#love suffering

[reymska]

Grief

[moonypdfootprongsimp]

Idk what is it with me and suffering but here’s a jegulus WW2 AU fic with a bit of wolfstar if you wanna suffer like me (aside from the pain, the fic is so great I loved it, and it also broke me)

[oathkeeperoathbreaker]

“Don’t touch me,” she said, wrenching away. It should not have hurt, yet it did, more than any slap. Red-faced, as angry as she was grief-stricken, Cersei struggled for breath. “Don’t look at me, not . . . not like this . . . not you.”

Tyrion V, A CLASH OF KINGS

He slapped her. Not hard, but hard enough. “Damn you,” he said. “Damn you. Never mock me. Not you.”

Tyrion X, A CLASH OF KINGS

[yeslordmyking]

Suffering makes you closer to God and the person He intended for you to be when He created you. It's time to love and embrace the pain and suffering we are naturally wired to hate and avoid.

I love sadness, pain, and suffering, because I know that God is changing me for the better, even if I can never be myself or love what I love ever again.

Let her die. Do not mourn her.

Thank you God for this heartbreak.

[noknowshame]

why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?

[eskildit]

In a better kinder world. Gideon nav would have been at the club.

[huachengsromcom]

People call Heaven Official’s Blessing / TGCF a slow burn but Hua Cheng is literally courting Xie Lian like they are DATING. Slow burn who??? They’re sleeping next to each other on straw mats and Xie Lian’s offering to cook him dinner and they’re bantering across THE HOME THEY SHARE like a bunch of desperate hussys

San Lang LEAVES XL WITH A KEEPSAKE OF THEIR TIME TOGETHER SLOW BURN WHOMST

They have A DATE in HC’s armoury where they HOLD HANDS and XL pets San Lang’s quivering sword I-

Hua Cheng basically throws himself at this man he’s like you want a sword?? All of them ?? You want ALL THE SWORDS?? Fuck it take the whole room THE WHOLE ROOM JUST COME VISIT I WILL CLEAN THEM FOR YOU

Like he isn’t the king of a whole realm with shit to do

And this is just the first half of the first book—again I ask the world SLOW BURN WHOMST

[seagiri]

heatstroke

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[justaz]

*merlins magic gets exposed in front of the knights*

merlin, magic user: oh fuck

arthur, finally taking this opportunity to pretend as if he just found out merlin has magic after agonizing for the past month on how to bring it up: you have magic?

lancelot, merlin defender, already knew of merlin’s magic: no! i have magic

gwaine, merlin defender, already knew of merlin’s magic, lover of chaos, ride or die: no, i have magic!

mordred, desperate for his hero’s approval bc no matter what he’s done emrys just stares at him with distrust and the poor boy is tired and so close to tears: no…i have magic.

percival, raised by druids and bonded strongly with mordred over that and does Not agree with the persecution of magic in camelot, had an inkling that merlin had magic but no proof: no. i have magic.

*leon and elyan exchange a look, elyan, amused and leon, exhausted, elyan shrugs*

elyan, knows how much gwen adores merlin and completely understands her stance bc merlin…is merlin, down to clown and put on a show, really playing up the dramatics: no! i have magic.

leon, exhausted, has known of merlin’s magic since he stepped foot in camelot, knows of his feelings for arthur and arthur’s feelings for him, knows arthur knows of merlin’s magic and wouldn’t harm him, thinks everyone is being absolutely ridiculous:

*the knights stare hard at leon and even merlin looks slightly offended at leon not jumping to his defense with the rest of the knights, arthur hasn’t said anything and is staring at leon expectantly*

leon, sighing: …no. i have magic.

[lady-corrine]

Thinking again about how Suzanne esentially subverted the "beloved famous man that is actually a horrible person in real life" with Finnick, who is the complete opposite of that.

Finnick has this whole image costructed around him by the people that abused him for years: the Capitol's darling, their golden boy, the sex symbol of Panem, the man that has countless lovers but leaves them constantly and doesn't look back etc. And you would expect, initially, to meet a man that retains at least a part of that persona in his day to day life. But Finnick doesn't, not even one bit.

You see instead a man that is deeply in love and completely devoted to the one woman he quite literally adores, a man that protects Mags, his old mentor and his mother figure, as much as he can, a man that wouldn't leave Johanna behind, a man that gathers whatever strenght he has left to speak publicly about the abuse inflicted upon him at the government's hands; the opposite of what the Capitol's media and reputation made him out to be.

[inkiedraws]

"LOL this flip-flop wearing loser thinks he's gonna kick my ass and destroy my whole kingdom in the span of an afternoon. What an idiot"

I didn't intend for this to be a full comic, which is why it just kinda ends. Sowwy

[catabasis]

every day i think of the light progressively abandoning the doctor's eyes in season four

[nenayaquisieras]

Simon has always been confused on why you gift him toys. Sure, most of the gifts you gave him were some of the things he liked. Bourbon, masks, gloves, make up for him to smudge his eyes with, some daggers and knives. Things that we're useful for him, just him. But later, you gifted him a toy airplane. He makes a comment about it, saying he is not a child anymore and you were better off giving it to Johnny instead.

"No, this is specifically for you, take it."

When he gets to him room, he walks toward his trash can, opening it with the tip of his boot. He gives one more look at the toy, his mood souring before throwing it into the trash. He goes on about his day, training, signing paper work, drills. Doing anything to ignore the pain stinging memories that the toy brought back. Emotions that were buried thousands of feet deep it could reach hell itself. Later, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, avoiding looking at the cylinder shape that's calling for him in his peripheral.

Fuck.

He pulls the covers off vigorously and stomps over to the trash can. He is standing over it like he's trying to intimidate it, as if it was an enemy he's trying to get rid of in battle. To anyone else, the scene would look comical.

He sighs to himself and reaches down to take out the toy he so cruelly threw away. He sets it on his desk and quickly walks toward his bed, facing away from his desk.

The next day, he wakes up feeling different. He swears he sees his room more vibrant, more lively. That energy follows him through out the day, having his other teammates notice his rather bright mood.

You catch him in the hallway. Pulling him aside to ask him about the paper work you left at his desk this morning. Of course, he notices the way you smile brightly, more so than usual. But he notices that you're not looking at him. More like looking at something next to him.

"What's got you so cheery?"

You turn to look up at him, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"I just..." You take a quick glance at the spot next to him, before bringing your eyes back upon his.

"I just hope you liked your gift." The same bright smile appearing on your face.

He stares at you, examining your words. Your expression.

You think you see his eyes crinkle a bit.

"Yea,"

"I liked it."

[yeslordmyking]

July, 11 (Morning) Devotion

“After that ye have suffered awhile, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you.”

1 Peter 5:10

You have seen the arch of heaven as it spans the plain: glorious are its colours, and rare its hues. It is beautiful, but, alas, it passes away, and lo, it is not. The fair colours give way to the fleecy clouds, and the sky is no longer brilliant with the tints of heaven. It is not established. How can it be? A glorious show made up of transitory sun-beams and passing rain-drops, how can it abide? The graces of the Christian character must not resemble the rainbow in its transitory beauty, but, on the contrary, must be stablished, settled, abiding. Seek, O believer, that every good thing you have may be an abiding thing. May your character not be a writing upon the sand, but an inscription upon the rock! May your faith be no “baseless fabric of a vision,” but may it be builded of material able to endure that awful fire which shall consume the wood, hay, and stubble of the hypocrite. May you be rooted and grounded in love. May your convictions be deep, your love real, your desires earnest. May your whole life be so settled and established, that all the blasts of hell, and all the storms of earth shall never be able to remove you. But notice how this blessing of being “stablished in the faith” is gained. The apostle’s words point us to suffering as the means employed—“After that ye have suffered awhile.” It is of no use to hope that we shall be well rooted if no rough winds pass over us. Those old gnarlings on the root of the oak tree, and those strange twistings of the branches, all tell of the many storms that have swept over it, and they are also indicators of the depth into which the roots have forced their way. So the Christian is made strong, and firmly rooted by all the trials and storms of life. Shrink not then from the tempestuous winds of trial, but take comfort, believing that by their rough discipline God is fulfilling this benediction to you.

Daily Bible and Devotional for Women - http://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=daily.bible.for.woman

[alcoholicpilot]

a brozone blast from the past (also sorry for making it emo at the end😇)