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marshmallow-phd · 4 years

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Nine Little Letters

Genre: College AU, Fake Dating AU, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before AU

Inspired By: This graphic made by @rcse-tvler

Pairing: EXO x Reader

Summary: Just when you thought life was done shoving you down, it got much, much worse. After finding out that your latest crush was already in a relationship, you did what you always did when emotions ran high: you wrote a letter. Signed and sealed, you put it away with the eight other letters you’d written to past one-sided loves, never to be seen again. That is, until a mix up accidentally sends those letters out to their respective recipients and you find yourself in the middle of one confusing web of love. With fake relationships, insecurities, and revelations swirling around, things are bound to get a little messy.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11

This was the worst kind of humiliation. Standing there on the sidewalk staring open-mouthed at the one person you were excited to see today, you were crumbling into a million pieces. And no one even noticed. That was what made this humiliation so bad; there was no one to witness it. You were breaking and no one cared.

You should have known better, really. This morning was going too well. You had woken up on time, had a delicious, filling breakfast, and had managed to put an outfit together worthy of any Pinterest board. Your confidence was through the roof and you were going to do the one thing in your life you swore you would never do.

You were going to confess to your crush.

Signing up for math tutoring was the last thing you wanted to do. Who in the world wanted to spend their valuable free time learning more about equations and algorithms? But you needed to pass this class. It was the second time you’d taken college algebra and the thought of taking it a third time made you want to crawl under your bed. So, you buckled down and took the walk of shame into the math lab. (Yes, that was an exaggeration. Everyone knows there is no shame in getting help. Didn’t mean you had to like it.) When you got the call from your assigned tutor, you ignored it. You didn’t like talking on the phone to anyone let alone a number you didn’t recognize. No voicemail was left. Then a text came through.

Hi, (y/n)! This Kim Junmyeon! I’ve been assigned as your math tutor. When you get a chance, let me know when you’re free so we can create a schedule that works for you. Have a great day!

You waited an appropriate amount of time before replying. So, an hour and half later, you texted him your schedule and made a plan to meet up in the library the following Thursday. You marked that day on your calendar with exactly zero enthusiasm. In your head, this Kim Junmyeon was the cliché nerd from movies: dorky glasses, snort-like laugh, and clothes that looked better on a grandfather. Oh, boy were you so happy to be wrong.

Sitting down at one of the tables by the large, ceiling high windows, Junmyeon was nothing like you’d imagined. He had a sophisticated aura about him. He dressed nicely, a thin long-sleeved shirt over a patterned button down, the collar laid nicely over the top of the shirt, and was blessed with sharp, handsome features. You knew you were in trouble. But you didn’t care. You sat down at that table eagerly, ready to… learn.

For the past month and a half, you’d met Junmyeon twice a week to go over the lessons and work on the assignments. By some miracle, your grade was actually going up in the class. Somehow you were able to better comprehend the material and secretly fawn over your tutor simultaneously. At this point, you were sort of feigning how much you weren’t understanding to keep the tutoring sessions going. The nice thing about algebra, once you understood the basics, everything else built on top of it.

But today – today you had decided that you were going to step over the line from tutor and student into the realm of perhaps something more.

You liked Junmyeon. You liked his math puns and the way he scrunched his face when he thought hard about something. His lips would pucker whenever he lifted the sheet of paper to check over your work. Each time you met up with him your heart acted like it was in the middle of a NASCAR race and it was determined to win. You had it bad. This wasn’t the first time you’d had a crush like this, but you had set your mind on making this one different. This time, you wouldn’t hold it inside. You were going to be the brave one, the bold one. The fact that birds were tweeting as you rode your bike onto campus should have been a sign that things would only be downhill from there. Unfortunately, like the optimistic idiot, you took it as a positive instead.

After locking your bike up, you headed straight for the courtyard near the pond. Junmyeon had told you that he often spent his mornings there to finish up homework or to read a book (the fact that he read so much was another factor in your liking of him). In your head, he was all alone, flipping through a novel as he leaned against the trunk of a tree, looking like a prince taking a rest in the shade on a warm summer’s day. The water would be glistening in the background as a lovely, lighthearted melody played softly through the air. He would see you approach and smile that wide, brilliant smile. Your heart would skip as you sat down in the grass next to him and poured out your feelings. The daydream turned into a nightmare the second he came into view.

Junmyeon was not alone nor was he sitting under a tree with a book. He was on one of the benches, splayed out on the wooden beams with his head resting in the lap of a very pretty, more his league type of girl. She laughed as Junmyeon told a story. A delicate hand ran through his soft brown hair. Your heart fell to the ground, forming a crater at your feet.

Shoulders slumped and day ruined, you turned and headed for the student union. If today was going to suck like this, then you were going to sprinkle it with an overly sugary coffee drink. Preferably with extra chocolate drizzle. It helped - a little bit.

Your morning classes went by in a blur. You were certain you took notes, but none of the information sank in. Later you would have to transcribe your quick scribbles to a word document to help you study. You would learn the information then. By lunch, you were starting to peel yourself off the sidewalk of humiliation. Especially when the one person you could always rely on joined you for lunch.

“How did it go?”

You remained silent, continuously munching on the sandwich in your hands as your best friend sat down across from you at the small, two-person table near the middle of the cafeteria.

Baekhyun laughed his signature, SpongeBob-like laugh. “That bad, huh? I told you not to do it.”

“Technically, I didn’t do it,” you corrected. “He already has a girlfriend.”

“Ouch.”

You nodded. How could you not see this before? Did he mention having a girlfriend and you just blocked it out? Junmyeon and you talked casually between math problems, about your friends and fun things you liked to do on the weekends. He’d failed to mention one very important detail.

“Well,” Baekhyun reached over and plucked a potato chip off your plate and plopped it in his mouth, “at least you found out before you said something. I told you he wasn’t worth it.”

“Just because he has a girlfriend doesn’t mean he isn’t worth crushing on.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “You’re so much help.”

Ignoring your quip, Baekhyun snatched another chip. You smacked his hand, but all that managed to do was break off a few pieces, the crumbs falling to the table. Smiling proudly, Baekhyun popped the half-chip into his mouth. “So, are you just going to go home and write a letter?”

“Are you just going to go home and write a letter?” you mocked with a scrunched face.

Byun Baekhyun had been your best friend since the two of you had met in the first grade. He’d stolen your popsicle that your mother had packed as a special treat for your first full day of school. When he saw you start to cry, he broke off the piece he’d been sucking on and handed the rest back to you. There was a bit of a disagreement on the level of nice-ness that act achieved since it was your popsicle to begin with, but somehow it caused the two of you to be inseparable ever since. Being your best friend meant that he was privy to the more private parts of your life.

Like the letters.

Starting as young as ten years old, you’d developed a bit of a tradition when it came to your crushes. Emotions were hard to process, but you found them easier to work through if you thought about them and translated them into words. Those words would fly across the paper, transferring the feelings that made you both laugh and cry into the graphite that formed them. Not to mention, the act made you feel like the heroine in a rom-com. Certainly it was something that Meg Ryan or Rachel McAdams would do once they realized how they felt about the male lead.

The first letter you ever wrote was during your final year of ballet class. Dancing had been a part of your life since you were three, but a new passion had been discovered so you’d decided to quit after this last cluster of classes. A terrible decision, really. Because right after your mind was already made up, a new boy had joined the class.

Kim Jongin.

He had just moved into town after his father was promoted to a new position and had to transfer to headquarters. You’d never seen him at the park or the grocery store before. He was completely new. And beautiful.

He was blessed golden skin that glistened, shining brighter the longer he danced. And, oh, the way he danced. It was well beyond what anyone else could do. His movements were fluid, water-like, as if the very beat of the music were pulling and manipulating his limbs to convey what the notes had to say. Each move was a word and when he formed them together, they could make you smile or cry. And when he smiled… oh, his smile was like starlight. The kind of brightness that stayed in the sky even as the city lights flickered on. To this day, you’d never found one that could rival it. He was a dream that every composer coveted. So, what was your young heart to do?

Well, the movies told you to confess. But there was no way you could find the courage to do so, especially since you only saw him in class and you couldn’t confess in front of everyone. The only other option was to write it out; to write it out like Jane Austen pouring her heart out for Tom Lefroy.

Dear Jongin,

I’m not sure how to start this. Do I compliment you on your dancing? It’s nothing like I’ve seen before. Prima Donnas in the Russian Ballet would be jealous of you! But you probably hear that all the time. And about how handsome you are, even under all that hair. I can’t help but watch when you pull it back for class so you can see yourself in the mirror. Why can’t I look like that? I somehow ended up looking like a frizzy wet cat that just climbed out of the tub.

I guess what I’m trying to avoid saying is that… I like you. A lot. I like your laugh and your wide smile. I like how much you love music and how you interpret the melody with your moves. No one can freestyle like you! My heart does a dance of its own whenever I see you. I hope you don’t have anyone that you like, just so I can stand a chance. Would you ever think of me like that? If not, it’s okay. I just needed to tell you. Someday, you’ll be on stage dancing to an audience of thousands and I’ll be right there in the front row, cheering you on! Until then, I hope you always find happiness in what you love.

Love,

(y/n).

That sentence about watching him on stage made you cringe in hindsight. Cute for a ten-year-old, but a bit stalkerish. Luckily, though, you never gave it to him. You chickened out every time up until the last class. The idea of him opening it and reading right there in front of you was mortifying. So, then, you decided to mail it. The teacher gave you his address after you told her you wanted to invite him to your birthday party (it should be a little worrisome that a teacher was willing to pass on private information like that… perhaps it was because you were a kid). Three times you went to the mailbox to send the letter out and three times you ran back inside to hide it under your mattress.

That was the beginning of your weird little tradition. Though you never sent the letter to Jongin, you felt better having somewhat confessed your feelings and worked through them without the humiliation of actually… doing it. So, the next time you had a crush so overwhelming that you needed to get the feelings out, you wrote a letter. You even went all the way each time to address the envelope, giving the confession a sense of finality. There was no fear in them ever going out. Baekhyun was the only other one in the world who knew of their existence. At the current moment, eight were hidden in a drawer in your vanity. The way your fingers were itching, a ninth one was on the way.

“I might,” you finally replied.

Baekhyun leaned forward eagerly. “Can I read it when you’re done?”

“No!”

He snapped his fingers as he sat back in his chair. “Darn.”

“Why am I even friends with you?”

“Because I’m charming.”

There was no question in his voice. He one-hundred percent believed it. And… to be honest, he did have his moments. But that was all in the past. “Like a plank of wood.”

Shaking his head, Baekhyun rapped his hands on the table before standing up. “Alright, I’m going to class. Have fun with your pencil and imagination.” For emphasis on his stupid remark, he stole one last chip before walking off.

You finished off your sandwich in a bit of a rage. By the time you were finished, your mouth muscles were aching as if you’d spent several hours at the gym and it was jaw day.

You only had one class left for the afternoon. But it was algebra. How were you supposed to concentrate on functions when your sad attempt at getting into a relationship with your tutor failed so epically? Somehow you managed, though, and you packed up at the end of class with a new sort of determination. As you hopped on your bike and rode home, you thought over what you were going to write. You were so lost in your head that you hadn’t notice the car pulling out of your neighbor’s driveway, nearly hitting you before the driver hit their brakes.

“Shoot!”

You back peddled to break. Your heart thumped in your chest. No life memories flashed before your eyes, but you were sure you almost died. Slowly, you moved forward to get out of the way of the car.

“I’m sorry!” you yelled over your shoulder.

The driver leaned out the window.

Oh, great.

It was your neighbor. Or, at least, your neighbor’s son. Do Kyungsoo. He stared at you with an expression that could be blank but could also be a glare. It was hard to tell with him. Shaking his head, he pulled back inside the car and drove away.

Fighting off embarrassment for the second time this day - albeit this situation was much lower on the scale and it happened a bit more often than you’d like to admit - you put your bike up in the backyard and headed up to your room. Your mother, a literary history professor, and your father, a doctor at the local hospital, were both at work and wouldn’t be home until well after dinner. You were used to it. Besides, you were an adult and you liked being able to decide to have pizza for dinner and not worry about what other people wanted for toppings. Once you put your order in, you sat down at your vanity and got to work.

Dear Junmyeon,

Has anyone told you how your hair looks in the sunlight? The dark brown hues seem so warm and inviting, like an ebony chair that was warmed by the unfiltered rays. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to run my finger through it. Would the strands be as soft as they look? Would you wear the same smile on your face that you do during our sessions? But I guess I might not be meant to feel them. Today, I intended to tell you how I felt. I woke up with a determination, a goal to say how much I like you to your face. I was so nervous riding my bike to the university, but it was the good kind of nervous; the kind that makes you keep going. It seemed, however, that I was too late. Or maybe I simply never had a chance at all. I’d missed any signs that said you were already someone else’s.

I hope she knows how lucky she is. I hope she makes you laugh and listens to you when you’re having a bad day. Your laugh is like a symphony. Does she tell you how light and lovely it is? Or how infectious it is? When you laugh, I can’t help but laugh along. It’ll be sad not to hear it anymore. Or have our talks filled with random subject changes. But I think I’ll miss your smile most of all. The way it crinkles your eyes yet still lets them shine. The way it spreads across your face and the way your cheeks grow. It is truly a sight to behold. I hope wherever you go, you are always smiling. You always let your light shine even on the cloudiest of days. That’s what’s so special about you and what made me fall for you. Even when I was frustrated or couldn’t understand, you were patient, taking my mind off of the negative and turning me so I could face the positive. That’s a rare kind of person. You are a rare kind of person. Please always be happy, Kim Junmyeon.

Love,

(y/n)

With a sigh you sat back in your chair. The letter had done its job. Though you were still sad about the way things turned out, you no longer felt defeated. The words you needed to say were now out there without being “out there”. Okay, so he had a girlfriend. Big deal. It wasn’t the end of the world. There were more potential love interests out there that you could find. He was only one and obviously wasn’t the one.

Beginning to smile again, you folded the letter and put it in an envelope. You didn’t have Junmyeon’s address, so you wrote out the address for the math lab. Opening the top drawer of the vanity, you placed the latest addition to your collection under the first envelope. The doorbell rang right as you closed it up again. Oh, thank goodness. Food.

Practically skipping down the steps, you hurried to the front door.

“Hi-” You stopped as soon as you’d opened it. The person waiting on the other side was not the pizza delivery guy - it was Baekhyun. The boxes holding the pizza and cheese sticks you’d order for no one but yourself were in his hands. Over his shoulder, you barely caught sight of the delivery man driving away. “Really?”

“What? I was bored. And hungry.” He flipped open the lid to show you the hot, melted cheese of the appetizer. “Cheese stick?”

Rolling your eyes, you stepped aside so he could come inside.

Baekhyun had been to your home plenty of times in the past so it was easy for him to make himself at home. He didn’t wait for you before pulling plates out of the cabinet and pouring a drink. He even went as far as getting you glass as well. “Thirsty?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The two of you ate at the kitchen table as your mother had a “no meals in the living room” policy. Small snacks like nuts and popcorn were okay, as long as you didn’t spill any on the couches.

“So… how did the writing go?” Baekhyun asked cheekily between bites.

You shrugged. “Fine. I’m deciding that I’m getting over it.”

Now it was Baekhyun’s turn to roll his eyes. “You always get over them fast.”

“What’s the point of dwelling on the things you can’t change?”

That was always your answer. Yes, the hurt was immediate and painful, but Baekhyun was right, you tended to push it aside rather quickly. That was the whole point of your letters, anyway. Get the feelings out of the way so you could move on. What was the point of clinging on to something like that? You would only end up worse if you stayed in that spot. So, you pushed yourself to move on. And eight times out of nine, it had worked. There was only that one nagging letter that failed to do its job. That particular set of feelings refused to go away even as you looked to other crushes, as you found other boys to like. It was the one you would always wonder about, the one that was completely off limits. The dull ache still crept up every once in a while. If moving on was what you had to do, you would do it. Because you would prefer if you never had to go through something like that ever again.

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theonceoverthinker · 4 years

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When Will My Life Begin? (Fair Game, 2/?)

Summary: Tangled AU. Clover Callows has been confined to a tower for all of his life, and given the threat that his Uncle Tyrian says his semblance poses to his safety, he accepts that fate. It’s the only life he’s ever known, after all. But when he’s offered the opportunity to fulfill his greatest dream after a chance encounter with a thief -- or bandit, as Qrow Branwen insists there’s a difference between the two -- both Clover and Qrow will discover joys that they never knew life could offer them before.

AO3

Tumblr: (1)

A/N: Thank you all for the kind support and comments towards Chapter 1!!!! I had so much fun writing this chapter, and I hope this chapter is just as great!

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Clover Callows found there were merits in having and maintaining a routine.

Routines provided stability, a means for developing skills, an ideal backdrop for daydreaming, something with a clear foundation to fall back on in the face of uncertainty or hopelessness, and countless other benefits.

And when one spent their life confined to a tower like he did, those merits simply could not be understated.

Clover’s routine started at roughly seven in the morning, as he rose from his feathery mattress to a powerful beam of sunlight, the same way he had done so for as long as he could remember.

Such an early wakeup time was something of a double edged sword.

When one only had so much space and only so any things to do from within it, an early start to what could likely be a lengthy day could be seen as annoying, especially as one’s body demanded less and less sleep from them over the years. Clover could admit to feeling that way occasionally, but the matter couldn’t be helped. At that time in the morning, the sun hit his tower’s window in a way that engorged the tower’s entire interior in its light. Though he’d tried to cloak the light with some curtains he’d all but begged for, they weren’t strong enough to do more than make the beams just a bit less severe, an improvement so minor that he removed the curtains completely after the first week.

Oh well. He supposed no routine was without its drawbacks.

But honestly, Clover preferred to take a more optimistic approach to things, and did like getting up at that time for more reasons than he didn’t.

So really, that wakeup time was more of a blessing than anything.

Clover supposed that given his semblance, that shouldn’t have been much of a surprise.

For one thing, Clover was a tried and true morning person, so a start like this ensured that he’d always start his day on the right foot. After all, what was the point of a routine without the energy needed to see it through?

For another, Clover found he could make far better use of his time with the sun’s light than he often could with the night’s darkness. He liked making candles, but he also liked having visible space to work with as he went about his day without the risk of losing it to a stray bellow of wind.

And finally -- not to mention, most importantly to Clover -- getting up as early as he did meant that he had a full hour to prepare breakfast for himself and his uncle.

Yes, one of the highlights of Clover’s morning routine came at the very start of it. At the same time everyday, Clover’s Uncle Tyrian would make a point to check up on him before leaving for work. And if Clover made breakfast for them, he’d stay for a bit longer and eat. If it wasn’t, he’d leave right after his morning check up to go get some himself, commiserating on how he wished they’d have more time together.

Needless to say, Clover got very good at making sure breakfast was on the table by eight in the morning without fail very quickly.

It was a pleasure to do it, really. Despite his uncle’s disdain for outsiders, he still associated with them every single day, risking life and limb, just to provide for Clover. The least Clover felt he could do was make sure he came home to delicious meals and a good attitude, and luckily for Clover, he was quite good at both.

The recipes for their morning bread rolls were all but second nature to him, and in less than fifteen minutes, they were in the oven baking. Clover had gone for a sweeter type of roll today -- brown sugar and cinnamon lovingly kneaded into the dough. The spices would balance well against the spread and tea he’d planned to serve.

Yes, it would be delicious -- of that Clover had no doubt.

“This might be my best breakfast yet,” Clover said to himself.

But suddenly, another voice made itself known through a loud, abrasive squawk.

Without looking at the culprit of the bit of noise, Clover smirked.

He knew that tone, and he knew it well.

Really, she was too much sometimes.

Fortunately, in a situation like his, ‘too much’ was actually perfect for him.

“Didn’t realize you were up,” Clover said, unable to keep the chuckle out of his voice as he spoke. “Good morning, Raven.”

An indignant squawk that Clover could’ve guessed was coming from a mile away followed, but that only allowed for Clover’s chuckle to evolve into a full grown laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Clover assured, walking over to his tower's spare set of blankets. “I made a roll for you too.”

Raven released another squawk as she tottered out from her spot within the blankets, as if to say ‘you better have.’

And while her language was different than his own, he had no trouble understanding that.

“Don’t I always?” he asked, a good natured tone in his voice. After kneeling by her side, Clover gently scratched Raven behind her feather-claden neck with his index finger, just the way he knew she liked it.

While Raven didn’t answer his inquiry vocally, she did lean her head closer to his hand, and that was good enough for the both of them. It always was.

After all, outside of Clover’s uncle, they were all each other had.

Clover would never forget the day Raven came into his life.

Wildlife was one of the few spontaneous bits of entertainment life treated Clover to, but the problem was often that it was too hard, if not downright impossible, for him to see most any of it. The tower was tall, and from all the way up, things just blended too well into the tapestries that were tall grass and clear water below.

All the squinting in the world could only do so much from forty feet high.

Birds were a different story though. Clover could see them clearly enough as they and their bold colors soared on by against the light sky, and because they did it fairly often, he found himself whiling away many an hour watching them explore a world that was just a small piece for them, but all he ever knew.

That said, the birds that passed the tower’s vicinity almost never flew close enough to the tower so that Clover could interact with them up close, though not for lack of trying. Clover left crumbs from breakfast on his windowsill, practiced bird calls, and even tried to ask his uncle for a birdhouse he could place outside, but nothing worked.

Still, he had something to enjoy, however far away it was, and he couldn’t be all that upset about that.

Clover and Raven’s meeting happened when Clover was twelve, on what would’ve otherwise been a rather ordinary day.

A twelve year old Clover was looking outside his tower’s window, watching a darkly-colored bird -- who he’d soon come to call ‘Raven’ -- make a graceful lap around his tower after swooping up from a tree. He could see that Raven had something that looked like a worm in her beak, and Clover found himself playfully musing over a reality where he had to eat worms to survive, though he was pretty sure he’d prefer his loaves of bread over that.

Raven had landed just over the brim of the tower’s roof to enjoy her snack. Though Clover knew he could probably get a nice view of her and her feast if he just popped his head out the window, he opted not to interfere with his visitor’s lunch. He didn’t want to scare her off. Instead, he considered grabbing some remnants of his breakfast to try to lure her to his window after she was done with her worm.

But before he could think on that for more than a second, another bird -- a hawk, if Clover was correct -- swooped up, passing Clover’s window completely in favor of the brim of the roof.

Squawks burst out between the two birds on the roof. Clover, no longer deterred by the threat of rudeness, poked his head through the window to make out what he could of what was clearly a scuffle going on above his tower.

Raven stubbornly clung to her worm, but that came at the cost of her defenses and agility, giving the hawk an almost unfair advantage.

That advantage came to a head when the hawk grabbed one of Raven’s wings and tugged it with all its might.

Just a few pulls was all it took. Raven dropped the worm, squawking in agony. Even though it was faint, Clover could hear the sound of wings snapping and crunching from above him.

A final push from the hawk sent Raven tumbling off the roof...or it would have, had Clover not caught her.

Clover shooed the hawk away and brought Raven into the tower to better examine her. Raven’s wing had been severed and beaten, quite possibly beyond repair. She wouldn’t die, but she would also never fly again, and Clover knew that even if his semblance played a role in saving her life, one look at her wing told him that even all the good luck in the world couldn’t change that.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t take care of her and try to give her a good life.

And that he did, and in that tower she stayed.

Raven was kept a secret from Uncle Tyrian. In the past Clover had voiced to him desires to see birds up close and to even build a birdhouse in his window, but Uncle Tyrian was quick to say no to those requests. He labeled birds as nothing more than vectors of disease that Clover would be far better off staying away from. There were few orders and suggestions from his uncle that Clover didn’t obey, but given Raven’s condition, he made an exception. While his uncle was loving, he was also incredibly strict, and Clover couldn’t risk Raven’s safety on the off chance he’d be willing to bend a rule for them.

So, Raven made a hidden nest within a spare set of blankets on the far side of the tower, and that became her home until this very day. Raven had overnight become Clover’s closest -- or rather, only -- friend and confidant, and though Raven wasn’t one to be sentimental, she’d shown her hand on more than one occasion that she felt the same way about him.

What they shared was special, and Clover wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Clover stood up and placed Raven on his shoulder, all the while still scratching her neck. He walked over to a wall where he had placed the set of curtains that failed to shield him from the early morning sunlight, and drew them back.

Life in the tower gave way to many hobbies and one of those was artwork. With an entire tower to serve as a canvass, Clover let his creativity soar, and soar it did. Images of the sea and fish he found in books prompted Clover to patch much of the tower’s lower interior with various shades of blue, green, and black. Raven herself, for as anonymous as her existence in the tower was to Uncle Tyrian, blended in well as one of dozens of birds painted alongside the tower’s upper interior, with more added in by the day. His love of cooking roused a desire to paint images of bread, eggs, milk, and chickens in the kitchen’s crevices.

But Clover’s favorite piece of his wasn’t one of the sea, nor birds, nor food.

No, Clover's favorite piece laid in secret behind those curtains, a simple image of a young man staring lovingly as big green lights slowly, but surely approached him.

“I’m going to do it today, Raven,” Clover said, though it was more to himself than to her. “I’m finally going to ask him.”

Raven didn’t respond to him, but simply leaned her head more on Clover’s hand. He scratched her for another few moments, thinking of the undertaking he just gave his word on.

What Clover was going to ask his uncle today was by no means a trifle -- not for the man that his uncle was. No, this would push every barrier that had ever been established for him since the day his father left this world and his uncle took him to this tower to live.

But if he didn’t ask now, he’d have to wait a whole year to ask again, and the thought of waiting just another hour, let alone another year made Clover’s skin crawl with yearning.

Tomorrow was his twenty-first birthday, and just as was the case on each of Clover’s birthdays before, beautiful green lights would illuminate the sky that night. As if that were not interesting enough, this marvel happened only on his birthday, not off by a single day for as far back as he could remember.

For twenty-one years, those lights did all manner of things to Clover. They inspired his imagination with thoughts of what lights could possibly look like, lead Clover to take an interest in astrology so he could try to understand their existence, gave Clover hope and motivation to stay optimistic on his darkest days, and most of all, they felt like a sign -- one that there was something beyond this tower meant for him and that the world might not be as terrible as his uncle claimed it to be. It wasn’t that Clover didn’t trust his uncle -- he did. He knew his uncle’s advice came from a place of love as well as experience, and had thus followed his words of wisdom almost to the letter. However, something in those lights screamed at Clover that maybe those words didn’t reflect the full picture of the world, and Clover couldn’t help but believe them.

But, for all the good the presence of those emerald-colored lights produced for Clover, they also taunted him every single year with their distance. While Clover could always see them with ease, he could also tell that their source was miles away, and a desire to see that source beckoned him like nothing else in this world ever had.

He could do this.

He was going to do this.

He had to do this, if for no other reason than his own sanity.

If his lucky semblance was to ever work for his benefit, he willed it to be this time.

Clover took a deep breath, his resolve now reinforced.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “we’ve got about 40 minutes until Uncle Tyrian arrives, and 20 minutes until the bread’s done. Should we start our usual routine while we wait?”

A lazy, sarcastic squawk answered his proposition, an answer to which Clover playfully rolled his eyes at, never once losing his smile.

“That’s the spirit!” he returned, once more chuckling as he walked over to his sink and then closet to get ready for the day.

Once washed up and dressed, Clover grabbed his trusty fishing rod Kingfisher, marveling at how it shined in the glimmer of the sun’s light. If it ever touched the sea, it would nab quite the beautiful catches, but Clover found that it served plenty of purposes alone just staying by his side here.

Across Uncle Tyrian’s many stories about the world beyond this tower, Clover learned that most everyone outside had a weapon for attacking each other, so Clover took it upon himself to make sure he had one too. Uncle Tyrian didn’t approve of the idea at first, but it was one of the few debates between them over the course of Clover’s life that Clover actually won. After all, if it stood to reason that Clover was in this tower for his own protection, he should have a weapon to protect himself just in case someone came for him and his uncle was at work. Uncle Tyrian certainly couldn’t find an objection to that -- though Clover could tell he tried. So, Uncle Tyrian provided him with some basic supplies and metal scraps he was able to scrounge together, and left Clover to it to create a weapon. After weeks and weeks of work, fighting through burns and cuts as he toiled over metal and fire alike, Kingfisher was born.

Clover was proud of the weapon he ended up with. A fishing rod was an unorthodox choice, he would admit, but that’s part of what he found made Kingfisher so cool. Among other things, it was like a weapon only he knew how to use and had such a strange means of attacking that no one would ever see his moves coming. Clover had spent the years following Kingfisher’s creation honing every skill needed to handle its every function, and if there was such a thing as a master of weapons in the outside world, he would be without a doubt the undisputed master of fishing rods.

But in the meantime, until a moment came to pass where Kingfisher would ever need to be used as a weapon, Clover made sure that he could find other purposes for it and its many features.

With one swift motion, Clover cast Kingfisher’s hook to the other side of the tower, where his broom laid in wait for its own role in Clover’s daily routine, and reeled it back in so the broom landed in his other hand. Then with another motion, one just as swift, Clover cast Kingfisher behind his back, smirking as he heard the same satisfying clink that serenaded his ears for so long. He twisted his body, and the hook, latched onto a duster, swept across the shelves that were behind him and caused today’s dust to fall to the floor in a semi-messy row, one which Clover and his broom made quick work of clearing while Raven used her back as leverage for the dustpan at the end of it.

After finishing that and cleaning up some leftover work, and emptying the dustpan outside the window, Clover took a whiff of the bread rolls and without so much as a glimpse at the clock, determined he still had seven minutes until it needed to be taken out.

Seven minutes. That was long enough for him to set the table and do some push ups, while leaving a minute to cool off by the window before it was time to take the bread out.

As was the usual case with his routine, everything was done seamlessly, with no task either disappointing from lack of effort nor not granted enough time. It was all done perfectly, as per his standards, and when the time came to remove the bread from the oven, Clover was neither a second too early or late, and that effort showed in the finished product.

The completed rolls looked just as fluffy as ever, plump and hearty, while also not too thick. It was almost too much to not salivate over the sweet smells of cinnamon and brown sugar that fully pervaded his nostrils. True to his earlier thoughts, he could practically taste how we’ll they’d complement the rest of the meal.

Yes, this was going to be a great breakfast.

And what a day to knock it out of the park.

As the rolls cooled off, Clover focused his attention on fetching the tea and the apricot jam he’d prepared and got to work on setting up both.

When the jam was laid out on the table in two neat, tiny bowls and the kettle began boiling their tea’s water, Clover looked back at the painting of himself by the lights, and for a few minutes, he let himself dream just a bit more about a reality where he would get to see them up close.

Maybe that dream would at last come true tomorrow…if he was lucky.

But then again, the lesson Clover had grown to best understand about his semblance throughout his life was that what constituted good luck was nothing if not subjective.

For instance, to live in safety with one’s most beloved family member was undoubtedly good luck. However, spending one’s life restricted to a single tower was...a bit harder to define as such.

Clover had felt both extremes of his atypical situation before -- it would have been hard not to.

There was so much Clover was grateful for in his life. Between his uncle, Raven, the safety of his home, and even the very semblance that necessitated hiding away from the world in the first place, Clover knew he had no shortage of things to appreciate, and he truly did appreciate them all. For someone whose semblance put his life in so much danger, Clover knew he couldn’t be more secure than he was in this tower. And knowing such safety was a final gift from his parents made it even more special of a home.

It’s not as if he didn’t understand exactly why he stayed up in the tower. A semblance like his was more valuable to men than a king’s crown, and the deaths of his parents very clearly showed just what lengths people in the outside world would go to in order to have that semblance under their control. Uncle Tyrian had told Clover all types of stories of the people who had tried to pay his parents for him as well as the kidnapping attempts he suffered as an infant before the decision was made to move to the tower, and how when their move was caught onto by their fellow villagers, a mob met met his family at their front door. Had it not been for Uncle Tyrian and his father’s quick and selfless thinking, disguising a heap of clothing as a baby to hold while Uncle Tyrian took him to the tower...Clover knew he would have ended up dead in the streets like his parents, if not imprisoned for life by whatever cretin managed to make off with him.

Clover sometimes shuddered to think about what might have been his fate if not for his Uncle Tyrian, and his heart blossomed with love at the thought of all the sacrifices Uncle Tyrian made every day just so Clover could live a life of relative comfort.

To wish for a life outside this tower would be not only dangerous, but also selfish in the face of all his family had sacrificed for him. Clover had tried to stop such thoughts from staying in his mind for too long, and most always succeeded.

However, every so often, a longing for a change of scenery did linger for longer than it should have, long enough for Clover to entertain the thought just a bit. Out in the world, there were dangers aplenty, of that Clover had no doubt.

But out there was also the sea and fish and flowers and animals and books and-

And the green lights.

There were things Clover wanted to see out in the world, but he’d dismiss each and every one of those desires forever if it meant a chance to see those beautiful green lights up close.

As for whether or not he’d get that chance, well, even with his semblance, it could go either way, and both would make just as much sense as the other.

Going to see the lights that have been so very present in his life and dreams was good luck...but not going and ensuring that he and his uncle would remain unharmed by the outside world was good luck, too, albeit frustratingly so.

Clover just hoped that his semblance would listen to him and only him for once and let the dream he wanted more than anything he thought he was ever capable of wanting come true -- to see the floating lights for himself.

A question of what would happen after that dream was fulfilled was posed in his thoughts, but before Clover could do more than briefly muse on the subject, the tea kettle whistled, taking him out of his musings.

Quickly, he settled the kettle’s cries and placed the hot water in their cups alongside the tea bags so the tea would be nice and strong once Uncle Tyrian arrived. He then sliced the now cooled rolls in neat halves and placed one full roll on either side of the table.

Clover looked at the complete breakfast table. He didn’t consider himself much of a braggart -- though he knew his uncle might disagree with him about that -- but he was quite proud of today’s breakfast.

Raven squawked, and Clover, quite familiar with what she wanted, returned her to her spot by the spare blankets alongside her own miniature roll. Though she was clearly trying to come off as overly tough, all but tweeting ‘it’s about time,’ Clover could see more than a hint of appreciation in her eyes. He gently scratched her head.

“Enjoy,” he said. Judging by how quickly Raven tore into her roll, it looked like she was doing exactly that.

“Clover!” a voice suddenly called, another voice that Clover knew well.

Uncle Tyrian was here.

Clover felt his heart racing.

He was going to do this.

Could he do this?

Raven’s unmarred wing touched his hand, a rare, but clear method of comfort from her.

Yes, he could do this.

“Thanks, Raven,” he kindly muttered.

Quickly, Clover collected himself, closed the curtains that hid his painting of the lights, and grabbed Kingfisher.

It was showtime, and Clover, now on his way to greet his uncle at the tower’s window, was ready to ask the question that burned on his tongue like a hot coal burned in an oven.

If Uncle Tyrian said yes, he’d be taken on the trip of a lifetime, and finally given the chance to live out his dream.

But if he didn’t…

Clover didn’t want to go down that particular road, but all the same, he knew it was one that needed to be considered.

Well, even if he didn’t...at least Clover still had his routine going for him, he guessed.

#fair game #clover ebi #qrow branwen #rwby #tyrian callows #raven branwen #tangled au

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zebrabaker · 5 years

Text

The Goddess of Life, The King of Death: Chapter Two

Dinner was delightful. Marinette was able to have foods she had sorely missed in the six years she had been away from Olympus. Hades even had some cookies with bits of ambrosia from her family’s stall at the local market. He had walked her back to the gates of his realm. Soon, they reached the surface and she turned to him.

“I can’t thank you enough, your majesty. Not only for having me for dinner, but also for allowing me to stay in your realm at all. You would have been well within your rights to punish me for trespassing.” Felix could see Charon in the background, smirking at his boss. May as well give him something to smirk about.

“I would never turn away a lady, especially not one so fair as you.” He took her hand in his and gently kissed her knuckles. “If you would like, you can join me for dinner again. Say, a week from now?” He smiled at her, and watched as she blushed again.

“I would like that, your majesty.” She managed to squeak.

“Please, my lady, call me Felix.” The girl then gave him a smile that made his brain stall for a moment.

“So long as you call me Marinette. Until next week, Felix.” She bobbed a short curtsey, and made her way through the gates to the land above. Felix stood there for a moment before his friend made his way over.

“Well Felix, I never thought I’d see the day! You, romancing a lovely young goddess. If I did, I expected it to be some power play, but that girl left you, the ice-hearted king of the dead, speechless. I’m impressed.” His friend laughed, and Felix huffed.

“Really Claude, you needn’t be so rude. Lady Kore is a lovely young goddess.”

“Wait, Kore? You mean the goddess who has Olympus in knots?” Claude’s jaw was slack.

“Maybe. You know I don’t keep up with gossip from Olympus. I’m rather busy down here, you know. Speaking of, you have a line forming Charon. You best get back to work.” With that, Felix spun on his heel to head back to his palace and the paperwork that awaited him.

“Well boss, things are certainly about to get interesting…” Claude thought to himself as he readied the ferry.

XoxoX

And so, it went on. Every week Marinette would venture down below the earth and spend an evening with Felix. From there, it grew to visiting a few times a week for dinner, to him taking her on tours of the realm. She met all three of his friends, and grew a rapport with each. Her and Allegra gossiped about Olympus and had spa days. Her and Claude acted like siblings separated at birth. Her and Alain snarked and sassed each other, but would come together to prank Claude from time to time. It went this way form many years, until Marinette was soon spending more time in the Underworld than on earth. It had been twenty years since she had set foot on Olympus, and she was fine with that. She went up to the surface once in a while so that she could see her parents, as no-one but her Nona knew she was friends with the entire Underworld crew. Gina was rather chill about it. She had dropped in a few times, and jetted out a few days later. On one trip, Sabine had said something that nearly made Marinette choke on her nectar.

“That nasty little Lila girl is marrying Adrien next year. Somehow, she still has everyone convinced that she’s the goddess of life.” Marinette may not have choked, but she had spat crumbs all over the picnic blanket. After a heavy gulp of nectar, she had rasped out

“What? How?” Sabine had smiled at her daughter and handed her a napkin.

“She says that you’re the goddess of deceit and lies, and that you ran away for attention. What will happen to the cosmic balance is beyond me. The girl is obviously the real goddess of deceit, with how many deities are buying into her lies. I am happy that you’re okay dear. Your happiness has always been my number one priority. Your father really is sorry he couldn’t make it this time. He’s got an appointment with the happy couple today to decide on their cake. They’re having Audrey make the dress and everything. It’s being called ‘the event of the century’.” Both women laughed at that. “SO, how have you been dear? Tell me about your travels!” That was another thing. She and Allegra often dragged Felix away from his work to some odd place on earth, just to get him to take a break.

“The French have invented these delightful cookies, called macarons. I got Papa the recipe, they’re amazing. You’ll love them, I’m sure.” Mother and daughter chattered the day away, until the sun began to set. Marinette sighed and stood.

“Oh, how I wish you could come home without everyone saying such cruel things about you.” Sabine bemoaned. “Or at least stay out to see the moon. You and Luka got on so well when you were younger.” Marinette sighed and hugged her mother tight.

“I know, Mama, but if he sees me, he’ll tell everyone on Olympus where I am. I’m enjoying my life, and I can’t risk it.” Sabine squeezed her daughter tight.

“You can’t hold out forever, Marinette. Attendance at the wedding is mandatory, you know that. You have a year. I wish I could give you more.”

“But that’s a year away. For now, you need to head home. If you arrive back too late, there will be questions.” Both mother and daughter, no matter the risks, couldn’t help but stay in each other’s arms for a few minutes more. Marinette watched as her mother began to glow, before fading out of existence. She flipped up the hood of her cloak, and made her way into the woods. She was hurrying along to the gate way hidden in a pile of boulders when she heard a rustling noise behind her to the left. She hurried her pace. She may be goddess of life, but monsters could still hurt her, and some were hard to kill. She had almost made it to the rock pile when she saw someone trying to come at her from the side. In a panic, she changed her appearance. Her eyes became brown like Claude’s, her hair blonde like Allegra’s, and her facial structure warped to be similar to Alain’s. The figure stepped out of the trees, revealing a girl with dark hair and brown eyes. She wore a tunic and leggings, and carried a long thin sword. Marinette recognized her as Kagami, goddess of the hunt. This was bad. She had expected a mugger or a killer, not another deity!

“Maiden, what are you doing out so late at night all alone?” She seemed worried, like she feared for Marinette’s safety. Then, it clicked. Kagami had a group of girls that traveled with her on earth, maidens who had needed away from their lives for some reason or another.

“I am on my way to gather herbs for my mother. She is ill and needs them soon. I must hurry, ma’am.” Marinette poured her anxiety into her voice, trying to sound desperate.

“What herbs does she need, maiden?” Kagami placed a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to soothe her.

“Um, garlic, thyme, sage and mint, ma’am.” Kagami nodded, before reaching into her satchel. She dug around for a few seconds, before handing Marinette three jars.

“Take these and run home, maiden. May your mother be well soon.” Kagami turned on her heel, and made her way back into the woods. Marinette tucked the jars close to her chest, and hurried through the woods. She waited outside the boulders for a few minutes, making sure that there was no-one watching, before tapping the center boulder seven times. It rolled aside, and Marinette scuttled down the stairs, nearly running into Claude at the bottom.

“Woah! You good, ‘Nette?” He grasped her shoulders, and checked her over for any injuries.

“’m fine, Claude. Just almost got caught.” She let her features melt back to normal, and vanished the jars she still held. “Let’s head back. I’m so tired. I also have gossip for tomorrow.”

“Oooh! Is it juicy?” He crooned as he rowed across the river.

“It’s certain to cause a stir, that’s for sure.”

XoxoX

Felix glanced up from the report he was reading when Marinette entered his office. She paused long enough to remove her cloak before slumping into an armchair he kept by his desk for when she helped with paperwork. She let her head sag against the back of the chair and let out an almighty groan.

“That bad?” He asked.

“Worse. Adrien and Lila are getting married next year, and it’s mandatory. Unlike the yearly galas and bells, I can’t skip out.” She began massaging her temples.

“Really? Well, this gives us time to prepare at least. We can commission a dress, have some jewelry, made, and figure out what to tell anyone who asks where you’ve been. I don’t imagine you’ll want to tell them that you’ve spent almost the last eight years in the Underworld.” He grabbed a quill and a blank piece of parchment and began jotting down plans. “We could say you’ve just been traveling the mortal realm. Or that you’ve been with Lady Ondine, under the sea. She likes you well enough, she should be willing to play along.”

“Felix.”

“We’ll need to make it look like we don’t know each other.”

“Felix.”

“That would be rather hard to explain.”

“Felix!” She yelled, interrupting his tirade. “We could just tell the truth. You and I are friends and I spend a lot of time down here. They think I’m the goddess of lies and deceit. To them, it would make perfect sense for me to spend my time here.” Felix dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

“How did I not think of that?” She giggled a little. He may act cold and stone-hearted when around his subjects, but Felix was actually a bit of a drama queen.

“That’s what I’m here for. To fill in the gaps. For example, did you order those crates of ambrosia for the isles of the blessed yet?” Felix winced.

“Creation above and below, what would I do without you?” He dug through the piles of scrolls on his desk, and began to panic when he couldn’t find the order form. Marinette cleared her throat, and held out the appropriate parchment to him.

“It was on the floor beneath your chair.” He took the parchment from her and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“Truly, I am the luckiest man in the world. Remind me again how I got you to agree to let me court you?” She blushed in the way that he loved. It dusted a petal pink across her peaches-and-cream skin, along her nose and cheeks and the tips of her ears.

“Allegra asked if we were courting and we both said yes.” He shook his head.

“Remind me later to send her a basket of those fruits she loves.” Marinette merely giggled, before nodding.

“I’m going to go tell Allegra and Alain, if they don’t already know. Love you.” She kissed his forehead and headed for the door. He waited till the door and shut before sighing. He pulled open a small drawer in his desk, an withdrew a small box, maybe a foot square. Nestled within on a bed of black velvet was a crown of platinum, embedded with rubies and garnets, all round cut, and layed in a stunning design. The earrings were in a seperate box.

“And I you. Let’s just hope you say yes. I guess this will have to wait. Creation knows father would be furious if I got married before Adrien.” He shut the box, ignoring the ring that sat in the center of the box, encompassed by the crown. After all, he had looked at it every night for the last two years.

@kuroko26 @crazycookie13o @princesskitomi

@miraculous-of-salt @luluthorn @phantasmagoricalzenith

@ginamariepotterhead @mikantsume @miraculousl4dybug

@our-cool-jenny

#hades and persephone au

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carbonitekisses · 5 years

Text

I’ll Be Coming For Your Love, Okay? (final chapter)

[AN: After season eight I, like many others haha, had massive writer’s block. It’s been a while since I posted (both on AO3 and tumblr). Anyways, I started this story before I had a tumblr so the last chapter of this fic is the only one on here. If a reincarnation/time travel-esque AU interests you, you can read the other five chapters on AO3 :)]

Chapter summary: Willas walks ahead and Sansa hesitates before following suit. Normally Sansa would stop by and chat for a bit with Jeyne at the reception desk but she doesn't want to interrupt. She's ready to walk by and head straight to her office when Jeyne calls out her name in obvious relief.

Frowning for the first time today, Sansa redirects her route. The man Jeyne had been speaking to turns around to face her so quickly it's almost comical.

She would laugh to herself but then she see his face. For a second (or two or three...) Sansa's reality shatters before piecing itself back together into a kaleidoscope of bright colors and pure light.

Also on AO3

Bliss, he thinks, this is pure bliss. Her lips upon my lips, her breath mixing with mine. What need do I have for food or water when she is here? When she kisses me like she remembers?

“Let me never wake.”

“You’re not dreaming, love,” Sansa murmurs, and Jon opens his eyes to something he had resigned himself to never again see on her face. Recognition. Love. Joy.

Could it be true or will he wake to find her gone, her side of the bed empty and cold like it has been for the past year? Jon knows he wouldn't be able to survive if she were to leave him again. One time was one time too many. Each day had been filled with duty and routine until Ghost dragged him to the heart tree two days ago. The world seemed to right itself when he saw her laying on the grass before the heart tree. For the first time in a year Jon felt whole again.

“Are you,” Jon tries to swallow past the hope that chokes him, “are you here? Are you here, back with me?” His hands slowly, shaking, reach to hold her face. “Have you come back to me, dear heart?”

”Yes, yes, yes.” With each affirmation she brings herself closer to him, lifting her dress until she’s able to straddle his thighs. His hands carefully wander to rest on her waist. It's a pleasure like no other to simply have her familiar weight atop him. “I was here—I was always here. It was strange. I felt trapped within what I knew to be my own body. And after the vision with the blinding light, somehow, the other presence was gone. And it was only me.

“I don’t know how I am alive, how I am home. All I know—” She takes his hand and brings it to her lips, kissing the scarred fingertips “—is that I am grateful to be with you once more. It's a blessing, it must be.” His hand remains encased in her soft grasp, resting in the space between them. “After all we have lost the gods owe us this much.”

Her gratitude reminds Jon that it is because of him that she ever left the world of the living. It was my own hands that killed her, he pulls his hand away from hers in self-disgust, I killed her.

"If I hadn't plunged Longclaw through your heart... Forgive me, love." Jon shakes his head in anger. He is greedy asking for forgiveness. He is selfish. "Forgive me, forgive me—"

Sansa cuts him off. "No more. You don't need my forgiveness, Jon. If you hadn’t killed me the world of the living would have ceased to exist. Our family and our people would have fallen."

Jon is inclined to disagree. It must show on his face that he is more than willing to argue because Sansa pulls his face to hers and kisses him wildly, leaving him no air with which to voice his disagreement.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Jon," she repeats once more. Her fingers nimbly unclasp the cloak she made for him so many moons ago. They pause and wander to the jerkin where grey fabric peeks out from underneath. A watery sob leaves her as she takes out the favor she had made for him before he left for war. It is almost weightless, so thin and worn it has become. The direwolves and winter roses haven't lost their color and Sansa looks at it in awe. "You kept it... after all this time."

"Everyday. Not once could I bear to keep it anywhere else but near my heart."

And it's true. The square piece of fabric, lovingly stitched with Sansa's own hand, had been a poor replacement of his wife. Nevertheless, it gave him hope. Hope that perhaps the red priestess was right. That some day Sansa would return to him.

And now she's here in his arms.

Warm. Safe. Alive.

He brings his forehead against hers. Shares the air with her. He has been relieved of an emotional weight he has carried ever since he saw her blood paint the snow. "Never leave me again." He kisses her, drowns in the mere fact that she is here. Here, here, here. The next word comes out strangled and heavy. "Please."

Strong, kind, lovely Sansa Stark presses her smiling lips to the corner of his own. "I love you. As long as you love me—"

"Always." In life and in death. In whatever exists in between and beyond.

"Always is a long time."

"Always is not long enough. Not for us."

The truth. A spark. Firelight catches and dances in her hair. Sansa launches forward and takes him. He gives himself willingly. She undoes the lacing of his jerkin while her hips begin to move in a rhythm that leaves Jon completely in surrender. Any and all thoughts of books, visions, and gods of light flee into the night. “Always,” she whispers, she prays. His love, his wife, dips her head to kiss slightly underneath his jawline, whispering a request along her trail of kisses. He hardens underneath her touch. It's been so long, so very long.

“I’ve missed you, husband. I only ask you to love me... Love me, Jon.”

And so he does.

Sansa's eyelids refuse to lift under the weight of sleep. The last vestiges of a dream cling to her memory. Cold, cold snow... a fire... a man... a name. J-Jo—hmm. Joe? Jonas? Joseph? Her motor skills finally succeed in opening her eyes to the world. It definitely started with a “J”. Joel? I definitely wasn't dreaming about Joffrey. I'm sure of that, at least.

The muscles in her neck strain and her bones creak in protest as she makes to stand up from the couch. Disoriented. That's how she is feeling. Unbalanced, too, if her trembling knees are anything to go by. Last night...what happened last night? If it were the weekend she would chalk it up to a hangover but it's Friday morning and she didn't go out last night.

Sansa picks up a book from off the floor. She turns it around to look at the cover. A man and a woman are embracing underneath a heart tree. She vaguely remembers the book. it feels different... even if I can't remember much of it right now. Did she fall asleep trying to read this? Sansa quickly thumbs through ink-filled pages, trying to recollect something, anything, about it.

"Where did—Oh!" Sansa recoils as her mind registers the time being displayed on her watch. She woke up later than usual, having seemingly forgotten to turn on her alarm last night. An hour. She has an hour to shower, change, and get to work. Pressed for time, she puts the book back into its manila envelope and then into her work bag along with her reading glasses.

She'll work out the mystery book once she gets to her office.

Without wasting any more time Sansa absentmindedly starts her favorite playlist on Spotify. Mornings are better with music.

Take on Me by a-ha starts to play.

Sansa groans.

Here we go again.

The morning sun melts the small crumbs of her dream into oblivion until Sansa forgets that she even dreamed at all.

Things are looking up for Sansa Stark after such a rough morning. And if the air feels cleaner, or time itself feels fresher... Well, Sansa won’t be the one to complain. Although, the time constraint did mean she was unable to make herself her usual cup of coffee. That's one thing I will allow myself to complain about.

Still, good-naturedly, Sansa steps into the brownstone building that is Grand Maester Publishing. It feels good to be here—on time!—as she greets the coworkers she passes with a smile and a hello. The elevator ride to the third floor is full of pleasant chatter with Willas, a fellow editor who just learned that a book he worked on will soon be turned into a feature film.

"How exciting!" The elevator door dings open and they step out and into the lobby. "I'm assuming there will be a reissue with cover art relevant to the film?"

"Most likely; I actually have a meeting today with the author." He checks his watch. Behind him, Sansa sees that Jeyne isn't alone at the reception desk. Though she can only see his back she can tell the man is stressed and agitated. Willas speaks and she looks back at him. "I'll let you know how it goes later, yeah?"

"Please do."

Willas walks ahead and Sansa hesitates before following suit. Normally Sansa would stop by and chat for a bit with Jeyne but she doesn't want to interrupt. She's ready to walk by and head straight to her office when Jeyne calls out her name in obvious relief.

Frowning for the first time today, Sansa redirects her route. The man Jeyne had been speaking to turns around to face her so quickly it's almost comical.

She swallows and tears her eyes away from the man and looks at her friend instead. "Hi, Jeyne. Do you need me?"

Seven save me. I know I'm a romantic but fuck I'm being overdramatic. Goosebumps litter her skin. He's not even that good looking. She tries to discreetly look at him once more. She fails; he was already looking at her. Okay, that's a lie. He's handsome. Beautiful, even. But still. Keep it in your pants, Sansa Stark. Sansa flushes and hopes that whatever Jeyne needs her for is resolved quickly.

Jeyne looks apologetically at the stranger. She gets right to the point. "Sansa, do you have the manila envelope that I dropped off at your office yesterday?"

Oh, so she was the one who delivered this to my office. Well, that's one mystery solved.

"Yes, it's in my bag." She takes it out and keeps a firm grip on it; an oddly possessive feeling washes over her. The man beside her slumps in, what she can only describe as, relief when he sees the envelope. Confused by his reaction she asks Jeyne, "Why?"

The grey-eyed man answers instead, speaking for the first time. His voice reminds her of smoke and dark chocolate. "That envelope, it's mine."

Sansa stands there dumbly, speechless. Wait. What?

"I am so sorry for the mixup." Jeyne's hands are twining and twisting around each other. Her friend and coworker is such a gentle and caring person. She loathes causing problems or inconveniences for others. "I thought the envelope was addressed to Sansa. It was an honest mistake, I swear."

Apparently her distress is evident enough that even the owner of the book notices. His face softens, the stress that furrowed his brow dissipates, and he offers Jeyne an awkward, comforting smile, "I'm sorry for worrying you so much." He turns to look at Sansa. "Honestly, it's my fault. If I hadn't been in such a hurry and written Sam's name more legibly this wouldn't have happened."

At this remark, Sansa looks down at the scrawl on the envelope. Hm. Everything after the S is messy. If she scrutinizes the writing she can kind of make out the name. "Sam Tarly? The literary agent? That's who this was meant for?"

"The one and only," he says with a grin that speaks of pride. "I'm to meet with him later to discuss the book."

The book isn't hers. It wasn't meant for her. She has no right to it. And still, it feels wrong to let it go. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But return it she must.

Just then a woman comes up to the receptionist's desk, and Jeyne whispers an apology before turning away from them to attend to the woman. She and the man with the handsome voice move away to let Jeyne work.

Her arm is stiff as she finally hands over the book to its rightful owner.

Their fingers touch briefly and Sansa nearly drops the envelope. Ridiculous. Utterly RIDICULOUS. Be cool, woman! He doesn't seem to notice but the genuinely happy smile he grants her throws her into a tizzy again. Who does this man think he is, affecting her in such a way?

"I'm being all sorts of rude today, I never even introduced myself." He holds out a hand. It hangs, waiting in the space between them. "I'm Jon Snow."

Cautiously, she places her hand in his. She knows it's ludicrous but if she had to describe his touch she would describe it as warm, safe, and alive.

"Nice to meet you, Jon Snow." His name tastes sweet and rich. "I'm Sansa Stark."

He smiles again, "Sansa Stark." She thinks he makes her name sound sweet and rich, too. "A pretty name." He grimaces and his ears turn red. "I didn't mean—uh, I'm sorry. It is a nice name. I just—" He's flustered and it's a new side to him she hasn't seen yet. It's endearing, really. He may look broody and mysterious but it's almost comforting to know this stranger, Jon, can be just as awkward as she is.

She can feel herself blushing but pays it no mind. It's a compliment no one has given her before but Sansa likes it. Her name, an old family name, is pretty and it's time someone said so. The corners of her lips upturn into a pleased smile. "Thank you, Jon Snow."

They stand there for a moment just smiling at each other.

There's something here and maybe it is a bit ridiculous to fancy a connection between them but Sansa feels brave.

What if he's not interested in me in that way? What if he already has a girlfriend? What if— No. I'm done with what-ifs. Put on your big girl pants, Sansa. You have to put yourself out there if you want something in life. And if he's already in a relationship, well, one can never have too many friends.

Sansa shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "You said you had a meeting with Sam?"

He clears his throat and promptly answers, "Aye, some time around one. He's not coming in to work until after lunch hours."

"I know this is quite sudden but would you be free to discuss the book with me beforehand? My schedule is clear today and I'm just really interested in the book and would like to learn more about it. I didn't get a chance to read it last night but there's just something about the book itself that really spoke to me." I'm rambling. Sansa cringes internally. It's true that I'm curious about the novel but out of all the times to word vomit... "You don't have to if you don't want to!"

Jon looks surprised at her request. In the couple seconds it takes him to respond Sansa wishes the ground would swallow her whole. It only gets worse when she notices that Jeyne has been supervising their interaction with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

Surprised he might have been but he answers her with a grin that wrinkles the corner of his grey eyes. "I'd love to."

Jon didn't expect his Friday morning to be like this. Especially not after the anxiety and worry he had felt last night. Nonetheless, he increasingly finds himself grateful for whatever choices or divine power led him here. Here with the increasingly wonderful Sansa Stark.

They've been talking for hours.

She's an editor and has been working with the publishing house for almost five years. Yes, she's from that Stark family but she's not pretentious or snobby at all. That isn't to say that her impeccable manners and obvious upperclass rearing don't intimidate him, if just a little. He's not unaware of the ways of the great houses of Westeros (he may be a bastard but he's a Targaryen bastard) and he can tell there is genuine warmth and interest when she speaks to him.

"I still can't believe you found this at an estate sale and you were practically gifted it by the owner," Sansa's voice is a near whisper and filled with incredulity.

Incredulity has been a latent feeling during their conversation and it all began when they read two names within the book.

They had started off sitting opposite each other at her desk but had quickly transferred to the moderately sized loveseat in her office. It was easier to look over and study the book together this way. It was also easier for Jon to talk to and infatuate himself with the smart redhead sitting next to him.

They're currently reading the last legible section in the book. The writer's husband seems to be on his deathbed and she writes about how she feels her soul will not wait long to be reunited with him once more. Jon has read the book before but he feels as if he is truly reading it for the first time with Sansa, at moments, reading it aloud. He also can't shake the strange feeling that perhaps he had never actually read the book. But that would be unfathomable. Why would he not read a book with words in it?

"Neither can I. If I'm not mistaken this could have been written centuries ago." It's a theory that he has no way to prove (yet) but is uncharacteristically confident in. Sam's expertise will be immeasurable and doubt-breaking. Sansa hands the book back to him, slowly and gently. "Sam's the expert on historical writings so hopefully he'll help me understand just who wrote this. When he worked at the history museum with me he was the one to go to about these sorts of things," Jon fondly remembers how his friend's work docket never seemed to empty. "Even though there were more than ten people in his department."

"I've worked with Sam before—he always finds amazing stories and authors—I'm sure you couldn't find anyone better to help you figure this out." She pauses and uncrosses her legs. "Now, I'm no historian but I am an editor and..." Her eyes land on the book currently being held in his hands. "I think this might be semi-autobiographical. Maybe, quite possibly, written as a diary or a journal. The tone and style is extremely intimate." She hesitates before speaking again and he notices vulnerability bleed into her voice. "The sections that are still legible remind me of how I write in my own."

Years of being extremely socially self-conscious helped him notice how quickly Sansa seemed to regret voicing a personal detail. If he hadn't been looking at her so attentively (she has gorgeous eyes) he wouldn't have noticed it, so adept was she in calming her features. Not wanting to make her feel that her implied trust was misplaced he hummed in gratitude for her professional and personal input. "Huh, that is actually very helpful. It would explain why there seems to be such a lack of details. If this were a diary, written for personal use, it stands to reason the writer wouldn't need to explain things like a commercial writer would." Sansa shows teeth when she smiles. Really smiles. It's warm. He likes it. "Although, it is a bit odd don't you think?"

Coincidence. The word is too small. A word with bigger significance is in order. Fabricated? No, sounds too cold. The editor, with sensibly attractive black heels, blushes and opens her mouth to speak but seems to be in the same predicament as him. Preordained? Now that... sounds almost like destiny. Almost too big.

A crisp, bitingly endearing laugh. "I wasn't sure whether to mention it." It is something Jon has noticed about Sansa. She does not seem to like causing discomfort—be it real or imagined. It is easy to think everyone has this trait. However, Jon's experience with people from all walks of life has proven that to not be the case. "But yes, it's odd. Maybe weird?" She says this like a question they both know the answer to. They do. And Jon laughs. "Okay, definitely weird. I mean, what are the chances that there is both a Sansa and a Jon in the book?"

Almost.

It's probably the strangeness of the situation that made them avoid call the writer by her name. Or to call the husband by his. Because if Jon's theory, and Sansa's hunch, are proven right then that means there existed a Sansa and Jon before them. A Sansa and Jon whose love and life filled countless pages with words handwritten by a woman who thought them worthy of ink and time. Though many of the words have faded or been damaged they still tug at his heart. And Jon would bet it does the same for Sansa.

I feel bubbly, Jon thinks. Bubbly like the feeling of a fizzy drink in his mouth. Like an adventure about to start. Like a newly discovered military artifact that he can't wait to analyze and date. To be frank, Jon has never described anything as bubbly. Yet something about Sansa makes him think it the most appropriate. As a true pessimist, doubt and caution in the name of self-preservation make him lean back a bit from her. He hadn't noticed how close they had gotten. Way to over-exaggerate a moment, bud. She could be in a relationship for all I know.

His pocket vibrates. Sansa had pulled away as well and briefly glances down to the source of the noise. "I take it that's Sam?"

"Probably." Jon pulls his phone out. "Aye, it's him. Says he just arrived at his office."

It's time for him to leave. Sam is here in the building and he should leave before he gets too invested in what could only stay as a pleasant meeting between strangers.

He gets up and picks up his jacket. The book weighs heavy in his hand.

Sansa stands up and smooths down her skirt as she does so. He hadn't noticed but the skirt has pockets that she now puts her hands into. "Tell him I say hello. It's been a while since we bumped into each other." She tucks her hair behind her earring studded ear. "Feel free to let me know what ends up happening with the book."

Is this...hm. If Jon weren't so jaded by the punches of life he would interpret this as an opening to ask for her number. He wants to but a pit of fear gurgles inside him. Rejection. Better to keep my heart safe. Sansa seems like the kind of woman that would ruin him for any other. In all the best worst ways possible.

"Will do." I won't. "It was a true pleasure meeting and spending time with you, Sansa Stark." Was that too formal? Yeah, it was. Goddammit.

"The pleasure was all mine, Jon Snow."

They shake hands one last time and Jon leaves.

Shit.

He immediately walks right back into the warmth of her sunlit office.

It's worth taking a risk. A little bit of optimism never hurt anyone. Sansa hadn't moved but her head snaps up at the sound of his entrance. She's surprised and he's clearly caught her unaware. Her lips part and she takes a step back, bumping into the armrest of the loveseat. Okay, too late to back out now.

"I just realized we didn't exchange business cards." He tries to act cool but is hindered by the struggle of digging through his wallet for a card. "Here, it has both my cell and work numbers. And email." She can read, idiot. Way to point out the obvious.

Sansa takes it. She studies it for a bit and Jon knows he visibly relaxes when she meets his eyes with a smile. She turns on her heels and grabs her own card from a clear business card holder sitting on the edge of her desk.

"Here. Mine also has both my cell and work numbers." Her eyes are glittering with what he can confidently describe as mischief. "And email."

The card design is elegant and sleek. And sure enough her cell number is on there.

"Thanks. I'll.. text you, after I meet with Sam." Might as well go all the way. "Or if you're free after work we could go get coffee? A drink? Let you know what Sam could figure out."

"I'd like that!" She uncrosses her arms and stands leans her weight to the left. "And, yes, I'm free tonight."

"Well, guess I'll see you later, Sansa Stark."

"Sansa." She rolls her eyes, minutely, in good humor. "Just Sansa."

"I'll see you later, Sansa."

"See you later, Jon."

Jon waves at her and leaves; he's kept Sam waiting long enough. He's practically jogging to Sam's office. People are moving out of the way and giving him odd looks. It's probably because he's grinning so wide he must look manic. Jon doesn't know what the future may bring but he knows that Sansa is someone worth knowing and learning more of. Simply stated, he likes her. Something about her calls out to him. It's beyond physical attraction. It's... it's something he caught glimpses of when she smiled, when she fidgeted with the ring on her middle finger, when her hair reflected the sunlight coming in from her large office window.

Jon doesn't even have both feet in Sam's office before his friend says, "What happened? Why are you smiling like that?"

"Nothing." It's an obvious lie. His lips stretch more and it hurts. But he can't stop smiling. "Ready to solve this mystery?"

#season eight of GoT really did a number on me lol #jonsa #jonsa fic #jonsafic #myfic #actually jonsa #i'll be coming for your love okay?

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theritualofourexistence · 4 years

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Grandmom

When I talk about my family, there are a couple different things I find myself saying often.

First, my family is my most valuable gift. I am so, so grateful to be a part of the family I have, and they mean more to me than anything else in the world.

I’ve also been known to joke pretty casually that divorce runs in my family.

While I usually say that with a smile, it’s not inaccurate. My parents are divorced. My parents’ parents are divorced. Though I would never imply that divorce was easy or straightforward, it has brought some pretty incredible people into my life.

When I was born, I had three full sets of living grandparents and a set of living great-grandparents. On my dad’s side, I had Grammy (his mom) and Pap-Pap, Grandpa (his dad) and Nana, and Grandma and Poppy (his mother’s parents). Today, four of those six people are still living, which is something I treasure beyond words.

My mom’s mom passed away when my mom was only 19, so I never had the chance to meet her. My mom, though, speaks very candidly about knowing that Dotty is still around and has been with her (and all of us, really) during the most important moments in our lives. My mom’s dad, my Pop-Pop, married Irene after he and my mom’s mom divorced. By the time I was born, the drama of that divorce was long gone and my mom’s whole family had developed a very special sort of relationship with Irene, my Grandmom. Irene made this easy. I think loving was a very simple thing for her. Not that it wasn’t a sacrifice, just that it came very naturally.

My mom was sick around my birth so my first home on this whole earth was actually under my Grandmom’s roof.

My Pop-pop had his first major stroke when I was only a couple years old. I wish that I remembered him better when he was healthy, but most of my memories of him are of him in a wheelchair. He could be difficult (that’s putting it mildly), but my Grandmom cared for him through three major strokes and countless mini strokes, right up until he passed away at home in 2004. I remember saying goodbye to him. We didn’t have much of a relationship, but I was old enough to recognize the impact his passing had on my mom and her family. I think he was very, very lucky to find Irene. Really, I think the whole family was lucky that he did.

My Grandmom has been dealing with multiple medical issues including crippling arthritis for a lot of years now. She has never complained about this pain. In fact, I’m not sure I ever witnessed her complain at all. The last few years have been especially hard as she lost her driving privileges and her mobility began to decline. She didn’t like being stuck at home. That did not, however, stop her from continuing to mentor younger members of her church who were seeking spiritual grief counseling. Over Christmas she said that it was harder over the phone but that it was worth it. It made her feel like she was doing good work, that she had some value. I mention this specifically because it goes back to what I said about her ability to love. I don’t know that I would call this fierce. I would call it calm but strong. She managed to love everyone the same way, the same amount, with the same steady current of support.

On Monday, my Grandmom had a stroke.

She began to decline a few hours after reaching the hospital.

She passed away yesterday.

I know she is at peace. And for that I am so, so grateful. I will miss her… really, I already do.

It hasn’t been a secret that she has been ready to go for a while. Not in a morose way, but in a peaceful, acceptance-of-mortality way. Often, at family gatherings, when you asked how she was doing, she would say with a laugh, “Well, I’m still here and I still remember my name!”

I am grateful that my Grandmom didn’t spend more than a few hours unable to recall her name.

Because of this peace she had made with her eventual passing, I had the privilege of saying goodbye slowly, over a couple of years. I’m very grateful for that too.

She was a genuinely remarkable woman and she shared a deep, deep love with a family she didn’t have any responsibility to embrace. We certainly embraced her right back though.

She’s been the matriarch of the family for decades. For those of you who know my love of musicals, it’s funny, but she brings to mind a specific character from one of my favorite shows. I haven’t thought about this until her passing, really, but I find myself thinking about it a lot over the past few days.

I don’t have any claims on an abuela. That is not my story. But Abuela Claudia’s trademark song in “In the Heights” is “Paciencia y Fe.” Though my Grandmom and Abuela Claudia are more different than they are alike, if there is one person in my life who has demonstrated patience and faith, it’s my Grandmom.

It’s no secret that I run hot. A lot of people in my family do.

But my Grandmom was able to care so, so deeply in the most rhythmic, steady way. I’ve used that word “steady” a lot already, but I can’t seem to find a better way to say it. She was a pillar. Unshaking, constant.

For myself, a lot of my personal rhythm is sort of like learning how to drive stick. It’s jarring at times and there is jolting and horrible sounds and stopping and starting and stalling.

My Grandmom was never like that. If I’m learning stick, she was a train on a well-known track. She was the metal core of a building’s supports that takes the vibrations of an earthquake and disperses them safely and evenly. She was the strongest roots of a tree, the calm surface of a deep lake, she was the roof of the house in Glenolden that has been in my family longer than I have.

My family will miss her anchor in our lives. But we will be fine because of how she built us up.

When I was a kid, we would play with my uncle’s old Legos in her basement. She would always get our favorite treats, Yoo-hoo and crumb-top donuts and all the yummy things we didn’t get at home. She and I made our Christmas punch together every year. She iced my finger and put a band-aid on it when I was stung by a bee for the first time. Every Christmas she would leave us a special gift by our bedroom door, either pajamas or slippers to wear when we gathered as a family to open gifts on Christmas morning.

My Grandmom has been a part of every Christmas I’ve ever had.

She was very quick to laugh, even when her physical condition started to decline. It’s her laugh that I know I will remember most often and most easily. Her laugh, and of course, her love.

No one in my mom’s family would be who they are without her. That’s the sort of quiet, strong impact she had. She wasn’t the star on the stage, she was the stage manager—making sure everything went off without a hitch. It seems like the right thing was never a hard thing for her to identify. Not that she didn’t have to make hard decisions, just that she always handled them with grace.

Even when she chided me for misbehaving, she did so in a way that never made me feel bad about myself. I never doubted her love or her pride in me, in our family.

She knew when to push and when to leave something be. She loved to play games, I remember a lot of rounds of Upwords, and she loved to watch the birds in the backyard. I remember quiet conversations at night at the small table in the kitchen with just the light on above the sink. I remember that she came out to the bar with me and my parents when my 21st birthday happened to fall on the eve of my brother’s high school graduation. I have never been a drinker and even that night I don’t think I finished my beer. But she could tell that I was feeling low because I had spent my birthday playing second fiddle and she did what she could to soothe that. I remember just sitting quietly with her, so many times in so many ways over so many years. Being around her was peaceful.

She lived to welcome so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I truly just feel so fortunate that I got to be one joint on the web of people she knew and loved during her life. I share no genetic material with my Grandmom but that did not stop her from gluing my whole family together and very gently and carefully holding every piece in place until the glue set firm.

She may be gone but the glue remains, stronger than ever, fortified, eternal.

Thank you, Grandmom. You’ve played an instrumental role in giving me my greatest gift, my family. I wouldn’t be me without you. I’ll keep loving you from here, just like I know you’ll keep loving us from wherever you are now. It’s easy for me to imagine you blending into the bright force of light that is the love flowing in and around and through all of us. I will spend my life striving to have the impact on others that you have had on so, so many people. In a world where peace and love and strength are priceless currency, you were and will always be one of the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen.

Once you’re done telling Pop-pop all about the Eagles winning the Superbowl, you’ll have to give him a kiss for me.

We miss you, but we’ll be okay down here. Thank you so much for everything you gave to us. It is such a blessing to know you’re now basking in the peace you so often provided for others here on Earth.

I love you, Grandmom.

#family #grandmom

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mynameisdreartblog · 5 years

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Romantic Composers 1

Aries: Amy Beach. Instigation is such an amazing concept: there can be absolutely no why behind any of your actions. For instance, I could pick up this turd out of my toilet and throw it against the bathroom wall. «Yes, but will you? Heaven knows you can’t commit.» Ah, you see, that’s the point: I don’t have to commit. The mere thought of it is already changing the circumstances we reside in. «I can agree: I went from thinking your weird to thinking you’re incredibly weird: The turd-slinger lifestyle took a hold of you.» Mór, I’ll toss as much shit as I desire. […] <The setting shifts towards a misty field, where there is a howling wind blowing the red fumes of a nearby cauldron. They lead back to a druid’s cave, known as such because there’s a sign that says there’s a druid in it.> «Ha ha ha! What lies instore for our duo? I sense irrational actions and grievous misfortune.» <A stereotypically timed lighting strike occurs in the background.> […] «Réa, what’s up with you? You’re looking out at nothing with your hands on the toilet seat.» …Fucking hell, I think I sensed something devilish among here. <Réamonn takes their other hand out of the toilet, still soaked from the toilet water. Mór grabs their hand and shoves it back into the toilet bowl with an angry expression.> «What? No. If you’re gonna be here, you should commit to the bit!» <An argumentative feud erupts between the two.> Aye, you fucking cunt! I know when to stop, and you’re the one taking this too far. «Not to be a joker, but you’re far too deep in the shite to quit now.» […] <We return back to the mist of the druid’s cave, and here we can see him cackling at the recent misfortune he brewed.> «Ha ha ha! I’m the mastermind behind all of the world’s divisive pitifulness! So much that I killed my previous assistant over scratching my rings!» <The druid’s crow squawks at him, because druid’s have birds now.> «Right, I know that’s a horrible tale, but nobody’s around to hear it!» […] <We cut back to Réamonn and Mór fighting.> «What’s gotten into you?» That’s, argh, what I’m, humph, trying to f-figure out! <Toilet water begins to splash all over the room.> «Right, next thing you’re gonna tell me that you decided that you’re the plumber.» <So, the two mess around in the bathroom for what seems like an hour until Réa’s mum comes in to yell at both of them.> «What the fuck are the both of you doing? I’ve been trying to take a shower in the other bathroom this whole time, and the only thing that’s been running is water colder than the farmer’s bog in November!»

Gemini: Louis Gottschalk. I smell someone, someone fishy here. It smells like someone here has a recent history of being too comfortable with colonialist apologia for French actions. Hmm, who is this person? I guess we’ll never know: We may never be able to find the baguette. Mmm, I can just smell the sweet, delectable French bread from here. Mmm, mmm, mmm… <Heavy sniffing starts to occur, with it rampantly becoming more violent.> Damn, it just smells SO GOOD. The French did nothing wrong except make these beignets way too damn mouth-watering: Mmm, mmm, mmm. Damn, I’d love me some of them right now to fill up my gullet. I just can’t control myself around that sweet French bread: I haven’t harmed anyone yet, but if they got in the way of my French bread, you’d have no idea what I’d do to get it. MMM, MMM, MMM. That French bread just makes me wanna <scronch>, and then <freerf>, and then <sus>. Mmm, mmm, mmm, I can smell it from here: It tastes so good; I need it in my tummy immediately. I never had a full piece of French bread before. FREERF, YEERF, SLUUURP, GADORF, MEONG, PADOOK, GURK LURP, SCHLIPPITY SCHLURP, PUHTAW, OOKARH, MEONG, DING DONG, KALOOKA, NOISOME, MMM. I love bread a lot, more than I loved my own family: My own family was turned into bead and sliced up by this maniac who loved pizza as much as I loved bread. I am a yeast of my own parts, I denounce my citizenship and move to France, I am now the one sane person left in this world. GAJOINK, BREKKIE, LOLISH, NAMBODE, ANGKOR WATT, MIRANDA WARNING, ZOOMIES, BOOMIES. I love bread. […] As you know, I’m quite the fan of bread, and I have a loaf of it right now. I think it’s time to "dive right in" as they say. [,] PUHTAW, that was awful! I took may too much bread in my mouth, but that was my favorite onomatopoeia to describe how this bread came out of my mouth. TIGERS JAW, SHOSPEL COLUPIS, SWOOCE, FUNNY BREAD, BREAD FUNNY, WOO, YAY, HURRAY FOR BREAD. ’Cause if you don’t <freerf>, then you can’t <swooce>, so how are you gonna <sus> or <jodge>? It just doesn’t make <se-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ns.> Hamburger: You make a hamburger with bread. Can’t have a hamburger with no bread! MMM, MMM, MMM, I love hamburgers. <jodge.> […] But seriously, we all know that defending empires is bad? I don’t care if that empire gives you as much bread as you want, you’re still a slave and only through that empire can you get measly bread: Not the fulfilling kind of bread, the crumbs of the crumbs.

Scorpio: Giuseppe Verdi. <We’re greeted to a bustling city scene, there are many people on the street: Some wacky, some not so wacky. Here, we see Juyeon walking with her mom to the local market because she’s short of cabbage.> Mom, why are we here? «Your father always eats an absurd amount of cabbage, sweetie. And he gets very grumpy and resistant to doing chores when he doesn’t have it, so that’s why we’re here.» <Juyeon never believed that story; she never saw her dad eat a single piece of lettuce before.> Okay <she says in a very unsatisfied voice. All the while, the bustling of the urbanity dominates the atmosphere. Somehow, in the midst of this crowd, Juyeon’s ears pick up on a particular voice.> «I’m a lost adventurer, looking for the rest of my forgotten crew! Who wants to volunteer to be the child character in the middle of an adventure group that has to travel through hell and back? We’re looking for any psychic children to help aid us on our journey.» <The lost adventurer kept yelling this ad from the cat-corner, and in the midst of those words, the term "psychic children" caught Juyeon’s ear.> Say, mister! <Juyeon notices her mom eyeing cabbage, and takes this opportunity to investigate something her mom would normally disagree with. Hesitantly, the adventurer noticed Juyeon wobbling towards them.> You said something about psychic children, mister? «Why, yes! You must know that, prior to this, I was part of a band of four with the guts like me: We travelled many lands many dimensions even. We were all so young and filled with a look of wonder towards all we did.» Lots of kids have done what you said, but you’re trying to say there was something special about yours? Also, this must’ve been a long time ago ’cause you look like you’re my mom’s age. [,] «What you never knew is that we were all blessed with psychic powers… Long story short: They ended up being a burden to ourselves after our journey was done, and we tore each other apart spiritually.» [,] All of that sounds cool, but I feel like it’s a bit too, uh… «Hamfisted?» It has nothing to do with ham, but I kinda get the "fist" part. [,] It’s a bit… «Ominous?» Isn’t that like, a fruit? I don’t get it is what I’m saying. Where does the psychic stuff come from? Why did you end up here out of all places? Why did you grow out of it? Like, ugh, I don’t know… I thought this would be cool, but now I’m not sure. [,] «Hmm, I can tell, whenever you came into my line-of-sight, that there was something whimsical about you: A part of you that has yet to transcend into regression with age. You’re asking where the psychic energy comes from not out of cynicism but curiosity… I might as well demonstrate to you where it comes from.» <The lost adventurer points their fingers up into the air, channels an energy, and a bolt of technicolor light courses through it from above. As soon as Juyeon would be able to understand the demonstration, her mother angrily grabs her and pulls her back into the market.> «Don’t run off like that!»

Capricorn: Hector Berlioz. <There’s a grand trunk that spikes out from the rest of the wetlands: It towers over all the other ghostly trees. It seems to represent a glimpse into the future: One emphasized by its continued existence over the temporariness of the other woods around it.> «Are those wetlands, Mr. Robichaux?» You know, I like to say there’s no dumb questions, but that’s a dumb question: We are miles away from any wetlands. <The shuttle-bus hops up a bit as it goes over a bit of uneven road, causing Ikto to lose their hold on the window.> «I don’t know, it looks pretty swampy to me.» All swamps are wetlands, but not all wetlands are swamps. You learned this in third-grade science, c’mon now. <The shuttle-bus full of the band kids rolls over yet another snag in the road, causing turbulence that allows a mic-stand in the back to fall over.> Oof, that sounded like it was expensive: Good thing it’s not coming out of my paycheck and I can still afford ravioli. <As soon as that sound was created, the neglected oak remarked about earlier had water vapor gravitating towards it, an unusual sign in nature for sure. We cut back to Vinnie attempting to fill out a crossword puzzle about sewing terms: Something far out of his purview and a task made only more difficult by the rocking of the bus.> Itko, er, <Vinnie forgets the real name of the student.> Do you know what they call the machine involved in all yarn production processes? «That’s called a spinneret, Mr. Robichaux.» Is that spelled with two Ts and an E? Because that doesn’t fit in the boxes given. «There’s only one T with no extra E at the end.�� Ah, perfect. <The water vapor condenses more and more around the grand trunk to the point where, despite the bus being two miles away from it, has already spawned storm clouds around its natural base. We cut back to Vinnie filling out #9 on the crossword puzzle.> «Nobody told us it was gonna rain outside today. Look, there’s already grey clouds in the sky!» <That could be heard from another student in the back of the bus: Vinnie either didn’t hear this or he willfully ignored it. He begins to whisper angrily to himself:> What kinda question is that: "Disengages all but the bobbin weaver?" Like I’m supposed to know any of this! <The collected water formed around the tree stump brings upon a ferocious storm: One with a name and a vengeance. Immediately, the storm moved at unreal speeds towards the bus. «It’s really windy right now!» How do you know that? Is it because you’re sticking your hands out the window, like you shouldn’t be doing‽ «I wasn’t sticking any of my limbs out the window!» Yeah, right. <Audible thunder edges closer to the bus, prompting the bus-driver, Elm, to push harder on the pedal. Ikto speaks up again.> «Mr. Robichaux, I’m scared of that tree.» Relax, it’s only the sign of a story before heading onto the highway: It means nothing and it’s distracting you. <A beam of concentrated lighting zooms past Vinnie’s window, likely a missed shot from the vengeful oak. Vinnie is too busy focusing on the puzzle to even notice.> Why are you all being so loud?

#Zodipunc #Zodiaccupuncture #Aries #Gemini #Scorpio #Capricorn

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biglifequestions-blog · 5 years

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Big Life Questions

In 1991, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes; an incurable autoimmune disease that would have killed me were it not for the discovery of a breakthrough treatment some 70 years earlier. Had my great grandmother—who lived to be an octogenarian with four grandchildren and eight great grandchildren—been diagnosed with the same condition, natural selection would have swiftly eliminated her and the potential for offspring as unceremoniously as it had thousands of others. By pure chance, my mother, uncle, cousins, brothers, and I would never have been born. Twelve unique progenies, gone; an entire branch of the family tree stunted and withered at the hands of a few faulty genes.

As luck or God or the Universe would have it, I was born at exactly the right moment in history to not only survive type 1 diabetes but thrive. And here I am today at age 29: a walking, talking, breathing, body with blood circulating and nerves firing, alive with not only conscious thoughts, but also feelings, opinions, beliefs, quirks, aptitudes, and proclivities. From this foundation, I’ve created a full and complicated life that includes accomplishments, hobbies, aspirations, and emotional connections to other walking, talking, breathing bodies. That I am even sitting here now in a 600-square-foot apartment in Philadelphia with a Chihuahua named Peanut napping sweetly in my lap, able to freely express myself through the typed English word using an online platform capable of sharing those words with millions of people around the globe, all while my loving husband cooks his take on vegan enchiladas in our tiny kitchen is nothing short of a holy-shit miracle.

I wish I could say that the mind-blowing awareness of my mere existence—never mind the trillions of complex, improbable events that coalesced to have me adopt a Chihuahua—has compelled me to live each of my 10,500+ days on this earth to their absolute fullest. I wish I could say the knowledge of my finite and delicate reality has inspired me to follow my passions, live authentically, and weather life’s storms with grace and fortitude all while dedicating my time and energy toward the betterment of society. Surely a life as precarious as my own would catalyze an ongoing quest to align mind, body, and spirit; to be a role model for overcoming adversity against all odds.

Alas, I am not quite so enlightened.

Last Saturday, for example, I spent the entire day in worn-out sweatpants eating buttered toast and playing Candy Crush on my iPad. Between waiting for more bread to toast, butter to melt, and lives to reload, I scrolled through the bottomless pit that is the /AmITheAsshole sub on Reddit, grappling with the complexity of human social norms while also getting my daily bump of “my life really isn’t so bad” by contrasting my comparatively insignificant problems to the drama of Internet strangers. By sunset, I had succeeded only in eating a half loaf of bread and irritating my husband by finishing off the butter and bringing crumbs into the bed. (AITA?)

I’m sure you’re wondering how I’m able to justify such a flagrant misuse of my time. While I don’t exactly know the answer to that question, I can hazard a guess it’s because I’ve collected enough insignia of a successful life—academic degrees, a wedding ring, my handsome husband, a Pinterest-inspired apartment, stamps in my passport—that the pressure to fill my days with meaningful, enlightened activities has lessened. So long as I continue showing up to work, paying taxes, saying “I love you,” and periodically posting #humblebrags on Twitter about some new promotion or my latest vacation, what does it matter if I occasionally splurge on procrastination and carbohydrates?

…right?

Until last year, I had only peripherally considered that there might be more to life than just achieving and owning things. From high school honors to senior job titles to a committed relationship, these milestones were my markers of success, happiness, and security. I craved them, worked for them, plotted how I would make them happen, and invested all my energy into proving to the world and myself that I was smart, hard-working, lovable, deserving; often to the detriment of my own physical, mental, financial, and spiritual health.

Moreover, I was actively encouraged to seek more of these achievements: to play an instrument in both orchestra and band, attend academic summer camps, double major in college, study abroad, work late, work weekends, work, work, work. I believed these tangible symbols would unlock the secrets to all the Big Intangibles: happiness, passion, fulfillment, security, joy, peace, gratitude, love. And when those fleeting moments of accomplishment came and went, and the Big Intangibles didn’t instantly manifest, I turned to my old, worn copy of the “Perfect Life Checklist” (which I wrote myself at the age of 10) and chose my next goal to appease the restlessness and disappointment in my heart.

And then, after years of sacrificing sleep and sanity to acquire these tangibles, it all came to a climax in May 2018: I had just graduated from a prestigious university with my master’s degree, was months away from marrying my soulmate, and had just been offered a dream job in a new city. Life was perfect or as perfect as I could have contrived. I awoke in my fiancé’s bed the morning after graduation expecting to feel elated, happy, fulfilled; or at the very least, well-rested and content. It was the first Tuesday in perhaps my entire life that I technically had nothing to do and I felt completely, inexplicably…. empty.

Where was the happiness I was promised; the light at the end of the tunnel I built, brick by brick? I felt a sudden urge to laugh followed by the very real experience of tears.

And then, in response to those tears, a harrowing, gut-wrenching, pass-me-the-wine-no-the-whole-bottle question materialized before me as if posed by some older, wiser, separate self: Who would you be without all these labels, titles, and accomplishments?

Who am I?

The answer that came was enough to make me want to dive under the covers and let the carbon dioxide build up around me.

Before I go any further, I want to recognize that despite living with a chronic illness, the problems and concerns I’m describing here are distinctly privileged-people-problems. I understand and appreciate that my ability to grapple with questions about my identity and personal fulfillment are luxuries only possible because of that privilege. I don’t have to worry about basic necessities like where I’m sleeping tonight or from where my next meal will come. I don’t wake up worrying about whether I might get arrested, mugged, shot at, or bombed if I walk out my front door or if I might be persecuted for my skin color, openly practicing my religion, or loving who I love. That I even have health insurance to afford the medication that keeps me alive is a blessing that I am keenly aware not everyone with my disease has.

Yet it’s precisely this knowledge—that other people who were born into different circumstances must work a hundred times harder and maybe not ever get to the point I find myself at now—that makes answering these Big Life Questions even more important. With all my privilege and so few barriers standing in the way of me living a magnificent, inspirational, blessed life of service and passion, why am I not making every day, hour, and minute count?

I pondered that question again a few months ago when I was asked to give a presentation at an all-employee meeting for work. “All-employee” meaning, of course, the entire company; hundreds of people in-person and remote gathered in one moment to critically judge my outfit, throat-clearing tic, and the way I pronounce “gala”—or at least, that’s what it felt like. A naturally nervous public speaker, I practiced obsessively to minimize the risk of forgetting my own name and spent copious time working through every worst-case scenario. In the shower, on the train, before bed, in my dreams; I worried and rehearsed that speech so many times that my ultimate irrational fear of a light fixture falling from the ceiling and concussing me mid-word could have come to fruition and my lips would have continued mouthing statistics while my hands, of their own accord, gesticulated to slide 5 bullet point 2 at the 20-minute mark exactly as rehearsed.

This exercise was, like many of my endeavors, not borne out of passion and commitment to a good cause, but a calculated attempt to take on another “professional development opportunity” in the hopes that it would indirectly increase the likelihood of my future happiness by one, maybe two, percent. Because more responsibility at work = more money = more success, stability, and therefore infinite happiness, right? The irony of all this calculation is that an activity I expected to yield happiness had the unintended consequences of increasing my stress levels by 1000 percent and costing valuable time with my friends and family.

And tell me, what exactly is the point of investing all this energy and being so completely exhausted if there’s no greater good, higher purpose, or feeling happy and inspired before, during, and after? What’s the point of tackling any endeavor if it’s only going to lead to a buttered toast/social media binge to cover the feelings of emptiness and dissatisfaction?

Until now, I’ve asked but not fully grappled with these Big Life Questions. But I want to. I want to wrestle and spar, analyze and critique until awareness turns into action and potentially transformation. In my short life I’ve had the opportunity to answer some medium life questions whose answers led to amazing, unexpected changes. Questions like, “What more do you have to lose?”, “Would you be willing to relocate?” and “Will you marry me?” I’ve answered and then watched life shift miraculously to accommodate my new conceptualization of what’s possible. And now, I feel myself standing at the edge of another new conceptualization with an ever-present awareness of my own potential, mortality, limitations, limitlessness, and connection to the rest of humanity.

This blog is a chronicle of my attempts to answer and act on life’s biggest questions, including, but not limited to:

Who am I?

What is my greater purpose in life?

How can I find joy in the mundane?

How can I make the most of every day?

How can I be kinder to myself in deed and thought?

How can I honor and love my body?

How can I love unconditionally?

How can I forgive myself and others?

How can I overcome my fears?

How can I have more faith?

How can I live in the present moment more often?

How can I align my career and work with my passions and higher purpose?

How can I be of service to others?

If you decide to follow along, I hope my words can provide some perspective on how to begin answering your own BLQ’s, even if what I’m describing is a case study in what not to do. Consider what follows to be a record of hard lessons learned, a magnifying glass for bad habits, an arena for confronting fears and traumas, a whiteboard for exploring crazy ideas, and with a little luck and determination, a launching pad into the magnificent, inspirational, blessed life of service and passion I hope to live.

#biglifequestions #selfhelp #selflove #newblog #type1diabetes #consciousness #sprirituality #happiness #searchformeaning

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utkarshkarn18 · 6 years

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Let her free

She saw them lurking, through windows in the sky, across the trees. She wondered, how it would be to feel to fly as high to see the others as well to roam around this sundry world she wondered really, if she can

she grasped her master enter, along came her friendly face she bethought her old memories the appearance from her egg to chirping her first voice to dancing in her manor she bethought her journey upto

Let her enjoy her ability Let her live her life "Should I, let her free ?" but she is as similar as close as my child my little duty in disguise "Should I, let her grow ?"

"maybe I should, today then" told her to fly open she opened the door ajar "Am I allowed to go ? Should I or Shouldn't I ? but now I am free." she closed the door ajar

Rising above, above in sky, she saw her master staring, "O master, thank you really." tears in both independent eyes she felt this fresh air, and this feeling of life "O master, bless you really."

"But where should I go ? left-right or north perhaps" and saw her kind there. "Hey Hi, I am new." "O yeah, so what now ?" "Help me explore this world" but saw their unfriendly face.

"I am feeling hungry now" she looked master's sealed window. She looked around, saw noone and some crumbs in bin but a puss whirling around pounced on her, she flew she looked around, ample foes

"I wanna sleep, its sundown Where is my comforting cushion ?" she heard, she needed nest but how, how build one. "O master, miss you really, the way you cared me." she heard, she needed luck.

Days past, passed and passed her condition, increased to worse no power, to fly high increased weakness, to high illness wrong decision to be free cant adjust to this hard world no power, to stay alive

and she left her sundry world and freedom can also be cruel captive born lives, should be free without training and care, but not with harsh reality facing the world, one should control, one shouldn't feel O my dear, dont let her free.

#self love #love #freedom #independent #bird #cage #animal #life #distinctive #theambiguous_k

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dirtyages-blog · 6 years

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TrashOpera and break for Garbatising

{Soliloquy of Ludovico Trashenberg, ordinary member of Cockrats colony}

From dust we are born

To dust shall return

Journey of life

Awaits final turn,

In cosmic timeline

Its as brief as a flash

So I better rush

Raising pile of trash!

Competition for waste <wealth>

Is ultimate drive

At dirty-age phase

Of evolution of life,

It justifies

Any means to an end:

Hypocrisy, lies,

Harm to environment.

More garbage we get

More happy we’ve got

It’s as evident fact

As existence of God,

Countless piles

Are everywhere

But they are not mine!

Why fate is unfair?

I have intention

To reach success

I’d sell soul to Satan

Along the path

I never question

The direction I steer,

I follow the revelation

Of sacred voice which i hear

{Ludovico’s antennas start perceiving electric signal conveying speech}

Cocorats tune in!

To brain-polluting machine,

Clear mind is cardinal sin

In congregation of dirty regime,

Let ceremony of media stream

Into transmitters begin!

{STANDING OVATION burst as background noise of broadcast}

Flow of junk information

Is filling up your head

With simple explanations

Of difficult questions you have,

It carries conventional wisdom

About everything

Liberating from stress of decisions

And heavy effort to think,

Worries, doubts and pain

Will fade away

While you are entertained

By fairy tale,

We keep tradition

From ancestors in past

To bow in submission

To broadcast

Everything you should know

Comes from media net

Welcome to

Holy Propaganda Show

I’m your host Dictatorat

{Again STANDING OVATION, they rise and fade permanently during further broadcast, sometime other emotion appear resembling sitcom style}

Nature of Cocorat

Is trash pursuit instinct,

Clean environment is threat

To become extinct,

Long time ago,

Writes divine constitution,

God blessed this world

With global pollution!

Than our spices

Appeared for mission

To errect Trashopolis city

In these perfect conditions.

Prophets obtained

Derelict map

Which led the way

To island of dump,

Here God proclaimed

“Be junkful and multiply <fruitful>

You are going to reign

Over garbage you occupy!

Drag as much as you can

To this holy spot

To represent

Your love of God!

I’m gona rest

I’m already exhausted

But divine interest

Will be reinforced,

I put in charge government

To control the lab

Of sacred experiment

Which i set up,

Better comply

With righteous behavior

Providence eye

Maintains surveillance,

You are conditioned

To feel reward

When electric stimulation

Convey word of God!

Dictatorat

Will give proclamation

On my behalf

Standing Ovation!

Sermon today

Is going to preach

Virtues way

To get filthy rich!

There are in the wilderness

Treasures of waste

They wait hunter-gatherers

Of Tresheism faith!

Hurry up and move on

Into adventure

Bankorats bestow loan

To make trip arrangements,

Sail across

Pollutic Ocean

Avoding predators

With extreme caution,

Walk through the beach

Of the coursed land

Where’s no more garbage

Just palm trees and sand,

Follow the sign

Showing the course

Directly to mines

Of trecious resource,

Start digging and grab

As much as you can

After come back

Again and again

At the wild dumpster

Remember to pray

There are many monsters

Along the way

Countless scavengers

Have fallen on dirty alley

Carrying garbage

From the junk valley,

Dangers and troubles

Of Odyssey

Are nothing compared

To wealth you’ll receive

When you arrive

To Treshopolis border

Hardly alive

With post traumatic disorder,

Count the profit

You completed ordeal

After you settle

Bankorats dial.

{SIGN: Dirty Business District}

{Cocorats have to return the loan + interest to Bankorats, after this transaction is done they are left almost with nothing}

{Cocorat#1}

In Cocorat race

I compete and compete

But cant satisfy my ambition and greed

{Cocorat#2}

Life in Treshopolis is hard and unfair

I’m approaching edge of despair

{Cocorat#3}

I’m getting tired and sick

My pile is too humble to invite chick

{Dictatorat keep delivering proclamation}

Misery is essential

Part of this world

I offer salvation

To those who reach God

I have a dream

This dream

Is deeply rooted

In Trashopolis dream,

That one day

We’ll retire

From heavy working routine,

And go for vocation

To infinite amusement park

For eternal duration

And not coming back!

Various rides

Are everywhere you can see

Without lines

And entrance is free!

We are gona waste

Time just for leisure

On garbage surface

Too large to measure,

Gratification and pleasure

Are permanent at this place,

Im evidently talking about

The promise land

Which is above on the cloud

Heaven-Paradump!

I envision the day

When suffering stop

Once we build stairway

To climb on top,

And encounter God

On the gate

If you are Cocorat

Who wants the admission

You must work hard

On construction mission

Only dirty labour

Is pass to get in

Lord our slaver

Denies those who stay clean!

I roar to call

Each Cocorat

With impure soul

And sewage in blood,

Your saint obligation

To join building process

And give for donation

All garbage which you posses,

Your great sacrifice

Is gona be justified

As soon as we rise

Pile of trash to the sky!

Follow what you’re told

Because the story is true

We would never use mind control

To take advantage of you.

Holy Propaganda Show

Finishes this episode

Return to slavery work

In the name of God

{Standing Ovation}

{Cocorat#1 in the street}

Similar story

Plays everyday

I start to worry

If we ever complete stairway

{Cocorat#2 replies}

It waits as ahead

You must believe

Dictatorat

Wouldn’t deceive,

You better trust

His prophesy

Or get accused

In clear views heresy

{Cocorat#1}

Yes you are right

I concluded in rush,

Somewhere hides

Pure souls sabotage!

What’s your esteem

How long is delay?

{Cocorat#2}

Just follow routine

God works in mysterious way!

Why do you always think

If there is nothing you know?

Answers on everything

Are in Holy Propaganda Show

While it entertain <us>

All problems are gone

Finish complain

And turn it on!

{Cocorat#1}

Again, you are right!

I’ll ignore contradictions

And let holy scriptures

To be my guide!

Life is complex

Why analyze?

If I can relax

And get hypnotized,

I’ll mindlessly flow

In media feed

And play humble role

In class pyramid,

While noble elite

Take care of my need!

They are entitled

To fruits of my labour

But I should be grateful

For crumbs from their table

{Cocorat#2}

I have explanation

For this situation

Poor will be first

In the line for salvation

{Both look at each other bewildered / dazed and confused, alike they are satisfied with this explanation, but its obviously something is wrong with it, but they can’t admit it to themselves}

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A post shared by Masterpiece Of Trash (@dirtyages) on Jul 29, 2018 at 12:32pm PDT

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