#infinitesimal!fins

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Let me breathe for you (part 2)

Merman!Shanks x reader. This is part two of two, part one is here!

*****

And you don’t forget the disappointment, at least in the next four months, a length of time during which you go on with your life, trying to feel satisfied and happy with what you have (succeeding, for the most part) and to forget your meeting with the merman (failing miserably). 

Part of you feels the urge to return to the beach every day, and spend all day there, even sleeping in the grotto, in the absurd, shameful hope he might return, to leave a new message or to apologise for not waiting for you. You order yourself to resist, since you don’t want to waste the rest of your years waiting for something that has an infinitesimal probability to happen, but on the other hand you don’t want the memory of the merman to keep you from one of your favourite places; in the end, you decide to keep frequenting the beach as often as you did beforehand, no more nor less, and when you do you can’t help hoping to see him, even if just an azure tail fin peeking among the waves, or the shadow of a bright red head disappearing under the surface, or to find a new message written on the ground in the grotto.

You never do. 

In time, resentment gives way to resignation; you know in your heart you will never see the merman again, since it would be extremely dangerous for him to return and wait for you at the beach, and you have no idea what his life in the depth of the sea is like, but you feel confident, for some reason, he will never forget you, what you shared and what you have done for him, just like you will forever carry the memories of that day in your heart. It is not enough, not by a long shot; but it does make you feel content, at least a little. 

Your sister, on her part, must have noticed how quiet and melancholic you became for a few weeks; having suspected you had a new paramour, who you had gone meeting on that morning, she probably thinks the two of you have parted ways, but never asks questions, something for which you are more than grateful. There is not much of your life you haven’t shared with her, but you have promised the merman you wouldn’t tell anyone about your meeting, and you are determined to keep your word. You could tell your sister you had met a castaway, and grown fond of him as you took care of his wound and helped him hide from the, er, pirates who were chasing him, fond enough you couldn’t help feeling dejected when he left without saying goodbye; she would understand, and it wouldn’t be a lie, all things considered. But you don’t, reluctant to share that precious memory even with the person you love most in the world, and in time things go back the way they were before, which reassures your sister you have gotten over whatever pain you have suffered and all is well again.

Which is; even though something has changed in you, a new feeling that has entered your life and that for a while you can’t even give a name to. It is not exactly sadness, or discontent; you like your life, with the family you love and your work, a source of great satisfaction and joy, but for the first time, during your walks on the beach or even just as you look out of the window of your bedroom, you look at the sea and feel… what? Boredom? Restlessness? The curiosity to know the peoples and the lands beyond it, not just by hearsay or reading the paper, but with your own eyes, living what until now you have only known indirectly?

You can’t, obviously; you know of more young men and women whose thirst for adventure led them to set sail towards exotic lands than you can count, but you are not that sort of person, you are an adult, with a job and responsibilities, and you are sadly aware that many of those thrill-seekers travellers never return home, even when someone needs and is waiting for them. So many times you have blamed him in your heart for what he did; how could you do the same mistake, especially now that your sister needs your help caring for her family? A life on the sea is not for you, no matter how exciting it would be.

A life on the sea… and under the sea, that is where your merman lives, and what you would also like to explore, the depths that none of your people have ever seen and lived to tell about it, that are said to hide fabulous treasures and be inhabited by creatures beyond your wildest imagination, like the one who had bitten his arm of. How lovely it would be to see it, to have your friend guide you in exploring the most mysterious parts of the ocean, perhaps after some merfolk magic had transformed your legs into a long, sea-blue tail…   

Oh, stop it, (name). It can never happen; it won’t happen, and ignoring this will only make you miserable. Just be happy with what you have.

And so, months pass; word of mouth earns you a few important clients from a nearby town, and their commissions, including a wedding dress you spend a whole month working on, allow you to put aside a discrete amount of money that could be enough for a deposit if you ever decided to go live on your own… or to buy a ticket towards a far away land. No matter how satisfied and content you are with your life, for the first time you do feel the desire, if not exactly the need, to leave, and explore the world beyond the small island you call home; it would be more than a little hypocritical of you to leave for an adventure around the world, given all the years you have spent blaming him for having done the same, and all the resentment you have felt ever since you saw his ship departing, never to return, but after all this is your life, something you are answerable to no one about, and doesn’t one have the right to change their mind after so many years? After all you shouldn’t necessarily risk your life sailing to uncharted waters or visiting lawless islands, you could simply treat yourself to a long holiday and then return, safe and sound, to the safety of your own home, your horizons expanded and your thirst for knowledge sated…

You don’t share your… doubts -it’s still too early to call them projects- with your sister, but she knows you too well not to perceive you are thinking deeply about something, and one evening, as you are both sitting at the kitchen table, you busy mending a tiny shirt your older nephew has torn playing and she writing a letter, your sister tries to gently push you in what she thinks is the right direction.

“I met a client of yours today; he mentioned that a friend of his, the captain of a merchant vessel, is looking for a nursemaid for his son.” she casually, too casually, mentions without lifting her eyes from the paper “He’d be away for at least six months, and the pay would be more than generous.”

Silence.

“You should propose yourself, (name); I am sure mr…”

“I am a seamstress, not a nursemaid.” you point out, still focused on your stitches; you know roughhousing is normal for children your nephew’s age, but did he really have to choose the day his mother had him wear his best shirt to challenge his friends to a fight to the death? “Even a dry one.”

“I don’t think the child is that young; and you have been a mother to my boys as much as I have, you are more than experienced enough. (name)...”

“No.”

“It would do you a world of good. See new places, meet new people…”

“I am perfectly content with the places and people I know already.” you retort, more brusquely than you are used to when you talk to her; you immediately regret it, but it’s too late to stop the words from pouring out “Not to mention I already have a job, and a long list of commissions. I can’t very well leave everything to go gallivanting around the sea.”

Your sister softly points out that if you accepted the nursemaid job now you’d still have time to finish the jobs you have already accepted before having to depart with your new master, and she doubts you’d have lost many clients if -I mean, when- you ever decided to return. 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” 

“Don’t be daft, (name); you know we have no words to thank you for all the help you give us with the house and the children. But… but there is more to life than this.” she says as she takes your hands in hers; she forces you to look at her, and her eyes, as earnest and kind as you remember his being, are enough to make you feel about to cry “I know my life is here, with my husband and my children, and I am satisfied with it; I have never wanted differently. But you… I know you have been restless for a while -no, don’t try to deny it, I’m your sister, I know your heart- and I also think… if you remain, it is less because you are actually satisfied with your life here, and more because…”

“Don’t say it.”

“... because of dad. I know you are still angry with him for leaving us, and I’m not saying you are wrong, but you don’t have children, and we would be all right…”

“You can’t know it!” 

You have shouted, loud enough to wake the children, who are still young enough to valiantly resist any attempt to put them to bed before they decide it is time, but you don’t care, because you are angry, yes, you are furious, still with your father and right now a little bit with her as well. “What if something happens to them while the two of you are at work, and I’m not there to protect them? What if your husband loses his job while I’m away, and you can’t support the family on your own? Father left us when we needed him the most; we were still so young, he was everything we had, and he preferred his travels to us!”

“But we are not children anymore.” your sister quietly points out; the loss of your father was perhaps even harder on her than it was on you, considering she was the older and she felt responsible for you, but she never felt any resentment towards him, which is why, perhaps, you have felt enough for both “We are adults, old enough to make our own choices. (name)... you know how much we appreciate and rely on you, but we’re not going to end up in the streets just because you leave; no meteorite is going to fall on the house, killing us all, as soon as you look the other way.”  

You frown. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

“I am not and you know it. I just don’t want you to waste your life…”

“I am not wasting my life. I don’t want to leave; I’m happy here. Adventures and danger, that is not my thing; it wasn’t father’s thing either, since it ended up killing him.” you conclude sadly; you are justifying yourself, and that makes you even angrier, because you have done nothing wrong, dammit! What is so wrong with wanting a safe, predictable life? “I am not refraining from leaving because I hated our father for doing that; I am just learning from his mistakes, like the mature person I like to think I am. I know you are trying to help me…”

“I am; (name), if only you gave yourself a chance…”

“... and I am grateful, but I’d really like it if we could stop talking about it, and never do it again. Please?”

Your sister nods, clearly saddened to have upset you; you kiss her on the cheek, to reassure her you’re no longer angry, and return to your chair, and your mending, while your sister finishes writing and letter and then leaves you alone. 

The last, lingering warmth of summer gives way to the arrival of a rigid autumn, the quickly worsening weather and shorter days making you feel vaguely melancholic, no matter how pretty the trees in their fall colours are, and how pleasant the evenings spent around the fire at home drinking your sister’s famous mulled cider. You’ll be happier when winter comes; abundant snowfalls that are quite common on your island, and you’re never too old to play snowballs with your nephews and go skating on the frozen lake.

Today you wake up early as usual, lingering in the warmth of your bed only for a moment before rising to begin your day. Sent the children to school, you prepare to visit a client’s house to drop off two skirts you had tightened at the waist for her, and to take measurements for another dress; the lady in question is among your hardest to please clients, but she always pays generously, and you are determined to do a good job. You retrieve your gloves and heavy coat from the wardrobe, and as you reach the front door you notice a white envelope on the mat, clearly fallen from the mailbox: it contains a very elegant invitation, printed on good quality paper and addressed to you, for a party scheduled for next week… a party given by mr. Dracule Mihawk, one of the notables of the town. 

Well, this is surprising, you reflect as you place the invitation in your bag, careful not to damage it; both the fact that mr. Mihawk is hosting a party, given his famously reserved, almost antisocial personality, and his decision to invite you. He is one of your most faithful clients, considering all the times he has had you buy precious fabrics to make elegant suits and coats, and he does often compliment your abilities as a seamstress and embroiderer, but the two of you never had a relationship beyond what is strictly required by his patronage. 

Still, a party invitation is not something to disdain, especially when you haven’t attended one in months; you’ll ask your sister to accompany you, if her husband can take care of the children for the evening, and while a week is too short a time to make a new dress from scratch, you’ll have plenty of time to make sure you are both suitably attired. There was some velvet you had, left over from a commission, you could use to embellish your best dress, and she owns a shawl that would be perfect if only you decorated it with beads or a fringe… 

Feeling in high spirits, you finally leave for your client’s house, shivering in the cold under the quickly darkening sky; an hour later, having taken care of your first errand, you are walking towards the market to buy a few things before your next appointment when something enters your field of sight only for a moment… and you stop. 

The building you are walking next to is an art shop, with paintings and other art objects on sale, pretty but devoid of any real value for the most part; you have never paid much attention to it, but suddenly you feel unable to move, and to look away from a painting in the window… a marine landscape, with a merman in the foreground.

“Do you like it, (name)?” the shop owner, a former schoolmate of your sister’s, asks from the door; an easy enough question to answer, but still you struggle to talk, still focused on the painting.

“I… yes, it’s very pretty. Is it yours?” 

“Not that one; another shop was closing and I bought some of their stuff in bulk. I have no idea who painted it, but it has been on that window for weeks and no one even glanced at it; perhaps a marine scene is a boring subject, given the fact we live on an island.”

“Hmm…”

The painting is clearly not a masterpiece worthy to be displayed in a museum, even someone who has never cared for art like you can tell, but it does have an unassuming, simple beauty to it. The roaring sea is painted in all of its dangerous magnificence, all shades of blue used to represent the high combers rising from the surface, sprays of foam covering the iron-grey sky. And in front of that chaotic backdrop, relaxed and almost detached as he contemplates the turmoil behind him, there is a merman, his gaze lifted as if in challenge, lying on the beach. He has two perfectly normal arms, one propped behind him and one abandoned in his lap in a vaguely sensual pose, and his hair is blonde instead of red; but his long tail, stretched in front of him, is exactly the same blue-green of that of your friend, brighter than the vast expanse in front of him, and while you can’t see his face, you are sure the merman in the painting is smiling, the sort of open, brave and amused smile you still carry in your heart to this day, five months after your first and only meeting, and that you know you’ll never forget, no matter how sad and disappointed you felt when he left without saying good-bye. The merman is not afraid of the storm, and why should he be? The sea is his home; no matter how violent the current, or high the waves, he’ll always find his way back, even if he swam at the other side of the ocean.

How you wish it would be the same for you. And maybe it would, but you’re too scared to find out.

You awake from that daydream, both wishful thinking and fond memory, only when a shiver passes through your body; the day is chilly, and you still have many errands to run before returning home, to warm yourself in front of the fire.

Still, you don’t let the cold distract you. “How much?”

“Sorry?”

“This painting, with the… stormy sea. How much does it cost?”

The shop owner, who had lost any hope to sell the painting, asks for a more than reasonable but still significant price, that you nonetheless readily pay, before leaving the shop with your purchase under your arm. That night you gently decline your brother-in-law’s help, and hang the painting on the wall of your room, placed so that it is the first thing you see after opening your eyes in the morning, and the last before falling asleep; looking at it, and remembering the unexpected meeting with the same creature immortalised on canvas, does make you feel vaguely melancholic, but you also remember how happy and excited you felt that day, and that is what matters the most. 

A week passes, and finally it is the evening of the party at Mihawk’s residence, just a few minutes walk from your home; your brother-in-law is not working tonight, which allows you and your sister to go out and have fun. You have renovated  both your best dress and hers, and you must admit you both look very good, enough to attend what will undoubtedly be a very exclusive gathering.

“I still can’t understand why Mihawk invited me.” you mention as the two of you walk arm in arm down the walkway of the stately villa, festively decorated for the occasion; lit torches illuminate the garden, and judging from the sweet music wafting from the inside of the building the orchestra has already been put to work “I mean, I’ve known him for years and I know he appreciates my creations, but I doubt he also invited his gardner, or the man who painted his walls.”

“Well, perhaps it’s because he cares more about his clothes than about plants or the state of his walls.” your sister suggests; she stops to wave to a couple of acquaintances walking in the opposite direction, and then smiles “Or perhaps he cares… about you.”

The mere idea makes you laugh; you have met Mihawk often enough not to be intimidated by his severe attitude -not too much, at least- but you never had reason to suspect he is interested in you. “That’s absolutely preposterous.”

“No, it’s not. He’s unmarried, you’re unmarried, and a party would be the perfect occasion to move from a strictly professional relationship to a more intimate one. After we thank him for the invitation I’ll make sure to leave you alone with him.”

“Don’t you dare…”

The sound of peaceful chatters fills the air; waiters in uniform move among the guests, offering flutes and refreshments. Some women’s dresses are much more elegant than your and your sister’s, but you feel no embarrassment, determined to simply enjoy the evening without feeling out of place or outshined. 

Mihawk is standing by the villa’s open double doors, welcoming the guests as they arrive; he seems vaguely bored, which makes you wonder why he hosted the party in the first place, but his yellow eyes, so similar to those of a bird of prey, immediately fix on you, as if he had waited for your arrival, as if he considered it important for some reason. What is happening?, you wonder; Mihawk is not in love with you, you are sure of it, you doubt he actually cares about you beyond your abilities with needle and thread, and you cannot begin to comprehend why he wanted you at his party.

“Good evening, mr. Dracule; thank you for inviting us.”

“Miss (name); miss (sister’s name). Welcome, thank you for coming.” he answers, polite but dispassionate as usual, with a small bow of his head; he is wearing an elegant black suit with red and yellow roses embroidered on the sleeves and the sides, a suit you are responsible for creating; the fact that he decided to wear for an important occasion makes you quite proud. You are about to excuse yourself and mingle with the other guests, but Mihawk is quicker and “Miss (name), may I have a moment of your time?” he asks. 

You can feel, rather than see, your sister smiling broadly next to you, as if she expects Mihawk to take advantage of that moment of privacy to ask for your hand.

“Of course.” you answer, perfectly aware you have no polite way to refuse, and let the host’s hand at the small of your back guide you along an empty corridor; whatever reason Mihawk had to want you at his party you’re going to find out in a minute, and the prospect doesn’t exactly scare you, but for some reason you can’t help feeling tense…

Mihawk remains silent until you reach a room, a small library empty except for one person, and as soon as that person turns to look at you, a strangled cry escapes your lips. 

“You!”

“Hello, (name).” the merman answers, his smile as open and happy as you remember it to be, albeit with a touch of uncertainty it didn’t have during your first meeting “I wasn’t sure you… remembered me…”

Of course, because you have met so many creatures half-man and half-fish in your life you could get confused. Before you can utter a reply, Mihawk attracts your attention with a discreet cough. “I’ll take my leave.” he announces, and the merman nods, understanding evident between the two of them. 

“Thank you, my friend.”

You remain still, and silent, until the master of the house has left, closing the door behind him; as soon as you are alone, you march towards the merman, already sure it is him, no matter how inexplicable his presence on dry land is, but eager to take a closer look. He lets you observe him, patiently waiting without speaking, smiling softly as you can’t stop staring at his legs.

His legs. Long and strong, perfectly proportioned, clad in a pair of dark brown trousers, normal black shoes on his feet. It is clearly him, you would be ready to bet everything you own, your very soul, on it; how could you ever forget that smile, and that bright red hair? Still, the creature in front of you is clearly human, and you are completely stunned, afraid to discover this is only a dream you will soon wake from feeling more lonely and dejected than ever, but despite the turmoil in your heart, the most intense, overwhelming emotion in your heart is joy, pure and simple elation, because you missed him so much, and seeing him again, even though perhaps simply in a dream, is enough to make you happy…

“It is me, (name).” he gently murmurs in the end, taking your hand in his; you let him, but at the same time you glare menacingly, determined not to let him go unpunished.

“I know it’s you. I also know you had… if not exactly promised, made me believe I would still find you there at the grotto the morning after we met; I arrived at dawn with the food and the bandages for you, and stood there gawping! I was worried for you, you know? I feared those fishermen had found you and taken you away!”

The merman -the man, now, you assume- listens to your complaints without arguing, looking at least properly chastised. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you; especially after everything you had done to help and protect me.” he murmurs in the end; you can feel his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand, a perhaps not fully conscious gesture that fills your heart with a tenderness you order yourself not to give in - yet; as your sister can attest, you don’t forgive easily “I did want to wait for you, but… my friends found me shortly before you were due to arrive, and convinced me it was safer for both if I left and returned home.”

“Hmm…”

“This is why - well, this is one of the reasons why I asked Mihawk to invite you; I wanted to talk to you, and tell you how sorry I am.”  

You sigh, aware of his sincerity, and of the fact you are so happy to see him again you have already forgotten your resentment. “I guess you had good intentions, at least. Are… are you alright? Your wound, I mean.”

Another smile. Darn it, how could you stay crossed with him?! “I am perfectly healthy, thank you. My doctor said your stitches were very well made, especially for a person who had received no medical training.”

“That is good to hear. I…” you sigh, feeling a sudden, unexplained shiness enveloping you “I don’t even know your name.”

“You’re right; how rude of me. I am Shanks.” he says with an elegant bow; when he brings your hand to his mouth, you can feel his breath on your fingers “Captain Shanks of the Red Force, at your service.”

The name suits him. You quickly learn that Shanks’ ship is a merchant vessel, and that they plan to remain in town until spring; Mihawk is an old friend of his, and decided to host the party to introduce him and his crewmates to the town.

“He must be very fond of you, then.” you mention, thinking how usually reserved and solitary your client and host is.

“He is, even though he’s also very good at hiding it.”

Shanks smiles. “You must have even more questions than on our first meeting.” he mentions gently, and you nod, admitting the need to know is so intense you feel ready to burst. 

“Maybe… maybe we could walk in the garden as we talk.” Shanks suggests, and for a moment he seems the shy one, as if afraid his proposal could be misinterpreted - or worse, refused “I’ll tell you all I can, I promise, but this is not the sort of talk you can have among so many people.”

You could remain in the library, since you doubt any of the invitees would feel the need for a book as they converse pleasantly and sip champagne; but a walk in the garden is a much more pleasant option.

“I’d really like that.”

You leave the room together; your sister, standing by the buffet table with a few people she’s acquainted with, meets your gaze just in time to see Shanks offering you his arm, and you accepting it gladly. 

“Here you are, (name); I saw Mihawk on his own, but I see you already found company.” she mentions with the sort of meaningful look only two sisters can share, as she looks at Shanks with interest “Who is your friend?”

“This is Shanks; Shanks, this is my sister.” you quickly introduce them, happy to see two people you are so fond of meeting each other. 

“Such a pleasure.” he politely greets her with another of those lovely, disarming smiles of his “I am sorry I stole (name) from you.”

“It’s not a problem, (name) is old enough to go where she pleases. Have you… just met or…?”

“Actually we first became acquainted a few months back.” Shanks explains “(name) was walking on a beach out of town when he found me; a group of bandits had assaulted me and left me for dead. Hadn’t it been for her help, I may not be here today. We had agreed to meet on the next morning, so that I could thank her in full and she could make sure I was well looked after, but I let my friends convince me we better depart immediately. I just arrived in town, so I wanted to apologise to her.”

“I see.” your sister murmurs; she has listened intently to Shanks’ explanation, and when her gaze shifts on you, you know she’s thinking back to that night, when seeing you singing happily to yourself made her wonder whether you had a new gentleman friend, and to how heartbroken you had looked returning home on the next morning, after the person you had gone to meet hadn’t come. She now knows that person is Shanks, and she must also have a thousand questions to ask you, but wisely decides to wait for a more appropriate moment. Is everything alright?, she asks you without the need to utter a word, as it has always been between the two of you, and you smile in return, which is enough to satisfy her. 

You and Shanks spend a few minutes with your sister, who then lets the two of you go, winking at you behind her shoulder.

“She must love you very much.” Shanks mentions as the two of you reach the gardens, away from the small, noisy crowd that fills the villa; a few people you walk past turn to look at you, openly staring at the stump of his arm visible under his black cape, but Shanks doesn’t seem to notice “I think she was ready to pounce on me, if she only had the impression I was bothering you.”

Imagining the scene makes you giggle. Despite the chill of the evening, you expected more of the attendees would have chosen to walk in the gardens, but that solitude is perfect for you and your companion, since it leaves you free to talk without fear of being heard. Shanks waits for you to sit on a bench under a large tree before taking a seat beside you. 

“What are you?” you ask half a moment later; you perceive the question could be considered rude, but you can’t help yourself. You have waited for this moment for five months!

Shanks laughs softly, amused rather than offended. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you?” he asks “Well, I am a merman; but I am also a human. I can shift between the two forms as I want, my legs transforming into a tail and vice-versa.”

“I see.” you answer numbly, struggling to come to terms with yet another revelation due to the amazing, astonishing man next to you. Ever since you met him you have felt your world expanding, as well your desire to know it beyond the reassuring walls of your tiny and predictable existence, and it scares you… and it makes you happy, just like he does “I had never heard about anything like this - like you. I mean, there are legends and stories about mermaids and mermen, but I never heard of a creature capable of transforming like you do.”

“It’s a fact we tend to keep secret, as well as that of our very existence.”

“There are others like you?”

It is the sort of question Shanks had gently refused to answer on your first meeting, given the fact every information about his kind he shared could put him in danger, but his hesitation seems to have disappeared.

“A few; not many, unfortunately, as far as I know, even though as you can imagine there is no complete census.”

“Is… everyone in your family like you?”

“I guess. My… nature must be hereditary, but I am a foundling, and have never met my parents or other relatives, so I can’t be fully sure.”

He smiles at you, as if to reassure you that loneliness is not a heavy weight to carry. “You never told anyone you had met me, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“As I expected. I… I have thought about you often, you know?” Shanks murmurs, taking your hand once more; his is bigger, calloused as was to be expected from a sailor, but his touch is gentle, almost reverent… as if he was holding something precious, something he didn’t hope he would experience again “I felt terrible for having left you there. I hoped…”

“Yes?”

“... nothing. That time, when we met, I was here in town to visit Mihawk; we have been friends for a long time, even though I doubt he would call us such. When I returned a few days ago, planning to stay a while, I asked him if he knew someone with your name, and when he told me he’s a client of yours I asked him to invite you to the party.”

“All of it just to apologise?” you ask with a smile that Shanks returns, vaguely embarrassed.

“To be honest, I really wanted to see you again.”

“Then I’m glad you came back, because I wanted to see you too.”

Neither feels the need to speak as you enjoy the quiet and privacy of the gardens, your hand in his; stand-mounted torches diffuse a warm, soft light, intense enough to reflect the bright red of Shanks’ hair. You’re not enjoying the party much, not the music nor the buffet, but you don’t care, and you couldn’t wish for a better company.

“I envy you, you know?” you murmur softly after a while, your gaze low on your feet “You are a sea captain; I imagine you have travelled extensively.”

“I have. I still do; I don’t think I have ever had a proper house on land since I was six years old. My ship is a merchant vessel, sturdy enough to face the most violent storms; I travel all over the world, and I am paid to do it. Who is more fortunate than I am?”

The pride and happiness evident in Shanks’ voice makes you smile - a bit wistfully. 

“You are fortunate. As a merman you can explore the oceans, as a human you can walk on land. You are the master of both worlds, in a sense. You can do whatever you want.”

“Well, I don’t have wings, which means I can’t fly, but otherwise yes, I do have wider horizons than most creatures.” Shanks admits; he looks at you, his hand still gently caressing yours - a touch that is not inherently sensual, but could easily become so “Don’t you like your life? Mihawk says you are an excellent seamstress, with clients even in the nearby towns.”

“It’s true; and I have much to be grateful for, just…”

You sigh, at first unable to put into words something you have never had the courage to address even in the privacy of your heart. “My father was an explorer; he didn’t have a house in a town or on an island, but he travelled far and wide, to map uncharted lands, act as an informal ambassador on behalf of this or that lord, or write a report on some untraveled region’s flora or fauna. He saw a different dawn almost every day; I don’t think he ever slept in the same bed for more than a week. And then he came here, on the way to some other place and only planning to stay until the town’s shipwrights repaired his ship, he met my mother, who worked in the port’s best tavern, and five days later he put my sister in her.”

“So he stayed.”

“He stayed, and he married her; he missed his life, the adventure, the excitement, but he loved my mother, and while he probably felt duty-bound to do the right thing for her and the baby, I think he was happy, at least for a while. Three years later I came along; he was a good father, he loved us and he worked hard for us, even though I know he was frustrated with a boring office job, and regretted having had to abandon his dreams and aspirations for this little town, and a little life. I don’t remember he ever held it against us, but after all it was only eight years; perhaps in time he would have come to hate us all.”

An outburst of laughter reaches your ears from inside the villa; apparently someone, probably not the host, has just recounted a very amusing story. You sigh, feeling suddenly melancholic and, even worse, foolish. “I’m sorry, this is not the sort of thing one should discuss at a party…”

Shanks’ hand squeezes yours gently. “Go on.” he invites you, and for a moment you love him for it.

“One day, completely out of the blue, my mother fell sick, fainting in the kitchen as she prepared dinner; she never properly woke up again. My father called for the best doctors of the region, he stood by her side day and night begging her not to abandon him, but all of it was in vain; a violent fever took her away in a matter of days. We all mourned her; my father cried for days, and my sister and I slept in the same bed for months. He tried his best to take care of us, but he couldn’t; not because he didn’t know how to cook or couldn’t prepare us for school. The truth is… the truth is he had not chosen, but accepted, that sort of life for her, and now that she had gone, he couldn’t see a reason to stay. Not even us.”

It is painful to say it out loud; it is terribly humiliating, but the worst thing is another: the fact that even now, so many years later, you can’t fully hate him for it. 

“So he left. Our grandparents were too old to take care of us, so he paid another couple to move in the house and act as our tutors, and made sure we would also be looked after financially; he promised he would come back, and he did, twice, first after eight months, and then after a year. And then he left again, to sail towards some distant land where a fabulous treasure was supposed to be held, and he never returned. He died at sea, and we were left alone. I mean, we were not thrown in the streets, my sister and I; our tutors were good people, and he had left us the house and a little capital. But what we wanted, what we needed desperately, was a father; he knew, he had to know, and he ran away to the other end of the world.”

Shanks sighs; he has listened intently to your story, and has perceived you don’t need to be consoled, just… understood. Heard. “Sometimes people cannot deny their own nature; it is sad, and difficult to accept, but that is the truth.” he murmurs; he turns towards you, his brown eyes finding yours as your knees meet “I am sure your father loved you very much; but if his destiny, his nature, was to travel the world, staying would have made him miserable. Look at me: I am both a merman and a human; whatever shape I assume at a given moment, I’m still both, and I’m fully conscious of the other part still present inside me. I’m not saying your father did the right thing, or that he shouldn’t have decided otherwise because you and your sister needed him; but perhaps the choice wasn’t fully his to begin with.” 

It is a sensible explanation, that you contemplate for a while, offering your face to the light of the torches, their warmth caressing your skin; in the end, you realise with a sigh, it doesn’t really matter whether you are able to make peace with your father or keep resenting him until your last breath, since he’s gone and you’re old enough to take care of yourself. Still, there are times you wish you could find some forgiveness for him, and for yourself as well, in your heart; in other moments, you feel as if letting go of that resentment you have felt since you were barely old enough to understand your emotions, would mean letting yourself be abandoned for the second time…

“Sometimes I also wish I could leave.” you confess; you sound hypocritical to your own ears, but you feel Shanks won’t blame you for it… that he’ll understand how conflicted you feel, and ashamed of yourself for it “I have a good life here, a job I enjoy and a family I love, but I wish I could explore the world beyond what I have known since I was born, because I know there is more to life than taking care of my nephews or embroidering a wedding dress, no matter how satisfying those things are.”

Shanks smiles. “You could do it. You have no children of your own, and you could pay your ticket on a cruise ship.”

“I know; and I know my sister and her husband could manage without me, but… I can’t find the courage to leave; the truth is… I don’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps, and I know it’s stupid, because I can’t let the actions of a dead man dictate how I live my life, but…”

“But perhaps this is your nature; to feel yourself torn between two realities, the desire for home and the thirst for knowledge, without fully belonging to either.” Shanks mentions, and smiles “We are similar in that regard, you and I.”

“We are.”

Another moment of pleasant, intimate silence follows; you are wondering whether the man next to you will decide to leave your hand to put his arm around your shoulders -and, in case he’s deliberately refraining from doing that, what you can do to subtly communicate you would not find it inappropriate, quite the opposite in fact- when suddenly Shanks turns to you and “Would you like to dance?” he asks.

“You mean here?”

“Why not? We can hear the music, and at least we won’t have to worry we might bump into the other couples. I am quite steady on my feet, even though I spend half my time with a tail… and I only have one arm to hold you with.”

You find yourself giggling. “I’d really like that.”

And so you dance, alone as the soft notes coming from the villa’s ballroom envelop you, your eyes in his, Shanks’ arm circling your waist while you rest your arms on his shoulders. His body is solid against yours, and pleasantly warm in the chill of the night; the desire to kiss him, for him to kiss you, is intense enough to make you tremble. You feel happy with Shanks, happier than you have ever felt in a long time, and you don’t want him to leave again, after such a short time, not unless he promises he will return…

“You know, if you ever wanted to leave, at least for a while… I could help you.” Shanks murmurs after a while; you can feel his heart beating, slightly faster than normal, against yours “I do have a ship, after all.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly tense; suddenly hopeful, as you gently sway together “I mean, you would really… take me with you? I thought yours was a merchant vessel.”

“It is, and we don’t usually take passengers, but… yours would be a special case. To be honest, I had tried to… test the waters, a while ago; didn’t Mihawk tell you of someone who was looking for a nursemaid for a child?”

“That was you?!” you exclaim, dumbfounded “My sister mentioned something… she didn’t tell me it was Mihawk who had told her, but on the other hand, I didn’t know he was your friend until tonight…”

“Of course not; I just wanted to know if you’d be… well, willing to do it. Travel for a while, take care of a child you are not related to.”

“But you are?”

“Related to him, you mean? No; as far as I know, I have no children. Luffy is… well, it’s a long story; he has no family worthy of the name and you could say I have adopted him, even though I couldn’t get rid of him would probably be a more accurate description.”

Shanks smiles, the affection clear in his voice; suddenly he’s holding you a bit tighter than before.  

“He’s the child you sacrificed your arm for, isn’t he?”

“He is; it’s not a pretty story, but if you want I’ll tell you about it. He needs discipline, but he’s a good kid, barely older than your nephews; maybe you’ll like living on a ship for a while, and you could return home whenever you want.”

He suddenly spins you around, forcing you to grab his shoulders in order not to fall; for a moment your body is pressed to his, and you just know he did it deliberately. 

“Are you offering me a job, captain Shanks?” you inquire, and now you’re smiling as well.

“I am, miss (last name). Would you be interested?”

You are. Very interested.

“I am. Just… let me think about it for a while.”

“I’m staying in town until spring, or until Mihawk chases me off. You have all the time.”

“Good.”

You sigh happily as you rest your cheek against Shanks’ shoulder, feeling yourself fluctuating between excitement and peace, the precious moment you’re living now and the promise for the future. Once more, poised between two worlds; and perhaps, richer for this.

“May I ask you a question? When you… shift; is it painful?” you inquire, and he needs a moment to consider it. 

“Painful, no; a bit weird, perhaps, like an itch on my legs or tail, but by now I am used to it. And I guess it would look… weird, to someone who has never experienced it.”

“I’d be curious to see it.” you reflect; a moment later a completely inappropriate image fills your mind, and you thank God the torches’ light is faint enough Shanks can’t see you blush “I mean… it’s something so… unusual…”

“That’s a good way to put it, yes.” 

The music stops, and you as well. “Are you cold?” Shanks murmurs gently, and you shake your head, since while you are a little chilly, you are not ready to return inside, where everyone else is, ending the magical moment the two of you are living together.

“There is another thing I’d like to do.” you admit, earning a curious look from the red-haired man in front of you, still holding you tight.

“That is?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy. Or, even worse, completely shameless.”

Shanks gently points out that as a ship captain, he has probably seen more impropriety in a year than you in your whole life. He’s probably not wrong, but even if he weren’t you wouldn’t mind; there is something in Shanks that makes you feel at ease, whatever you may say or do, perhaps because he is not the judging sort, or maybe because there is something special between the two of you and you see no point in denying it. And so, you whisper your indecent proposal in his ear, and a minute later you’re walking away from the villa, hand in hand, towards the little beach that saw you meet for the first time. It is quite a long walk, that you enjoy under the moon, away from the town; you had already noticed Shanks keeps a short sword hidden under his cape, a sign that even the life of the captain of a merchant vessel is not devoid of risk, but you would feel safe all the same, as if just for that night, destiny had decided no evil would befall you. You cut through the fields, Shanks’s sturdy boots and your delicate dancing shoes leaving a line of footsteps behind them; the air is still around you, the promise of a well-kept secret. Neither speaks, but you can feel Shanks’ eyes on you, his ardent dark eyes making you feel more conscious of your body than you have ever been. 

And finally the beach opens in front of you, the moon reflecting on the calm waters enclosed by sand and rocks. The quiet murmuring of the backwash barely stirs the silence surrounding you; it feels as if you and Shanks were the only two people for miles all around, maybe even the only man and woman left in the world; an overwhelming thought, that nonetheless doesn’t upset you, because it’s impossible to feel lonely when you’re in good company.

“So… shall we?” you ask Shanks, and he nods, but for the first time there is a trace of tension in his smile, and he has just taken off his boots, and left his cloak and sword on a nearby rock, when he stops, his arm wrapped around his torso as if to protect himself against an impending danger.

“Are you alright?” you as softly “You don’t have to do this, if it… upsets you.”

“I do want to do it.” he reassures you; his fingers brush against your cheek, the beauty of Shanks’ smile visible even in the almost complete darkness of the night “Sweet (name)... how lucky I am that day you were the one who found me. It’s just… you are the first person I have ever shared my secret with; if someone else were to find out - no, it’s alright, I know you’d never tell. But all my life, I’ve been warned about letting people know… of the dangers of being hunted and killed and exploited. It’s an… instinct of self-preservation, in a sense.”

“I understand.” you reassure him, feeling a little guilty; how could you not think Shanks’ situation was different from yours, and he had much more to fear than being assaulted or robbed at knifepoint? “If you want we can simply…”

“This is fine; just… give me a second…”

He smiles at you and, all too aware of your eyes on him, he starts undressing; soon, his clothes lie abandoned in a pile on the sand, the shadows of the night painting Shanks’ tan skin of all the shades of black and grey. Your gazes meet, and he winks, not exactly grandstanding but making no effort to hide his nudity either, and serenely walks to the shore, and he dives; his long legs disappear under the surface and when he re-emerges, the merman’s long tail raises a spray of water behind it, the soft light of the moon playing on the blue-green scales. 

The beauty of that scene -the beauty of him, human or merman or whatever he is- is enough to move you to tears.   

“I thought you said you wanted to go for a swim!” Shanks calls to you, happily waving his hand “Have you changed your mind? The water is not that cold!”

If there is a thing you are not… completely unhappy you have inherited from your late father, it's the fact that you never back down from a challenge, no matter how friendly. So, without answering, you begin getting rid of your own clothes, the dress you spent so long admiring yourself in falling to the ground as you slip out of it, and then it’s the turn of your stockings and in the end your mid-thigh-high underdress is the the sole thing you’re still wearing as you walk to the shoreline. You shiver as you feel the cold water lapping at your ankles and then your calves, but Shanks is only a few feet away, waiting for you, effortlessly keeping himself afloat; you swim to him, and a moment later he is holding you by the waist once more, your legs instinctively wrapping around his body as your arms find purchase on his shoulders; the water’s cold but protective embrace surrounds you, and when Shanks’ lips finally press against yours, his kiss reverent and hungry and full of promise, you feel as if you were making love to the sea itself.

“I won’t leave again; not without telling you.” Shanks murmurs, your kisses chasing each other; he can’t caress you, since his only arm is still wrapped around you, but judging by the sounds he makes as he sucks on the side of his neck, he likes the way you are touching him “You have… hmmm… my word.”

“I’ll remind you of it.” you answer, and grin “And even if you did, I promise I’ll run after you.”

You laugh together, and “My sweet (name)” Shanks murmurs “Let me breathe for you.”

His mouth has claimed yours in a new kiss when both of your heads disappear under the surface.

TAGGING @luuffyswife and @alucardsdaddyissues. Hope you like this!

[thisreputable]

ghostsoap thoughts | tw cannibalism

wendigo!ghost who consumes at least one of his kills during missions but always, always, saves the choicest, most tender cut for human!soap.

soap, who never balks when he's presented with raw flesh by a creature better suited for the stuff of nightmares. who smiles and takes it from a clawed hand. who stares into eyes like black holes without flinching. who sinks his teeth into bloody meat and chews and swallows and licks his lips.

it's tradition, a sacred ceremony, these moments after the rush of adrenaline and straining muscles and ringing ears. after clips are checked and knives are sheathed and wounds are treated.

after ghost disappears without a sound and everyone ignores the distant sound of meaty rips and hungry snarls and cracking bones.

after all of that, it's this, them. it's a grotesque offeringg from ghost, a being that will always be monstrous regardless of what shape he takes. it's soap consuming that offering bit by bit, bite by bite, until all that remains is tacky crimson smeared across his face and hands and the taste of iron heavy on his tongue.

it's standing still, placid and unafraid - because he's never had anything to fear, not once, not from ghost - as ghost methodically begins the task of licking the blood from soap's skin, a rumbling too gutteral to be called purring, but just as content, coming from low in his chest.

it ends with soap curled into the lap of a still shifted ghost, slowly sipping at his water. with eyes half-lidded and the moments between blinks stretching infinitesimally longer, he watches as the rest of camp settles down for thenight.

the only ones who seem able to look their way without eyes skittering away almost immediately are price and gaz. they amble over to say goodnight before turning in for a few hours before one of them switches watch with ghost.

in the silence that eventually settles, soap lets his eyes finally close fully. turns his face and snuggles into the crook of ghost's neck. releases a sigh and with it the last vestiges of tension in his body.

he falls asleep to ghost's near silent not-purring. full, warm, unharmed if a little sore. safe.

fin

---

this got away from me but yeah. wendigo!ghost and his very normal courting gifts and a besotted soap who's completely unfazed by eating human flesh because his monster boyfriend presented it to him

this is going into my list of wips. hopefully done by early next year 🤞

[wastelandt-t]

"The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly. He is solitary, languid, his condition exhausts him. If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action."

— Albert Camus, The Rebel

Fiction is often the pill case for revolution, an outlet providing its narrator a means for advocation under the whimsical façade of fairies and dragons. C. S Lewis, author of the Narnia Chronicles, presents a ‘supposal’ (Klein, 2023) for the demonstration of Christianity within the magical realm, his faith guiding the four children through ‘the other’ (Nero, 2018) and presenting a reality where the Neoplatonic ‘Good’ trumps all who oppose it, Western societies ideals of social conduct influencing and ultimately conquering the new world. While fiction can be read as a simple escape from the mundanity of modern capitalist structures, it is its separation from our common world that makes it so fulfilling to engage with, frequently using the readers' immediate environment and shared comforts as a foundation to develop its image; Apocalypse as a genre (its Romanised translation meaning Revelation), came to be via the first eschatological texts written by Jewish-Exilic prophets between 200-165bce, and provides an immediate substructure for modern apocalyptic books, Tv shows and Movies such as The Last of Us (2023-), The Walking Dead (2010-2022) and many more widely adored pieces of media. With the genesis of the apocalyptic genre rooted within the catastrophic antisemitic acts of Late Babylonian reform, there is a palpable consummation between social histories and religious allegory, a trend carried throughout history with almost all apocalyptic texts, whether presented through the threat of the Spanish Armada In Webster’s ‘Duchess of Malfi’(1613) or Stoker’s reflection of public hysteria surrounding the fallen woman (The Fallen Woman, 2015) and the colonial guilt (Ilott, 2019) of the fin de siècle in ‘Dracula’(1897). In an ever-growing landscape reliant on technological advancements, there’s ultimately a far greater accessibility to such media, both moral conduct and educational improvements throughout history allowing modern civilization to adapt these tales to a varied representation of the genre for individualist satisfaction. Within the excitement of infinitesimal representations of leads and anti-heroes, a prevalent theme has begun to emerge within the apocalyptic genre, one that is intrinsically linked to the trivialised internet term ‘DILFism’, referring to the generalised attraction towards or for exclusively older men within an overwhelmingly female audience of a significantly younger age. These often white, conventionally attractive older men are a significant drive in younger female audiences engaging in apocalyptic works that have conventionally been geared towards male interest, diverting the gaze often adapted for male interest (such as in the Tomb Raider games and films with the ultra-feminine and beautiful Lara Croft) to a shockingly attainable yet handsome father figure, there to be digested by audiences sexually while posing no threat to his young viewers by appearing adorably platonic. This Leading Man acts in innuendo, appealing to the taboo intrigue of young sexuality and providing a pacifying pathway for the viewer to enact her fantasy upon him, whether that be sexual or fatherly. While this trope could easily be banished to the realm of misogynistic irrelevance such as the vampire craze of the early 2000s was for its overwhelming digestion by young female audiences, the overlap between male-centered apocalyptic action media and its newly claimed female audience presents parallels to social metaphors that reflect the (aforementioned) Prophets of the Old Testament. The emergence of this new Byronic Hero within modern apocalyptic media represents modern fears, a religion on which an under-represented diaspora can exert a mythological metaphor. Despite their undeniable good looks, the men at the center of the female gaze within the apocalyptic genre give a deeper insight into the shortcomings of establishment, and in their placement within the end of the world, such figures can help guide a displaced generation into the promise of a better future.

Early 2000s media brought with it a wave of seemingly irreverent internet terms, which when used to describe the emerging cliques and fandoms for contemporary literature and films such as Twilight and The Vampire Diaries, saw an overwhelming demonisation of its content. Any misogynistic nuance was dissolved when considering the types of media being slated, internet forums and websites such as Kiwi Farms and Tumblr established for the sole purpose of slating media directed towards young, female audiences in the name of ‘Cringe Culture’. Where girls reading Stephanie Meyer and choosing to be team Jacob or Edward was the epitome of hysterical vanity, the same penalisation was not shown towards male-catered media, fights and deaths over football teams honoured as war victories as girls received insult over fandom blogs and posters on walls. While criticism of female-catered media is certainly justified in many respects (whether that be the glorification of eating disorders, negative body image, or the inherent controversy of consent between a 17-year-old girl and a 200-year-old vampire), chauvinist reactions to the female gaze prevailed, hence why as society liberalised the boundaries between gendered content (largely through the extensive piloting towards gender expression by feminist groups and non-binary protest), the leading man, our projective, father Byronic hero becomes the epitome of revolution within the segregated world of media consumption. Opinions, often held by men under the internet-slag terms ‘Incel’ or ‘Lolcow’, offer the opinion that the shared interest in these apocalyptic father figures by both men and women is inherently Freudian, that sexual drive and colloquially termed ‘daddy issues’ is the sole aspect in the consumption of male media by female audiences, inferring a shallowness to girl’s nature as they attempt to gatekeep. While there is irrefutable evidence of women being attracted sexually to the characters at the forefront of the argument, it holds no exclusivity; within these fantasy realms, physical attributes gain a certain irrelevance and whether battle-scarred or zoomorphised, each carries a similarly adoring audience. Within a society that values physical appearance so highly, the wastelands of an apocalypse offer the opportunity to alleviate the social pressures of conformity and the standards of beauty. With an estimated 8.6% of women suffering from disordered eating patterns (more than double the men affected), the survivalist landscape of a zombie apocalypse where self-preservation dominates institutional conventions becomes an unexpected comfort, a safe and Gothic green world upon which to live out the fantasy of escaping debilitating illness. With guides such as the war-torn Daryl Dixon or Rick Grimes from AMC’s The Walking Dead providing for you in this primitive, romanticised escape from your mental illness, it is no wonder so many girls seek comfort within the desolate apocalyptic landscape. Apocalypse here serves as an anecdote to a social structure dictated by advertising, women accounting for 80-90% of the $500 million beauty market fundamentally run by men. To find a man willing to accept you irrespective of looks, while depressingly vain when acknowledged, is undoubtedly attractive, affording viewers to see themselves as a woman worthy of survival while living in a society informed by looks. The Wasteland offers the ultimate validation for an impressionable young audience and finds a female majority following his character where the other sex finds it hard to relate, gendered advertising stretching rarely to male discredit as it does with women.

The promise of valued character over physicality is not the only unexpected comfort to come from the man at the forefront of the apocalypse; much of the character-archetype's allure comes from his ability to resolve crises and act in line with Western ideals of morality. Regardless of whether he has killed before or enjoys the violence of the landscape, he miraculously only harms those who rebut the American Dream, in many cases actively trying to restore it through seeking cures to outbreak or establishing towns on which to build a new, cleaner society. The congruence of societal reflection seen within all historical Apocalyptic fantasy media becomes apparent when considering recent social histories within the audiences' own lives. Many have lived through tragedy, viewers relating to fears of the pandemic, the prospect of war and its homely presence since the nuclear threat of the 1980s, and environmental meltdown a certainty at the hands of corrupt Machiavellian leadership. To see reality nullified and mythicised through the lens of fantasy makes a game of real fears, control passed to a righteous leader that works only for the common good. The control this lead plays in the survival of the apocalypse is perhaps his greatest attribute and, where his authority would be considered threatening in the current reality, only furthers his moral good within the ‘othering’ of Gothic apocalyptic fantasy; Joel Miller, the lead male character in the video game/TV series The Last of Us, is a prime example of the unsuspecting yet powerful virtue of the archetype. In his reluctant quest to move a young girl (Ellie) across the wasteland of zombie-ruined America, he presents an unfaltering physical and mental strength when facing those intent on harming the child. He is family-oriented, seeing something of his late-daughter in Ellie, installing such a strong, platonic bond between the two that he becomes the ultimate guardian, and audiences are assured that no harm should ever come to the child as long as she is with her adopted father, Joel; the transitional period between teen-age and adulthood is a turbulent time developmentally, The Pew Research Institute assessing that fatherly relationships with their daughters are significantly lower in civility than they are in mother/daughter relationships. Joel and characters like him provide an alternative, his nature an accumulation of desired or lost parental relations, not only installing him with the control a parent possesses but elevating the responsibility of the emerging adult viewer as they find comfort in rewritten and fictitious paternal relations. Joel is unfalteringly omnipotent, omnipresent, and benevolent towards Ellie, positioning his character in a prophetic light, deifying him through moral and physical superiority that seems worthy of worship, just as girlish fandom does within fan pages and forums. His fatherly devotion establishes zero sexual threat which, in a society where 15 million girls ages 15-19 have experienced rape and sexual violence, offers a reprieve from the everyday terror of assault, his character going as far as to hunt down and sadistically eliminate those who attempted to enact such abuse upon Ellie. Where indignation is a reality expected for many women emerging into adulthood and with ubiquitous fears of societal and environmental disestablishment, a character, morally grey as the ‘green world’ has allowed them to become, adheres to the scriptures of idealised, Christian virtue, allocating the same messianic image onto the aging survivalist as Aslan provided in C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles. Their characters are easily relatable, the main drive of the archetype is to reestablish a dignified control in an otherwise unstable landscape, a reflection of the transitional state of the age and location of his audience within a faltering capitalist civilisation.

The perfect image of this hero is disparaged only by his age and appearance, which, within a topography so ruinous as in the realm of fantasy, often only deepens his appeal; Domonique Lestel from the Edinburgh University Press supposes that young adult audiences reflect their opinions of the state of the common world into the media mythologies, meaning that romanticising the downfall of Institution makes it easier to digest, especially for those just entering a chartered marketplace disguised as the ‘9-5’. Through creating a limerent and metaphorical relationship with the characters that represent the shortcomings of society, it is easier to categorise reality in an attractive regard: falling in love with the principled ‘monster’ navigating the end of the world makes one’s journey a lot more palatable. Leaders of the Pagan faith endorse similar techniques of self-soothing and discovery through spiritual rituals such as shadow work, where a subject attempts to converse with the Freudian, psychoanalytic ‘Id’ with the aim of self-reflection and ultimately deliverance from repressed fears and desires stifling life’s natural transitions. Through the discovery of personal discomposure, one can reframe anxieties within superficial terrain, allowing audiences in such a landscape of apocalyptic fiction to transgress fear into desire. Indications of transgressive reframing are found throughout literary history, similar reflections of the female gaze can be witnessed through Lucy Westenra’s actions in Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ (1897); in her somnambulic state, Lucy finds herself unchaperoned in the garden late at night, called to the wolf-ish form of Dracula through an uncharacteristic sexual appetite, actions which would ultimately lead to her untimely and violent death. Lucy’s representation as the ‘femme fatale’ within the epistolary novel was a pasquinade by Stoker, mocking contemporary views on the Fallen Woman and implicitly addressing the institutions upon which he as an author was extradited for his social politics. Through the lens of the Gothic, which as a genre, rests parallel to apocalyptic fantasy, the taboo is far easier indulged in, its separation from reality making the unknowable known and the offensive, satire, all containing still the knowledge that the text's themes are simply a facade held against the contemporary landscape. Our attraction to the hazy morals, animalistic forms, and violent delight of the apocalyptic male archetype is nothing more than a handsome way of exploring feared desire, whether that be sexual or in virtue, born from discomfort within the modern world with a value likened to religious practice, ancient or reformed.

With women often subject to the violent scapegoat of male-catered media, the stereotyped innocence of femininity is abolished when faced with the Western world’s destruction. It's unlikely that the shock of 19th century ‘flaneur-ish’ tropes depicting the slaying of the vicious, voluptuous, and ‘Fallen Woman’ with teeth lining her Vagina have vanished within the mindless violence of the modern slasher flick. Within the land of the undead, there’s an established law that human, moral or otherwise, boasts an absolute right to life above their late opposition; where the monster finds its origins in the misogynistic depictions of liberated women, the gleeful attitude towards the ‘boogeyman's’’ demise is perhaps a rather depressing extension of those same disparaging views towards, the colloquially and improperly termed, ‘fairer sex’. Women infiltrating these male-dominated spaces such as video game fandoms set within the apocalypse summons similar, but most certainly more trivial, trepidations as suffrage installed within the turn of the industrial century. The same threat to authority men faced in the political sphere during the late reign of Victoria is reproduced through retweets and dislikes, writers of modern apocalyptic media reframing institutional, often misogynistic tropes to seek a wider audience for capital gain, leaving many men stuck in the conventions of old to feel displaced themselves within ‘incel-ish’ apathy towards change. They find themselves unable to find the Femme Fatale represented within the media, disallowing an outlet to see women suffer nonsensically as was common up to as late as the mid-2000s (‘I Spit on your Grave’ [2010] being a continuously remade and adapted film that sees the liberation of its leading women to become a subplot to non-con/rape fantasy). The lead-male archetype is more than just a pretty face and a pat on the back for his audience, as his presence within the media is discouraging fantastical depictions of sexual assault and violence towards women for male satisfaction: his nonchalance and undiscriminating violence or absolute devotion towards social change add something of a Byronic hero to the framework of his media, providing a role model for young men, as well as an incentive to engage for women. The success of his character has lent itself to a lesser production of sadistic, prejudiced, and pornographic material influencing the impressionable generation, the irony of his place within a desolate, fictional society creating an antithetical impression on the reality of those who digest his plot.

The joy of seeing oneself accepted within celebrated media is an undisputable joy and the lessons one inadvertently learns through the exploration of a fictional narrative can uncover subconscious truths about the very foundations of society. In a world of strict binaries that install obtuse depressions and fears surrounding the transgressional stages we as a species collectively face, a character who holds a vicarious command over his landscape is a lot easier to adore than those with influence within reality, the fallible nature of his actions and desires forgivable through his distance from reality. Yet, it is his ability to collate the diverse nature of humanity that shows his audience a fairer, more accepting reality is possible, his bringing together of opposites through fandom blogs such as the one you are on currently, a much-needed reprieve from the segregated nature of our current political landscape. In a world of dog-eat-dog, the leading moody, fallible, scarred, violent, caring, volatile, sullen, moral, courteous, and devoted survivalist holds out his arm and holster to a new generation of isolated but hopeful youths to grab a hold on.

[andreaec]

«SOY VERTICAL

Pero preferiría ser horizontal.

No soy un árbol con las raíces en la tierra

absorbiendo minerales y amor maternal

para que cada marzo florezcan las hojas,

ni soy la belleza del jardín

de llamativos colores que atrae exclamaciones de admiración

ignorando que pronto perderá sus pétalos.

Comparado conmigo, un árbol es inmortal

y una flor, aunque no tan alta, es más llamativa,

y quiero la longevidad de uno y la valentía de la otra.

—

Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas,

los árboles y las flores han derramado sus olores frescos.

Camino entre ellos, pero no se dan cuenta.

A veces pienso que cuando estoy durmiendo

me debo de parecer a ellos a la perfección—

oscurecidos ya los pensamientos.

Para mí es más natural estar tendida.

Es entonces cuando el cielo y yo conversamos con libertad,

y así seré útil cuando al fin me tienda:

entonces los árboles podrán tocarme por una vez, y las flores tendrán tiempo para mí.»

— Sylvia Plath

[maraiheroine]

𓆩✧𓆪 - @essence-flux-primed: "The universe is so big," he says, caught halfway between wonder and sorrow, fingertips skimming the water he hovers over. "So many planets, so many galaxies... I used to think Ahri's team was the only one, that it was us against all the horrors in the universe. But it's bigger than that. Bigger than us." So why does he sound so sad? "How many Star Guardians are out there?"

The calm waters reflected the sky above them both like a pristine mirror, with Nami's head above the surface it felt as if she was swimming amongst the stars themselves. The very thought that she could be here, spending time with another Star Guardian from somewhere in the universe she's never even heard of, is enough to fix a smile on her face. But the same can't be said for him; trying to place himself into an infinitesimal perspective when faced with all of reality. Was it because he envisioned a grand purpose? To save the entire universe? Not one Guardian could do so, that was never what the First Star expected. Nami wanted to ask, but it seems he got to a question first. She treads the water, fins appearing now and then to tease the appearance of her tail just below, beneath the night sky of water.

"I think there's as many Guardians as there needs to be, to keep our worlds protected." She regrets her words almost immediately, a chord in her heart panging at the thought that it was a betrayal of her friend in need. A soft cheek nuzzles against hers as Babu notices her worry, and breaches the surface to bump into her comfortingly. It's fins are given a gentle pet before it continues to circle around her once more. But he would join them again, Nami needs to remind herself. She and the rest of her team will save him, if they could just find a little more help "Numbers alone aren't what keep us safe, though. It's all of us working together, and being there for one another."

"Before I ever surfaced on my world, I thought there was only a great darkness above the water, filled with monsters wanting to take everything I cared for. Becoming a Star Guardian means learning a lot and changing your perspective to grow with that new knowledge. It's like the rest of the universe is suddenly, truly in reach. I feel there's comfort, finding out we're not the only ones protecting it all. It would be pretty hard to, if that was the case." Nami hums a chuckle at her own words, but returns her focus to her fellow Guardian soon after, hoping that his own spirits were lifted by her words.

Reaching up, Nami's hands take the other guardian's as she meets him above the soft, rippling surface. Gems and ethereal metal delicately sing out as a quiet choir with the sudden intermission. And eyes full of that same worry, searching for a defining purpose in the cosmos, meet Ezreal's with a certain smile. "It can't really be bigger than you, if you're a part of it. We're just like all the lights in our shared sky; countless in number, but all equally as important in our roles! Even with one going out, the sky becomes a little less grand, that less wonderous. No matter how small you feel your part might be, I just know that you've done good for so many other lives. And that's worth so very much."

[vaniinh]

Leí que te gusta la poesía

Tienes alguna poesía que puedas compartir?

No sé en qué momento fue este ask, pero sí. Este es uno de mis poemas favoritos. Se llama Soy vertical de Sylvia Plath

Soy vertical.

Pero preferiría ser horizontal.

No soy un árbol con las raíces en la tierra

absorbiendo minerales y amor materno

para que cada marzo florezcan las hojas,

ni soy la belleza del jardín

de llamativos colores que atrae exclamaciones de admiración

ignorando que pronto perderá sus pétalos.

Comparado conmigo, un árbol es inmortal

y una flor, aunque no tan alta, es más llamativa,

y quiero la longevidad de uno y la valentía de la otra.

Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas,

los árboles y las flores han derramado sus olores frescos.

Camino entre ellos, pero no se dan cuenta.

A veces pienso que cuando estoy durmiendo

me debo parecer a ellos a la perfección,

oscurecidos ya los pensamientos.

Para mí es más natural estar tendida.

Es entonces cuando el cielo y yo conversamos con libertad,

y así seré útil cuando al fin me tienda:

entonces los árboles podrán tocarme por una vez,

y las flores tendrán tiempo para mí

Gracias poe preguntar c:

[abellinthecupboard]

Desert/Dune

Centuries possibly although you can't tell from here. As if your gaze could finger its linkings one by one— the grains, the change, the blazing                         infinitesimals So much time has passed. Can't you feel its adjectival backbone slither, grainy shifting and reshifting, as if constantly tired again of being just the world— describe, describe— push certain freedoms, bulging, aside, cast this strictest glance       great bridal veil over the body of the dune which moves on under it like the great wave it is, changing the shine on the ridge of its back, birds coming down if one is still— there are not many truths— till morning comes till evening comes, till morning comes till evening comes, wind bursting up like flames off dune— a wind aflutter on his animal— riding and riding his one long animal, sharpening flanks— the good, the wrong, maybe the free,                       maybe even some (softest of all) in- difference: moon-liquors gentling it— black fin—fugue of— and then this side of it, and then that side, heat seeping from the pressing grains, some give, after a while some deeper bemd. I beg        your pardon. Shrivellings of place now flying from the dune, spent-living creeping from it—right off the tightened skin— then tracks unblossoming, then even more spent living flying off, night airs, insolvent distances, beckonings of wind to sans, invisible crows, dust-risen faces— a metal clang now on the evening air—(oh caravan's                                                         unseen approach):         (syncopation of driest hooves), (battering of single drum)—(3/5 repeats)—                                  (into dusk air)— then cooling sand, then crack of voices riding by, some laughter ticked-out over sand, deeper and deeper into the open, following the seriously wounded narrator.

— Jorie Graham, Swarm (2000)

[syncrovoid-presents]

I shall tell you all about the dream I had last night, since I am in a Silly mood @:o)

To start, I must introduce you to the two main characters; Cosmos and Guide (and You, but You know You, don't You?)

Cosmos is a giant creature, bigger than any concept of huge can ever encompass. Like a teardrop encasing galaxies, it has a giant maw without any distinguishable eyes, ears, teeth nor nose. With four stubby limbs neither legs nor fins, it roams the infinite space by its lonesome.

Guide is, as their name suggests, a guide. Trapped within a disk floating through space, they have dedicated their android life to the discovery and research of Cosmos.

Their ship, simply called "The Ship" is a giant circular room with all glass walls, a floor and a ceiling, and nothing more. There is 1 chair in the middle that can spin, and a floating semi circle that spins around that. There's also placards with information about Cosmos around the glass windows.

The floor is a muddy orange carpet, too bright to be terracotta but too dull to be a sunset. It shifts hues depending on where in space The Ship is, as the technology of Guide's android people communicate through Colours (they have, kindly, learnt human languages for the purpose of this dream).

Now imagine you, popping into existence within this ship. There are no planets in sight bigger than a large marble, the windows giving view to thousands of stars, glittering space dust.

And you are alone, and there is no escape.

There are no doors, no stairs, no exit or entrance. All there is is you, and the vast expanse of the universe.

And then you see Cosmos.

Cosmos dwarfs the size of the sun, a fraction of its paw magnitudes larger than the largest planet. You can only witness it from a distance, and it, perhaps, may never be witness to a lifeform as brief and small such as yourself.

Guide appears, standing with a pen and paper in hand, scribbling notes about Cosmos. To Guide, Cosmos is an endless well of information, as the constant shifting hues and lights within Cosmos is pure language. To you, however, who lacks this sense, Cosmos is a being of impossible proportions, a harbinger of space itself.

Guide asks why you are there, their face a flat disk of blinking lights. Any answer you give is meaningless, as you are there now, and you will be there until the universe decides to let you go.

Guide explains to you that Cosmos is more than what it seems. Cosmos is what everyone exists within. Cosmos is existence itself, each molecule of its vast being a whole new universe, a whole new reality.

Doubtfully you ask how that can be, if Cosmos is out there and you are here.

Guide laughs and repeats themself, because you don't yet understand. But that doesn't matter, because your belief hasn't any impact on what Cosmos is or what Cosmos will become. Your life is infinitesimal compared to it, and that wasn't a horror, it was a comfort.

You watch as Cosmos, giant mouth gaping wide, a black hole incarnate, devours a planet. Behind you you hear a shuffle, and a weary voice call out. It is familiar, too familiar, and the urge learn who it is swells within you.

Guide pats you on the back and tells you to leave, pointing to an open hole in the glass. You go to it, but not before entertaining your curiousity.

You turn around and see the new person standing there, the new person that was all too familiar. Brought by the destruction of a planet, they may be the first or last or only soul to be brought here.

When you turn around, you see yourself.

[wongkar-gay]

Soy vertical

Pero preferiría ser horizontal.

No soy un árbol con raíces en el suelo,

que sorba minerales y amor maternal,

para que al llegar marzo sus hojas resplandezcan;

ni encarno la belleza de un jardín,

que atraiga exclamaciones y mueva a que lo pinten,

sin saber que muy pronto sus pétalos caerán.

Comparado conmigo, es inmortal el árbol.

Y una corola, no muy alta, pero más sorprendente,

y de uno anhelo la longevidad, y de la otra la audacia.

Esta noche, a la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas,

las flores y los árboles han estado esparciendo su refrescante aroma.

Yo camino entre ellos, pero ninguno se da cuenta.

A veces pienso en eso cuando duermo,

tengo que parecérmeles lo más posible:

pensamientos que se han ido empañando.

Yo, que estoy acostada, lo siento como algo natural.

Así es que el cielo y yo tenemos nuestras charlas,

y he de ser útil cuando yazca al fin:

por una vez, entonces, me tocarán los árboles, y tendrán tiempo para mí las flores.

[kkkkioku]

Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas, los árboles y las flores han derramado sus olores frescos. Camino entre ellos, pero no se dan cuenta. A veces pienso que cuando estoy durmiendo me debo parecer a ellos a la perfección, oscurecidos ya los pensamientos.

Para mí es más natural desfallecer. Es entonces cuando el cielo y yo conversamos con libertad, y así seré útil cuando al fin me tienda: entonces los árboles podrán tocarme por una vez, y las flores tendrán tiempo para mí.

[cassieon]

Quotes from a wonderful work of art from The Wanderer's Library- A betrothal in blue.

Stygian Blue perfectly describes the feeling of being swallowed by the sea, and welcoming it.

"Here in the depths, there are giants whose calls of love and joy at seeing one so small and curious as I would turn me to rubber by vibration alone, and there are equally those infinitesimally smaller than I who would die by the movement of my fins, and I take no care for them than the whales do for me."

" The crash of waves on the legs of docks and the drooling of bullkelp from the smallest pebbles is overpowering, and even while I remain dry on my walk to the dive site I am plunging headfirst into the sea’s embrace, allowing her to overwhelm and pull me down into fathomless depths, wet and blind to the horror of a bleaching sun."

"The blackness takes hold, and the sea is blue-black all around, and the ocean floor does not recede with careful dignity but rather has rudely dropped away into the abyss at the moment of my arrival, and instead of scuttling off like so many crabs beneath a rock I point myself from horizontal stagnation into the verticality of a falling arrow, and I kick hard under and descend an underwater cliff wall of grey sea lichen and dark algae until I can see no more, and then I keep kicking as a roaring blackness swallows me whole."

[al-achunte]

SOY VERTICAL

Soy vertical. Pero preferiría ser horizontal. No soy un árbol con las raíces en la tierra absorbiendo minerales y amor materno para que cada marzo florezcan las hojas, ni soy la belleza del jardín de llamativos colores que atrae exclamaciones de admiración ignorando que pronto perderá sus pétalos. Comparado conmigo, un árbol es inmortal y una flor, aunque no tan alta, es más llamativa, y quiero la longevidad de uno y la valentía de la otra. Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas, los árboles y las flores han derramado sus olores frescos. Camino entre ellos, pero no se dan cuenta. A veces pienso que cuando estoy durmiendo me debo parecer a ellos a la perfección, oscurecidos ya los pensamientos. Para mí es más natural estar tendida. Es entonces cuando el cielo y yo conversamos con libertad, y así seré útil cuando al fin me tienda: entonces los árboles podrán tocarme por una vez, y las flores tendrán tiempo para mí. -Sylvia Plath - Poesía completa (2008)

[mybuddyjimmy]

Infinitesimal

Infinitesimal [in-fin-ih-TIS-ə-məl] Part of speech: adjective Origin: Latin, mid-17th century 1. Extremely small. Examples of infinitesimal in a sentence “The weatherman said there’s an infinitesimal chance it will rain today, but I’m still taking my jacket.” “Infinitesimal traces of chicken fell on the floor, but my dog immediately smelled them.”

[happycattail]

Got tagged by @pointvee

So the rules of the game is to write one song for every letter in your url, and then tag as many people as there are letters in your url :)

H - Hello My Old Heart - The Oh Hellos

A - Abandon Ship - fin

P - Predator and Prey (feat. Jonah Scott) - Griffin Puatu

P - Problems - Weathers

Y - You're Somebody Else - flora cash

C - Curses - The Crane Wives

A - Ain't No Rest for the Wicked - Cage the Elephant

T - Toss a Coin to Your Witcher - Sonya Belousiva, Giona Ostinelli, Joey Batey

T - Turn the Lights Off - Tally Hall

A - Archers - The Ballroom Thieves

I - Infinitesimal - Mother Mother

L - Little Talks - Of Monsters and Men

@lettucecomplexx @fennzer @imperialkatwala @blanksandwich @liminalumi @savimatteo2810 @apollenaria @foolofatook001 @arson-n-quwubeezz @sagewiththyme @czarojay @moriarty-art

[patoanacoreta]

Control del tiempo y de la energía

Javier Belda - Instituto Humanista de Pronosticación Sistémica - IHPS

Para comprender en qué momento histórico nos encontramos, no se trata únicamente de la geopolítica de las grandes potencias, se trata de ver lo histórico en su dinámica presente, tratando de observar la interacción de varios factores.

El transhumanismo quiere atrapar los cielos por asalto

Ciertas élites mundiales están tratando de dar dirección a la humanidad. Cuando en foros como el de Davos –y otros a puerta cerrada– dicen que están velando por la humanidad no están mintiendo totalmente, y eso lo peor.

El transhumanismo es presentado frecuentemente por los nuevos profetas como el salto evolutivo necesario, tanto es así que pretende ser la nueva religión que desplazará a la espiritualidad.

La propuesta, a pocas décadas vista, es alcanzar la felicidad plena ¡Alto! solo algunos de los pobladores terrestres, ya que serán diseñadas diferentes tipologías humanas.

Aquí tenemos un típico video que trata sobre las maravillas que nos esperan en el futuro:

Longevidad, inmortalidad, nueva eugenesia, superinteligencia, supersoldados, fin del hambre y de las enfermedades, regeneración de órganos, bebés de diseño, colonización de otros planetas, upload de la conciencia…

Esta pretensión se inmiscuye en el terreno de la espiritualidad, cuyo fin último es «el control del tiempo y de la energía» (Silo, 1969).

El salto evolutivo no nos escandaliza, una civilización tecnológica como la que ha surgido en el Sistema Solar tendrá momentos futuros inimaginables hoy en día, visto su proceso acelerado.

Pero observemos el trasfondo, no sea que no haya nada de nuevo en todo este asunto del transhumanismo.

Esta doctrina se ha tratado de justificar intelectualmente a través de la concepción del superhombre de Nietzsche, pero omitiendo que el filósofo se refería a un nuevo ser humano esencial, no a una máquina. Ya el nazismo intentó justificarse en Nietzsche; tal vez se trate, nuevamente, de ese mismo nazismo resiliente.

ESPIRITUALIDAD

La espiritualidad, como la energía, ni se crea ni se destruye

Cuando se habla de las cosas desde los tópicos, sin voluntad de estudio, se dice que Nietzsche, Newton, Einstein o Schrödinger eran ateos. Pero la realidad es que todos ellos anhelaban hallar un sentido y visualizaban un ser humano conectado con un propósito universal trascendente.

Newton estudió y desarrolló el legendario ocultismo hermético antes de estudiar la naturaleza de la luz, la óptica, el cálculo infinitesimal y la gravitación.

Algunos de los principios de la doctrina hermética eran: el pensamiento simbólico, el ser humano como nexo entre el microcosmos y el macrocosmos, el anima mundi, la teoría de las correspondencias entre niveles, la complementariedad de los contrarios, la meditación como técnica de ascesis y la vida como vía de transmutación personal.

En el libro de Walter Isaacson Einstein: his life and Universe aparece la cita:

«Intenta penetrar con nuestros limitados medios en los secretos de la naturaleza y encontrarás que, detrás de todas las leyes y conexiones discernibles, permanece algo sutil, intangible e inexplicable. La veneración de esta fuerza que supera todo lo que podemos comprender es mi religión. En ese sentido yo soy, de hecho, religioso.»

En cuanto a Nietzsche, este se refiere al hombre capaz de superarse a sí mismo y a su naturaleza a fin de alcanzar la libertad de su esencia. Para ello debe romper también con la forma mental dogmática de las tradiciones.

El «escepticismo griego» y la «epojé» de Husserl estaban diciendo: pon todo en cuestión, no partas de nada establecido, a partir de ese lugar trata de explorar el mundo que te rodea y el modo en que lo ves y lo estructuras. Trata de comprender con la mente despejada de toda idea preconcebida.

Ortega y Gasset observó que para hacer eso se requiere de valentía e hizo referencia al «pecho», como un punto donde se registra.

Ortega describe la falta de valor en el Epílogo sobre el alma desilusionada.

«…el alma supersticiosa es, en efecto, el can que busca un amo. Ya nadie recuerda siquiera los gestos nobles del orgullo, y el imperativo de libertad, que resonó durante centurias, no hallaría la menor comprensión. Al contrario, el hombre siente un increíble afán de servidumbre. Quiere servir ante todo: a otro hombre, a un emperador, a un brujo, a un ídolo. Cualquier cosa, antes que sentir el terror de afrontar en solitario, con el propio pecho, los embates de la existencia.»

¿No es correcto pensar que de existir una «realidad primordial», apartar el temor al vacío sería el punto de partida para poder captarla?

En lo que se refiere a la espiritualidad el tiempo es no-lineal. Se encuentran los mismos desarrollos y planteamientos en momentos muy alejados en el tiempo.

El budismo ha sido interpretado como una forma de ateísmo, precisamente porque parte de la «ataraxia». Es a partir de una mente suspendida en el vacío, que se puede avanzar, lo cual no es nada distinto al «gnosticismo» y a «la nube del no saber» de los Padres del desierto del cristianismo oriental.

Sin entrega y desprendimiento de la razón no hay revelación.

TRADICIÓN

El germen de las civilizaciones choca con lo establecido en las civilizaciones

La devoción mística no ha fijado su interés en polemizar con la herencia del conocimiento antiguo, sino en tratar de experimentar un contacto interior con lo esencial, apartando todo aquello que interfiera.

Se trataría de ir a la búsqueda de una experiencia y no de discutir interminablemente con el sistema de creencias establecido en cada época.

Evidentemente este punto es muy problemático en el mundo histórico social. El contacto con lo profundo no pasa desapercibido. Sin querer o queriendo se tocan cosas «sagradas», lo cual no suele estar bien visto.

Generaciones anteriores establecieron lo que es sagrado y debe ser protegido con celo, pero aquello que, en un primer momento, fue experiencia de contacto pura, luego se externalizó y quedó como un sistema formal equivalente una cáscara con dudoso fruto.

De otra parte, una experiencia de contacto, aunque intensa y pura, no garantiza una correcta traducción de la misma por parte del devoto, que una vez fuera de la experiencia está determinado por su paisaje temporal.

Es interesante observar cómo de algo tan nimio como la experiencia de contacto interior con lo profundo surgen civilizaciones milenarias.

DINÁMICA DEL TIEMPO HISTÓRICO

Conclusiones.

Un posicionamiento necesario en favor de la vida

Comprendemos como motor de la historia a las generaciones, en el sentido de lo expuesto por Ortega y Gasset . A partir de esta mirada se observa la problemática histórica. Es decir, se trata de un modo de observar, una ley que actúa sobre el proceso histórico.

«Ha habido generaciones que sintieron una suficiente homogeneidad entre lo recibido y lo propio. Entonces se vive en épocas cumulativas. Otras veces han sentido una profunda heterogeneidad entre ambos elementos, y sobrevinieron épocas eliminatorias y polémicas, generaciones de combate. En las primeras, los nuevos jóvenes, solidarizados con los viejos, se supeditan a ellos: en la política, en la ciencia, en las artes siguen dirigiendo los ancianos. Son tiempos de viejos. En las segundas, como no se trata de conservar y acumular, sino de arrumbar y sustituir, los viejos quedan barridos por los mozos. Son tiempos de jóvenes, edades de iniciación y beligerancia constructiva». (Ortega y Gasset 1983).

Siempre la generación instalada tenderá a querer preservar su estatus, mirando con nostalgia hacia un pasado que se desvanece en el recuerdo. La generación tiende a la extinción, no se reconoce en el presente y cada vez tiene menos control sobre el futuro.

Este desgaste es tan traumático que puede dar origen a una vía de violencia sistémica a fin de intentar controlar el tiempo por la fuerza, es decir perpetuarse intentando manipular y reprimir a lo emergente.

Sin embargo, resultaría simplista limitarnos a afirmar: lo nuevo es lo bueno y lo viejo es malo.

En la dinámica generacional de las diferentes culturas se observa también un desgaste espiritual dispar.

En el Mundo Occidental, hoy vemos a una vieja generación instalada que quiere jugar a ser Dios, sin haber comprendido nada del proceso humano.

Estos moribundos van a mezclar cosas para disfrazarse de filántropos, van a hablar de un paraíso terrenal para unos pocos, el cual pasa por convertirse en un ciborg estúpido aunque con grandes habilidades.

Ellos dicen que son el futuro porque tienen recursos económicos para aparentar modernidad. Estos recursos han sido obtenidos de forma ilícita con un sistema de pensamiento y una metodología colonialista.

Estos globalistas no son el futuro, son el pasado, su concepción del mundo es el pasado. Para alimentar a un sistema de estafa y crimen organizado que llamaron Capitalismo se fundamentaron, sobre todo, en la industria de la guerra.

Rentabilizan todo: la guerra, la reconstrucción, la enfermedad, la salud… Mientras el futuro de la humanidad es postergado, atrapado en el colapso de las generaciones.

Poco importa que hayan instruido en sus centros de poder a un puñado de jóvenes privilegiados (que presiden empresas y países como obedientes servidores), su modelo es el viejo colonialismo.

En cambio, en el Mundo Oriental, así como en los pueblos originarios de América, las sociedades no están todavía tan desestructuradas, conservan algo que las sostiene, un sustrato que les aporta cierto equilibrio ético y moral.

Tratando de hallar a la espiritualidad no-lineal, observamos que lo nuevo está también latente en pasado (no importa si pasaron miles de años) y aparecerá en el futuro de algún modo hoy desconocido.

En el plano de la geopolítica el resultado del choque entre los dos mundos afecta a la supervivencia de la humanidad.

Se trata de civilizaciones no de siglas partidarias. Carece de sentido un no-posicionamiento equidistante. No hay nada nuevo –no hay verdadera reflexión– en corrientes políticas, filosóficas y espirituales que tratando de representar lo nuevo aspiran a inhibirse y aislarse del mundo.

«No hay partido ni movimiento en el planeta que pueda acabar con la violencia» (Silo 1969). Así, el posicionamiento existencial por la supervivencia –en el propio pecho– es un requerimiento del momento histórico.

Hacemos un llamado a observadores, desde todos los campos, comprometidos con nuestro tiempo histórico. Nuevos Paradigmas es un proyecto de red social que deseamos ver crecer en participantes y en contenidos. La confluencia de distintas miradas nos permitirá configurar escenarios alentadores en la filosofía, la espiritualidad, la política, el arte, la ciencia y la cultura, frente al imperio de las mentiras. Pueden unirse y compartir información en: @IHPSnuevosparadigmas https://t.me/IHPSnuevosparadigmas/763

[naturalsandraadriana]

Dos tetraedros unidos, masculino-femenino, conforman la estrella y la multiplicación de tetraedros hasta 64 (el número de codones del ADN y el número de hexagramas del I Ching) nos conducen hasta una figura representada en todas las tradiciones espirituales llamada La Flor de la Vida. Dentro de esa matriz encontramos el “el vector en equilibrio”, la vida sigue este mismo modelo pues el zigoto se divide en dos, y después en cuatro esferas y así sucesivamente hasta el 64, el número de codones del ADN. Los más conocidos son los fractales de los crop circles, los cuales nos ayudan a comprender la cuadratura del círculo y cómo la estructura infinitesimal del átomo nunca se llegará a su fin porque se van replicando cada vez más y más pequeños. “Todo se mueve a la velocidad de la luz, incluidos los átomos. Nosotros también nos movemos a la velocidad de la luz. No hay movimiento, lo que hay son fluctuaciones Dos tetraedros unidos, masculino-femenino, conforman la estrella y la multiplicación de tetraedros hasta 64 (el número de codones del ADN y el número de hexagramas del I Ching) nos conducen hasta una figura representada en todas las tradiciones espirituales llamada La Flor de la Vida. Dentro de esa matriz encontramos el “el vector en equilibrio”, la vida sigue este mismo modelo pues el zigoto se divide en dos, y después en cuatro esferas y así sucesivamente hasta el 64, el número de codones del ADN https://www.instagram.com/p/ClfZF1hgL_C/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=