, an Elven Goddess, or whatever she was now, seemed to have been shaken too. And for an Elven Goddess, for a being thousands of years old, to be so afraid of such an unsettling feeling. It must be for an excellent reason.

"Girl, we must get back home," Flemeth whispered as she glanced West. Not being able to shake the sensation of something arriving so far away. Where the draws of the map of the known world ended. But Flemeth and Morrigan weren't the only ones who felt that sensation. Across Thedas, worldwide, to all users who possessed magic in their veins. They all felt that foreign invasion of their being, a quick shivering and unsettled sentiment of stupor and anxiety. 

And in the Fade, that wave was felt even stronger, as spirits, demons, and the fabric of the dream world itself shocked under the pressure of an unknown power making itself known. But what was it? Not even the oldest spirit could say. But they knew, mages, demons, and spirits alike, that a new entity as entered Thedas.

-

The rhythmic clang of metal striking metal, an ode to the blacksmith's craft, reverberated throughout the sprawling encampment. The cacophony of hoofbeats, the tramp of soldiers, and the ceaseless bustle of supply wagons coming and going created a mesmerising tableau for those unaccustomed to the sights and sounds of an army camp. Even intimidating, as such a view reinforces the idea that war was upon them. And it wasn't against a neighbouring kingdom, but something far worse.

And for a young mage whose life has only known the Circle. The exterior world seemed quite strange.

"So much noise," In a hushed tone, a youthful girl struggled to maintain pace with her surroundings. She found herself unaccustomed to manoeuvring around so many people or being mindful of her footsteps. The hallways of The Circle of Magi were consistently pristine and simplistic to navigate. She knew where everything was and could even travel with her eyes close. But here, things were utterly different.

"What is it? Not used to walking around so many people?" A warden by the name of Alistair called with a gentle teasing voice. The girl glanced at him and awkwardly nodded.

"Yes, it's weird to see so many... different people," She replied anxiously. "I am still getting used to... all of this."

Alistair smiled at the young girl. He knew how hard it had been for the young mage. The things he learned about her and the debacle that happened after her Harrowing made him realise that she was a gentle soul, thrust to join the Wardens. However, Alistair couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She is too young. Alistar sighed deeply, looking at the girl who couldn't be older than fifteen. 

From what Ducan told him, this young girl was beyond her peers. A truly one-of-a-kind mage. Intelligent, dutiful, compassionate, and incredibly powerful, the latter worried the Templars because, of course, they would be concerned about a young, powerful mage. Nevertheless, Alistair felt responsible for her, especially after spending time travelling with her. She was too innocent and afraid of the outside world and would be forced to join the Grey Wardens, and he didn't know if she would survive the Joining.

Alistair shook his head and glanced back as they walked towards the destination. "I... I heard you still have a family? Lothering? You did mutter something about it."

The young mage looked up to him, surprised to hear him say that. "You heard?"

"Ah, yeah, well, I have a good ear," Alistair chuckled nervously as he realised he had not yet disclosed his past as a Templar to her. Hearing and watching was a trait all Templars learned as a skill to continuously monitor Mages in case they planned something. A bit snobbish if Alistar could say so himself, but it was something he still had and was difficult to unlearn. "So, did you try to meet them?"

The young mage's lips quivered briefly as sadness poured from her face but soon vanished as she only breathed slowly. "I only know little. I have a few second cousins. The Amell Family used to be a big noble house from Kirkwall. I think... or very wealthy. I don't know how my mother ended up in Ferelden. I never had the chance to ask her."

"Ah, could you ask her? Ask for some references to where they could be? Y'know...?" Alistair asked, chuckling before the young girl's face darkened.

"I doubt it. My mother is dead."

Alistair felt like slapping his face as he groaned silently. "You're an idiot, Alistair," he muttered as the young mage tilted her head at him.

"Did you say something?"

"Oh, uh... look at the sky, beautiful?" Alistair quickly replied as the young mage stared back at him, quite amused.

"Mmhm, I guess?"

The youthful mage found herself puzzled by Alistair's enigmatic nature. Despite this, she couldn't help but relish the time spent in his company. His attempts at humour, though often lacking, were endearing, and she appreciated his efforts to lighten the mood. Through their interactions, the mage had come to view Alistair as a kind and considerate individual, always striving to ensure her comfort and ease. And she appreciated it immensely.

Soon enough, both arrived at a small camp on the edge of Ostagar and there, the young mage found herself surrounded by a group of strange people.

"These are the Wardens?" She muttered slowly, holding her staff tightly with fear in her eyes, like a baby deer in the forest.

"Recruits," Duncan said as he appeared from the shadows of the camp, holding a sort of scroll. "They are all recruits. Each of them came from a different background, either from Dalish, a noble house, an Alienage or the deep kingdom of Orzammar. But after becoming a Grey Warden, all of that won't matter at the end of the day."

Duncan stated, observing the group of people. A more significant set of recruits than he intended. Yet he felt that it was not enough. Against the Blight, it was never enough. However, Duncan had a duty. They all have a commitment to Thedas, to the world.

"Alistair, here, these are the instructions to follow. You know what to do," Duncan said as Alistair groaned internally, as he could sense a sort of stress rising among the recruits.

"Of course, Duncan," Alistair sighed, already feeling a sense of tiresome.

"Good. I have a meeting with the King. Try to take to be hasty since if our scouts are right. The main Darkspawn horde should arrive here by nightfall."

Upon hearing those words, a few of the other recruits threw disapproving and uneasy glances in the speaker's direction. Duncan had already departed, leaving Alistair to bear the full weight of responsibility for all of them. As the only active Warden in Ferelden, it fell solely upon Alistair to manage the situation.

Alistair just rubbed the back of his neck as he chuckled nervously. "Yeah... uhm. Why don't we start with introductions? My name is Alistar. I am the current... and only Grey Warden, besides Duncan, I mean."

Alistair stared around and could only hear some eerie silence. No one spoke to him, which was quite insulting, at least to him. "Eh, what about you?" Alistair asked the Dwarf, whose cold and emotionless face could be mistaken for one of a dead person.

As the rest observed the scene, they noticed a Dwarf perched atop a large boulder, seemingly in his own little world. He meticulously polished his warhammer as soon as his gaze fixed on the group with a steady, serious expression. He took a deep breath, and with a deep voice, he spoke.

"Lofrag Aeducan, I am from..." Lofrag paused, realising that he had been exiled for a crime that he did not commit. He tightly closed his hand and then let out a long breath. "Was from a noble house of Orzammar."

The flow of the conversation continued, as next to the Dwarf, leaning on a pillar from one of the ruins of the abandoned fortress that was Ostagar, away from the light, a hooded person was standing. The person emitted a hissing sound, suggesting annoyance and irritation.

"Lyna Mahariel of the Sabrae Clan," With a confident flair, the Dalish revealed her face, proudly displaying her Vallaslin. It symbolised her deep connection to her people and their ancient traditions. Although for some, a mark of ancient glories.

"Is that Mythal's Vallaslin?" Another elf asked, and Lyna could only reply with another hiss.

"Yes," Lyna said, inspecting the other Elf. "I am surprised you know about it. You don't seem to be one of us."

The other Elf frowned deeply as he stared at the Dalish Elf. "What do you mean by not one of us? I am an Elf too!"

"You're an Elf, but not a Dalish. My people," Lyna replied, almost scoffing at him, even looking down on him as if he was something else. "You're from an Alienage, aren't you? I can smell it from miles away."

The Elf was hurt by the other's sneering tone and attitude, which made them feel even more inferior. It was particularly painful coming from someone who should have been more understanding and compassionate to the suffering of their specie.

"Now, now, let's get along. We are in this together," Alistair stated nervously, trying to dissipate the tension away. 

The Elf in question glared at Lyna before looking at the group. "I am Kalian Tabris... I am an Elf from Denerim's Alienage. And proud of my race."

Lyna could be heard snorting on the side, almost mockingly, but Kalian decided to ignore it. 

"My name is Catherine Cousland," another woman spoke, yet that voice sounded almost depressing, a whisper even. Alistair knew who that woman was and had heard from Duncan what had transpired with the Cousland family. Catherine seems to still be grieving the death of her mother and father, but more importantly. Deep inside her, the desire for vengeance was growing. 

Although the other individuals in the group were all grown adults, with some even having prior experience in combat, the young mage girl appeared to be overwhelmed as she stood before them. Their intense gazes bore down on her, and she struggled to summon the courage to introduce herself to the group. Thankfully, Alistair gently nudged her, smiling at her, calming the young girl.

"Hello," she spoke nervously, almost stammering. "M-My name is Elia Amell! And I am Mage, from the Circle of Magi!"

The young girl spoke nervously, feeling all the gazes upon her now.

"You're so young," Catherine whispered, amazed and worried. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen..." Elia responded, suddenly feeling everyone looking at her in shock.

"Fifteen?" Kalian repeated in a whisper, trying to come up with terms about the age of the young mage. Even the Dwarf Lofrag gave a sort of amused stare at the girl.

"A child?" Lyna muttered, equally surprised, if not a bit offended, to be put next to a child. "It is wise to have such a young Mage with us?" Lyna asked abruptly, giving Elia dirty looks, to which Alistar simply stepped ahead, looking at Lyna directly into her eyes.

"She is the best the Circle of Magic can offer. Otherwise, she wouldn't be here," Alistair stated firmly, glancing around the group, almost daring them to speak up.

Lyna huffed, but in her eyes, there was a glimpse of worry for the young mage girl. It seemed that Lyna was not as heartless as she appeared to be, or maybe it was for some other reason.

"I meant no offence, Miss Elia," Catharine replied gently. "Just worry, that's all. But I trust your abilities."

As Elia gazed at Catharine, she couldn't help but notice a certain aura of protective warmth emanating from the noblewoman. It was almost as if Catharine was assuming the role of an older sister, seeking to ensure Elia's comfort and security throughout their joint travels. Elia didn't mind, honestly. 

"Thank you," Elia muttered, suddenly looking down, avoiding everyone else's gaze.

"Whatever," Lyna quietly expressed her concern while quickly glancing at the girl. Shortly after, Daveth and Jory showed up as new recruits, but no one paid much attention to them.

"Well, now we all know each other, we can now hold hands," Alistair stated, as the silence of each one of them was his answer. "Fine, don't hold hands, meanies."

That did bring a soft chuckle from Elia, which Alistair thanked with a playful wink.

"Now, we had a task at hand. We are to go to the Korcari Wilds and seek some ingredients. The faster, the better."

"So be it," Lofrag grunted, standing up and putting his warhammer on his shoulder.

As the rest of the individuals gathered their gear and began to walk away, it became apparent that each of them had a distinct motivation for being there. One person may have been seeking a fresh start, a chance to begin anew, while another was driven by a desire to make amends for past transgressions. For someone else, it may have been an opportunity to seek retribution. Regardless of their individual reasons, they were all on the cusp of becoming Grey Wardens - a group of misfits who would ultimately play a pivotal role in a war that would forever alter the Thedas, for better or for worse.

[svankmajerbaby]

swiss army man and eeaao have the same core narrative + resolution

(or, my disdain for auteur theory and my pattern seeking brain punching each other at the same time)

swiss army man and eeaao share the same core narrative, and thats the rescuing of two lonely/melancholic/frustrated people through a mutual recognition of their struggles with existence and how that empathy can allow for a sense of peace and optimism with which to face daily challenges.

for swiss army man, its hank seeing himself in manny, and learning how that cruelty and shame he enacts on him is the one he enacts on himself, how that wonder for the everyday life that manny has is exactly what he needs to keep himself afloat, how the connection with someone else, the lack of judgement and the patience allows him to be kinder to himself, how he needed a gentler more open version of himself without all the baggage he has been collecting in order to find calm in the storm of his own despair and ennui.

and in eeaao its evelyn seeing herself in her daughter, and realizing that her frustrations, her failed potential and all those better lives she has not lived werent going to materialize in success for joy, her greatest hope, but only be replicated: and that the weight of it all not only keeps her in a constant state of frustration with the present but also culminates in a broken relationship with her daughter, the person who needs her the most, to the point that they both actually flirt with self destruction as a sort of last resort attempt at connection before evelyn finally understands that in order to save herself and her daughter she needs to extend the sympathy she didnt get to her own daughter before she loses her for good, allowing them both to exist in the present and be thankful for the reality they belong to and the connections and little joys they have.

anyway real connection and understanding of mutual struggle is essential for survival, and in an increasingly individualistic world that is an unusual thing to declare as a basic truth.

[frozenambiguity]

@vibraea | continued from here.

«Alcohol may be one of the joys of life, but it certainly is not the only one». Kaeya is quick to add, although if he is to be transparent, he much rather prefers the way alcohol makes him feel than necessarily its taste alone. Of course, he shall not be a hypocrite and say that the delectable flavor and aroma do not seduce him. It depends on the situation. Sometimes he may drink to forget. He may drink to cope. He may drink to feel happy. He may drink to feel less alone. And there are also occasions where he indulges for the sole purpose of indulging. It varies, really.

But as for her question... Well. One supposes one should give it a proper thought. What are the little joys he is holding onto? From the top of his mind, his first response is...

«Let me tell you a story. It was my birthday a few months ago. I had pulled an all-nighter the night before --- absolutely terrible. Hmph. Who enjoys spending their night working instead of socializing and resting, anyway...?» A small roll of eyes, his face suddenly adorned with ennui before returning to its original natural state.

«So, naturally, when the sun came up and its rays peeked through the curtains, exhaustion had caught up to me. And --- yes --- even I get exhausted from time to time». He chuckles softly. «But when I later awoke from the deep state of slumber I had been in, my desk was... full of presents and heartfelt letters. It was not too arduous a task to figure out to whom each present belonged». His gaze softens, nostalgia hitting him. Despite everything... People really seemed to appreciate him here, in Mondstadt. Of course they did. He had constructed and fabricated his persona to be easily adored and trusted. If only they knew who he truly was, or what machinations and plans crossed his mind on the daily... Ah... There it is. The constant state of guilt. Perhaps he will pay Angel's Share a visit soon. To avoid these bothersome thoughts.

The people of Mond being kind to him, out of pure generosity of their hearts... The thought alone both broke his heart and made it swell with emotion. But that, dear friend, is a sight he will never publicly expose. Cursed be the gods ---- even the littlest joys in his life brought him pain.

«I'll go with that for a response. Satisfied?~»

[isabellarosestudio5]

Research

"Arendt argues that action and speech are indubitably intersubjective, it is “with word and deed” that “we insert ourselves into the human world.” To act, in its most general sense is to take initiative, to begin, to set something into motion. Action, according to Arendt is a beginning, one that corresponds to natality or the fact of birth, there is a “startling unexpectedness” that is inherent in all beginnings and origins. A capacity for action means that “the unexpected can be expected,” such a capacity means that one is able to perform “what is infinitely improbable."

"it is in acting and speaking that one makes an appearance in the human world and reveals who one is"

"Action always-already appeals to alterity or otherness, it “is never possible in isolation,” and “needs the surrounding presence of others” (188). Action is surrounded by and in constant contact with the “web of acts and words of other men.” She argues shared or common inter-ests lie “between people and therefore can relate and bind them together.” Action as well as speech are concerned with this in-between. Arendt discusses a subjective in-between that consists of deeds and words that originate from “men’s acting and speaking directly to one another.” Such an in-between is intangible, yet according to Arendt “We call this reality the ‘web of human relationships’” (182–184). For Arendt, the web of human relationships is the medium in which action takes place and this echoes points made in Chapter 1 about choreography as an activity of arranging relations between bodies. She states that action “always establishes relationships and therefore has an inherent tendency to force open all limitations and cut across all boundaries” (190–191). This utopic assertion is central to this book, for it argues that action changes or produces change."

"For Arendt, action is irrevocably tied to intersubjectivity, to act is to do something that is revealing, to take initiative, to do something unexpected, to set something in motion.3 An action is something that happens when one is with others in “sheer human togetherness,” by necessity it requires the presence of others. "

"According to Arendt, any action is surrounded by a web of acts and words, it is concerned with the in-between, part of a larger web of human relationships."

"For Levinas, consciousness is not all there is to the notion of subjectivity, although there is what he calls a “subjective condition,” an identity one calls “ego” or “I.” The who or me is a term within a relation, a term of “an irreversible assignation” that recurs. What Levinas calls the “oneself,” “is already formed with absolute passivity,” responsibility for the other means that “oneself” is irreplaceable, “incarnated in order to offer itself, to suffer and to give” (95–96). For Levinas, the self recurs in responsibility for others, responsibility for another is not an accident that happens, it precedes the very essence of a subject, it is unconditional, un-declinable and absolute. An extreme way of expressing this idea is that “the subject is under hostage,” for “under accusation by everyone, the responsibility for everyone goes to the point of substitution.” Levinas takes the title for his essay from this core concept, “a substitution of me for the others,” a substitution that “frees the subject from ennui, that is, from the enchainment to itself”

"Crucially Levinas summarises that: "It is through the condition of being hostage that there can be in the world pity, compassion, pardon and proximity – even the little there is, even the simple ‘After you sir’."

"For Levinas, intersubjectivity produces subjecthood, the self is unavoidably subject-to, it bears a responsibility that equates to “the weight of the universe” 

"When read in conjunction with Sehgal’s Instead of allowing… ... One of my own responses to this performance was that each time I visited the performance, I would always wait until another beholder arrived before leaving, as I did not want to leave the performer alone.4 Indeed, for Levinas, a subject is dependent upon the other, a confrontation occurs and a response is obligatory."

Reflection:

On intersubjectivity, as relevant to the notion of performance/choreography/dance:

According to Arendt- we insert ourselves into the world purely through acting, speaking, doing. Without this, is there a 'self'? And consequently, do actions then require the existence of others, to be seen, felt? Or at least that actions must always hint towards the constant surrounding web of human relationships.

So, Levinas; the notion of 'self' is/exists, because it is subject into existence by the accusation & service to the other?

Choreography as a microcosm of social relationships and human interaction. Performer as servant to the audience?

Feels in some ways similar to the Buddhist notion of the nonself/interbeing/emptiness OR 'I am, only because, You are'. From the Zen Buddhist/ Thich Nhat Hanh school of thinking.

[collidingworldstv]

We Are Jack Strong 23 Nov 2023

WE ARE JACK STRONG  is the musical genius of Dan Scott, Chas "Thunderhoof" Benedict and Gregg "Gogo" Oliver. Their stated mission is to "(C)reate great music that connects with our collective personal struggles and inspires and equips us to overcome them. To be a source of motivation, a constant reminder that one can overcome anything that holds them back."  And this trio more than succeeds in that mission. The songs are microcosms of life as experienced by real people. Within their work there is completeness of raw emotion - but it is not the sound of despair nor melancholic ennui. It truly is the resonating sounds of life - in the real world. WE ARE JACK STRONG  - their music is, as they say their "contribution, our art... to tell the truth as completely as we can. When it hurts, we know we've done it right." They do it right. https://www.wearejackstrong.com  / wearejackstrong   spotify:https://open.spotify.com/artist/2TwHv...  / wearejackstrong  

[anangelofheaven]

Sermon 10

Psalms 5:12 reads, "Surely, LORD, you bless the righteous; you surround them with your favor as with a shield."

Does this mean that the righteous are protected from harm? On a certain level, it definitely does. After all, a shield is used as the metaphor.

Yet surely, it doesn't mean that the righteous are protected from actual physical harm. That's empirically evident to not be the case. And even the Bible describes, in excruciating detail in The Book of Job, how bad things can often happen to good people. "Rain falls on the just and the unjust alike," as they say.

So if the righteous aren't protected from car crashes, man-eating lions or even the rain, what are they protected from? How are they blessed?

We can strike "monetarily" off the list of options. If the many, many stories about righteous people like Noah, Moses and David losing all that they have aren't proof enough, God Himself states it during His many teachings as Jesus. Whether telling people to ditch their attachments to closing, houses or livelihoods, Christ doesn't count material success as a blessing. Besides, didn't He explicitly say that it would be easier for a camel to pass through a needle's eyes than for a rich person to get into Heaven?

God doesn't just dismiss material success as a blessing, He's downright against it.

If it isn't health and it isn't wealth, what is God protecting when He shields the righteous?

He's protecting them from the mental anguish and sick cycle carousel of sin, that's what He's protecting the righteous from. They can go through life knowing that if they follow His way, they don't have to suffer the isolation, doubt and agonizing obsession those who focus on other things do.

By "other things," I would count the material success that we talked about above. Whether it's keeping up with the Joneses, biting your fingernails from FOMO or simply succumbing to "compare and despair" on social media, God protects the righteous from such things. They are told to actively avoid material prosperity, to dispense with it entirely and to banish thoughts of it from their mind.

The same goes for other appetites. Hungry? God will feed you, much like He does the birds of the field, He says, but He doesn't promise you a prime rib dinner. You should eat to live, not live to eat.

And you shouldn't seek to glut your appetite for sex, either. Have fun with it, enjoy it, but never, ever obsess over it. Certainly, avoid it when it comes to aiming at others who have been taken. God's opinion on sex for pleasure is kept to Himself, but He sure is not fond of lusting after others or committing adultery.

In essence, He shields us from all the mental and emotional impurities that afflict us, today as much as ever. There is a constant barrage on the modern mind, urging it to want to buy, venerating youth and lust, and pushing it to worry and despair over success. None of those things matter to the righteous. Where others see pipe dreams, the righteous see pitfalls.

It's the word of God, and the way of His example, that guides us around those pitfalls. We need not worry, because how to live well is all spelled out right there. The example of Christ, and the word of God in the Bible, inform us how to live protected from all the agonies of the modern age: The anxieties, the self loathing, the inadequacies, insatiability and ennui.

He tells us to stop worrying about what's on Amazon or in that boutique shop window. He tells us to look over your social media with love of others, if at all, and not to compare or judge, or even care about Cadillac margaritas, trips to the French Riviera and Taylor Swift tickets. He tells us to obey the commandments that keep us out of trouble, one of which is to avoid lusting over someone who's in a relationship.

More than all those, He tells us to let go and live the plan He has for us. He's given us the instructions on how to walk His path. We do so knowing that we're protected from the doubts and downfalls that come from straying off of it.

[flexinart]

Created as a leisurely activity, this impromptu illustration was sketched on April 15th.

Unleashing Creativity: The Art Born out of Boredom

In a world filled with constant distractions and busyness, it is rare to find moments of pure idleness. Yet, it is often during these moments of leisure and boredom that our minds wander and unexpected sparks of creativity emerge. Such was the case for me on April 15th when, consumed by ennui, I inadvertently dozed off only to awaken to a vivid image incessantly clamoring for release. Without any conscious effort, I found myself sketching an impromptu illustration that encapsulated the essence of my restless state. In this blog post, I will recount the story of how boredom transformed into artistic inspiration, highlighting the mysterious and unpredictable nature of creativity.

A Prelude to Boredom: The day had been particularly uneventful. The monotony of routine had gradually settled upon me, leaving me feeling unengaged and listless. Each passing moment seemed to drag on, devoid of excitement or purpose. It was a day like any other, yet somehow it managed to strip away the usual distractions, leaving me alone with my own thoughts and an overpowering sense of ennui.

The Slumber of the Mind: As the afternoon wore on, my drowsiness intensified, my eyelids growing heavy with each passing minute. Unable to resist the allure of sleep any longer, I succumbed to its embrace, not realizing that this brief reprieve from consciousness would become the catalyst for an unexpected burst of creativity. The deep slumber enveloped me, and my mind transported me to a realm where imagination reigned supreme.

The Birth of an Image: In the midst of this tranquil sleep, my mind began to stir. Fragments of dreams intertwined with random thoughts, forming a kaleidoscope of images that danced behind my closed eyelids. Suddenly, as if propelled by an unseen force, a vivid scene burst forth from the recesses of my mind. It was an image so vivid, so compelling, that it seared itself onto my consciousness. A voice within me urged me to capture it, to give it life.

Awakening to Inspiration: With a jolt, I awoke, my heart pounding in my chest. The image that had invaded my dreams lingered, refusing to fade away. The intensity of the moment propelled me into action. My fingers reached for a pencil and paper as if guided by an invisible hand. Without any preconceived plan or conscious thought, I began to sketch, allowing the image to flow through me onto the paper. The lines formed effortlessly, each stroke a testament to the power of inspiration born out of idleness.

and this transformed into one of my best creations!!!!

Whoever said boredom is a mind-numbing void clearly hasn't met the fellow creatives. We're the generation that turns idle moments into creative explosions, transforming yawns into yowzas! That impromptu illustration birthed from a bored slumber? Just another testament to the untapped potential that lies within our restless minds.

So, fellow mates,

Remember, the next time boredom comes knocking at your door, don't just scroll mindlessly through TikTok or binge-watch another series. Instead, let your mind wander, explore the vast expanse of your creativity, and watch as boredom morphs into a vibrant canvas of self-expression.

Boredom may be our unlikely accomplice, but together, we'll unleash a whirlwind of innovative ideas, captivating visuals, and boundary-pushing creations. So, fellow people, let's flip the script on boredom and show the world that it's not a buzzkill—it's the secret sauce to our artistic genius!

Stay bored😒🤣, stay unique, stay inspired, and keep on creating, because the world can't resist the allure of this gen's creativity in full swing. Get ready to make your mark🎨✨