#would not be on my current life path without these books we cannot exist without each other

[clanborn]

warrior cats you are coming down with me. hand in unlovable hand or something

[nikethestatue]

I have a hard time understanding the following:

The same people that blame Feyre and Elain for “bullying” Nesta are completely OK with Nesta bullying Cassian, and treating him like dirt. I wonder if the gender of Cassian and Nesta were reversed , would Cassian be praised as much as Nesta was after ACOSF.

I have always had a problem with their relationship after ACOSF, because of the above. I often think, if there was no mating bond, would Cassian care about Nesta? Would he put up with her shit? It’s not like they grew to love each other, as far as the emotional romance in her book, it was lacking. Cassian just kept at her until Sarah choose to write her as a better person. I wonder if her sisters or Cassian did not intervene, she would go down that path to recovery?

This is different from Feyre and Rhysand’s relationship, and even Elaine and Azriel’s relationship, because those relationships are written as mutual attraction and appreciation for the other person, and a solid friendship, not a mating bond.  I don’t understand people who like Cassian and Nesta’s relationship after ACOSF, maybe I am just too traditional?

The way SJM wrote Nesta in my opinion was terrible. Essentially she was just really nasty, met some people who didn’t know her backstory and got validated by them (so i guess the reader is supposed to think she is good then, lazy) and then saved her sister and everything was forgiven. Why not work on the relationships that she currently had, not just make her and Cassian’s relationship about sex, show us more of her friendship with Amren, for heaven sake’s have her actually talk to her sisters about real things. I don’t know how Sara got away with writing ACOSF the way she did.

I don’t know when it became OK to rationalize/absolve someone’s behaviour because they have mental illness or are going through a tough time. You are still responsible for your actions. Having trauma or mental health issues is an explanation for your behaviour, but it does not remove the responsibility of how your behave and the repercussions to your relationships (family /friends).

There is a pervasive theme in the SJM fandom and how she writes her characters that being a “ victim” and take responsibility for doing terrible things to people cannot occur at the same time. They are not mutually exclusive. It’s very odd and I would even say dangerous way of thinking.

Thank you for your thoughts. I am in love with “the agreement” and look forward to Thursdays because I know a chapter is coming out.❤️

I generally agree, however, I remain in the ACOWAR state of mind for Nessian. If we look at how they were, at what they did for each other, at how they grew to admire and support one another, you can definitely see that there was attraction, interest and growth without the bond.

Nesta in ACOWAR was understandable--her anger, her resentment, her unhappiness, especially in the beginning, were all legit, because her life was drastically changed, her whole existence altered, her sister's life also ripped out from her grasp. But then we saw Nesta's growth, her willingness to understand her powers, her willingness to help however she could, her willingness to to to the HL Meeting, and then to the front. Her growing affection towards Cassian was also obvious--despite her fighting it, she was still so into him. She trusted him, she sought him out.

ACOSF is a hot mess express and there is no other way of putting it.

Did I want Nesta to find friends and have that independence from the IC? Absolutely! But the whole 'oh they are my sisters!' or 'oh they are my family!' is such BS.

I've noticed that in general, SJM doesn't know how to write female relationships. Whether it's friendships, parental relationships, sisterhoods. It always comes out bizarre. Aelin and Lysandra=weird. Danika and Bryce=forgetaboutit. Mor and Feyre=what is that even? Maybe Manon and Asterin? But they are also unequal and are beating the shit out of each other. Nesta and Emerie and Gwyn had the beginnings of a great relationship, but SJM chose to make it over the top to the umptieth degree. Like she doesn't understand that both love AND friendships could be just that--strong, powerful, intense, intimate relationships outside of familiar ties. You don't NEED to call your friends 'family'. You can choose your friends, and you can create a relationship with them in a way that is beneficial to you. They don't need to become your 'family' to be falid.

Same with love--you can just love someone, without having a mate bond with them. The bond, in my opinion, often cheapens the relationship, because it sort of negates the growth and the feelings. Thinking back to Rowan and Aelin--did they really need the bond? No. Not at all. There was so much between the two of them that the bond was completely superfluous. The only time the bond made sense and needed to be there was for Feysand--it was their tether, it was the reason why Rhys was able to save/hear/feel Feyre. It made sense. It should've been the only bond. But no. SJM is gonna stick bonds on everyone, like Oprah giving out cars.

ACOSF happened and now we have to live with it. Nothing we can do. I hope she knows to add something in the future that would make the Nessian relationship better. Offer some insights and additions that would make it more palatable.

Also, thank you! :)

[work-of-waking-up]

In Defense of the Psychopath

Alright, wanna venture into my crazy ass brain? I’m going to start by saying one thing that will set the tone for everything else that follows: Villanelle is not a psychopath in the way that we currently understand them. Why am I even bothering to write about a fictional character, you ask? Because representation is important. Media portrayal of various mental and behavioral health topics (including ones that people might not think need to be discussed) is important and this show has a big audience. I also just want to contribute to the conversations that are taking place because I am seeing A LOT of them and the reason for that I believe boils down to the fact that Jodie makes Villanelle so relatable and people want to know what that means and looks like for them. Even those who felt they could relate to Sandra’s Eve, or the relationship between the two, maybe questioned what that meant the further they went down the path with them. “It’s probably a bad thing I relate to a psychopath, right? But she can’t be a psychopath because she cries and she feels things! Psychopaths don’t cry, which means she isn’t realistic so therefore it’s okay that I relate to her! Right? Or are my assumptions about psychopaths and people with antisocial personality disorder wrong? I relate to Eve but look what she is underneath it all...so does that mean I relate to that part of her too?” Not only is villanelles character relatable, but people see the freedom inherent within her, the freedom that Eve sees, and they realize that, at least on some level, they want it too. The show has (unintentionally I think) created a massive dialogue which is super cool and you can tell everyone involved on the show is aware of that now, I mean they have a consulting psychiatrist so I think that speaks for itself. This is less of a commentary on the character herself and whether or not she is a genuine psychopath, and more so a commentary on the conversations she has inspired and why... For the record, this is literally just my opinion sprinkled with a few facts, nothing else.

So, the term psychopath gets thrown around in the show, more so in the beginning, MI6 explicitly labels Villanelle this way, even going so far as to use her in a presentation about psychopaths, although I think that was more so to gauge Eve’s response than anything else. The reality of Villanelle, which we come to learn, is that nobody has been able to get close enough to really know the truth. Anna and Konstantin both got close but we never hear either of them use that word (Konstantin says it once but he clearly doesn’t mean it, it was more of an attempted manipulation tactic). They make it clear that she has, and can, and WILL cause damage, but that’s as far as they go. Eve is getting close and she tells Villanelle when they first meet that she knows Villanelle is a psychopath but it’s obvious from Eve's behavior and things she says later on that she truly doesn’t believe Villanelle is what everyone says she is. It’s easier to label her as a psychopath because that alienates and isolates her and her behavior completely. She is an outlier with behavioral anomalies and therefore it isn’t necessary to look any closer. For MI6 and others (not talking about the shows creators) to label Villanelle as a psychopath is easy, it’s lazy, it’s reductive, it serves a single purpose... a means to an end. They (anyone other than Eve basically) simply do not care about Villanelle’s truth. But as an audience we are lucky enough to see more of her with each episode. The psychopath label begins to fade and Oksana is what’s left. We know based on what she has said that she is aware that people think she is a psychopath, a monster, a person built to kill. It’s not always easy to decide that who you are is different from who you’ve always been told you are, especially given her history. Villanelle hasn’t told us yet if she thinks (or knows) that she is a psychopath, but it’s clear towards the end of last season that she no longer wants to be the person that they (meaning the twelve, Dasha, Konstantin, etc.) created. We see moments where she clearly has no remorse and clearly enjoys what she does, but then we have little moments sprinkled in between where she very obviously struggles, even if its short lived. And those moments are important. We have the moment where she struggles with the choice to shoot Konstantin, saying he is a good person, she thinks. This comes shortly after a conversation she had where Irina tells Villanelle she thinks she is a good person because she is sad, so we know she is thinking about it, we know the awareness is there, and it becomes more and more there as times goes on. I like to think of it in terms of having moments that are pure Villanelle (ie the way she killed Inga in the Russian prison), and then we have moments that are Oksana, vulnerable and emotional. Villanelle is a creation and a mask whereas oksana is the truth. Those moments are starting to really mean something. I'm not even going to start with her trip to find her family, that’s its own thing, but it's a Really Big Thing.

So. Villanelle is not a psychopath in the way that we currently understand and perceive them. Yes, she displays psychopathic traits, and yes, she absolutely has antisocial personality disorder. I read an article where the psychiatric consultant for the show (makes it pretty obvious how hard they worked to make Villanelle as realistic as possible) said that the Villanelle in Luke Jenning’s books scored a 32 on Hare’s psychiatric checklist, but I like to think (and I think a lot of people would agree) that number is a bit high, at least for Jodie’s Villanelle, maybe not even hitting 30 at all (close though, let’s be real lol). The max score is 40 which would be a fully blown primary psychopath. For reference, Ted Bundy scored 39. This checklist is flawed though, mostly created and based off the prison population. Which is why it isn’t used as a proper diagnostic tool. 32 is apparently extraordinarily high for a female (think Aileen Wuornos), which brings me to my next point which is that because it’s hard to measure a lot of the classic traits objectively, there is not a ton of solid data surrounding psychopathy, and even less of it is on female psychopaths. Like most things in life, psychopathy exists on a spectrum, there are levels and layers. It’s not black and white, there’s no definitive test (psychopathy isn’t even in the DSM-5 because as I said earlier it’s extremely hard to measure objectively) and it's important to distinguish between someone who exhibits psychopathic traits and someone who is actually an identifiable psychopath. Chances are high that someone you know displays at least one characteristic shared with psychopaths and this doesn’t make them one.

I think what’s important about this is that mental disorders (mental illness/personality disorders/etc.) of any kind are much more nuanced than a lot of people tend to think they are. That they exist less in black and white and more in shades of grey. Jodie Comer is absolutely remarkable for showcasing that through portraying the different layers of Villanelle. Her performance is a literal gift. We cannot keep thinking and acting like we know everything about how a person thinks, feels, and behaves based strictly and entirely on one label. The thing that has stuck out to me the most, the reason I decided to even write this bullshit babble, is that one of the most searched topics about the show is whether or not it’s realistic that Villanelle cries, and honestly how sad is that? That makes me sad for V. Is it more realistic for her to develop connections and cognitive empathy if she was made into a psychopath vs if she was born that way? Is there a legitimate difference between the two? And how do we even decide which one is applicable for someone? It’s important to add that antisocial personality disorder is not the same thing as psychopathy or sociopathy. You can have aspd and not be a psychopath. Research has shown that about only a third of those diagnosed with aspd would meet criteria to be considered a psychopath. Society is not doing a great job at getting people to understand this. But to be fair, understanding personality disorders specifically has been somewhat problematic, a lot of diagnostic confusion and overlap between disorders. A LOT of work needs to be done. But as far as portrayals go, society has strictly chosen to go the route of giving us psychopathic characters and having them be inherently violent, incapable of remorse, feelings, or change. Poverty of all emotions. Subhuman. They are made out to be so abnormal and unrelatable to the point where the character of Villanelle has sparked so much debate and fascination simply because she exists in a way that actually IS relatable...and layered and beautiful and thrilling. We thought she would be the bad guy and yet we root for her at every turn, we cry for her, we want good things for her! We see her darkness and without question or hesitation we forgive it. She makes us question what we’ve previously been shown. Questioning whether or not it’s realistic that she acts the way she does is less important than questioning our own personal assumptions and beliefs and where those come from. I think that’s awesome. Villanelle is truly a gift. She is hands down one of the most well written fictional characters, which is saying a lot considering when you put something, or someone, in a box it doesn’t leave tons of room for expansion. and I honestly don’t even really need to say this, but.. Jodie Comer.

[thelostguardianau]

The Lost Guardian- Chapter Eight

“Heed the Silenced”

(Authors note: aha.. yknow I should probably stop making promises for this fic. Months later, w/ a chapter that doesn’t have Thomas in it, three different outlines down and i’m really just at the mercy of this fic at this point xD considering midway through writing this chapter I had to cut and rewrite an entire scene i’d spent a month on bc I’d decided that Dee had a chance at redemtion that added an actual direction and a tangable end goal to this story. So. Yeah. And!! A loud Thank You!! to @bumblebeekitten for helping me bounce ideas back & forth for this au and being my beta for this chapter!!)

Character Info & Art:

Patton | Logan | Roman | Virgil | Remy | Deceit | ??? | ???

Chapter Seven | Chapter Nine

Fandom: Thomas Sanders Sides

Pairings: Eventual Polyamsanders (LAMPR/CALMR-a.k.a LAMP/CALM + Remy ‘Sleep’ Sanders)

Warnings: THIS CHAPTER IS KINDA DIALOG HEAVY!(sorry) Currently depicted as morally grey Deceit(subject to change in future chapters), though the side of Deceit from his first appearance doesnt make an appearance in this chapter and it is explained why, mentions of past betrayal and dark descriptions of bodily concepts, curses, limitations, and changes only really explained as possible through the lore of this au. Deceit speaks in riddles because he has to, ominous warnings. Virgil still isn’t okay mentally. Mentions of indifference to death, lack of selfworth or self preservation. (Let me know if I need to add anything!)

[[MORE]]

Brown eyes flutter open at the chilly breeze of a fan, and the ravenette’s mind comes to realize that he’s been moved from resting on his stomach to laying on his back. Groggy from his much too short nap, it takes a few moments to realize there are no warm bodies near him or under him, no breathing or chatter of familiar voices to sooth him.

The room, he realizes, is empty.

The room itself is, in fact, not Remy’s bedroom at all.

Shooting straight up, Virgil’s first clear thought is that he’s back at home. At his apartment, this time in his hoodie yet still roughed up from his latest ‘adventure’. The scene is eerily familiar, and yet he knows this time that work is not where he needs to be. It’s already daylight and his mind now knows this familiar scene, he should feel alone. Yet, this time he can hear the sound of honking cars and people, his loud neighbor from upstairs stomping around.

It doesn’t make sense as he walks to his window and peers out to see vague cars and people, he can’t even seem to make out any individual faces. It’s grey and raining outside, but there is no pattering sound against the foggy window. ‘What’s happening?’ Virgil wonders.

“Life seemed so simple a week ago, even months ago, did it not..?” A familiar voice drifts from behind him. Ice cold fear shoots down the ravenette’s spine as he recognizes the voice.

“I can hardly believe you were able to leave it, your routine. It was your everything, back when you came to terms with what you had left. Am I wrong, Virgil?” Whirling around to face the voice, Virgil finds the terrifying ex-Guardian sitting on his couch looking quite at home, if a little sheepish.

“What do you care?” He spat back, stepping back against his window.

“I am only looking out for you, you know. I have been protecting you all your life. Of all people I think I would know what is best for you, don't you think? We are connected after all, you and I.” The man sighed, making a surrendering motion with his hands.

“Why would I trust you?! You tried to kill me yesterday!” Virgil growled. “Why--h-how are you even here!?”

“False, my dear Virgil. I tried to warn you. Sure,” The guardian rolled his hand as he spoke, “I am forced to have a round-about way of speaking my truths, it is just part of my consequences it seems. But how else was I going to get you to listen to me after the others fed you lies about me? I do sincerely apologize for my other half being rough, though. I cannot quite.. Control.. Him.” The guardian tilted his bowler hat down to guiltily hide his eyes, regret briefly twisting his expression.

Finally the Guardian stood, dusting himself off as if his immaculate attire had acquired dust from just existing in his apartment. “I needed my physical body to reach yours and make our soul connection strong again, so that my soul could reach yours. However.. The pain I caused you was far from my intention. I am deeply regretful that it came down to.. That awful encounter.

“To answer your question though, Virgil, I am here because I created ‘here’. A realm made to form this illusion of being home, sweet home, just on the corner of the little street you had come to live on for the past year. It is all my doing. Where you stand is simply an illusion only you and I can access, a manipulation of your dreams and memories. The only place where the real me can talk to you mostly unhindered.” The guardian gestured to his surroundings.

“It takes only one person to flip your life on it’s head, a matter of hours to make the decision of a lifetime, and a matter of days to have completely changed your life’s direction,” He turned to Virgil, and looked him straight in the eyes, feeling distant and lost.

“And only a matter of years to succumb to the depression of the lonely consequences..”

Virgil blinked at that. The sad, longing tone had him thrown for a loop; it almost felt like the Guardian wasn't even quite talking to Virgil. “I-What..? I.. I don’t understand.”

The Guardian shook his head, snapping out of it and refocusing himself. "Nevermind that. It is time I talked to you for real, if you will have me?" The Guardian held out a hand politely, though there was no real expectation for Virgil to take it.

After a pause, Virgil gave a slight nod, still suspicious of the other's intent. The Guardian returned the nod, and his hand fell to his side.

“I am limited to the time that you rest and for now I will not be able to explain myself thoroughly, so, I ask you to understand that I do not expect you to trust me when I am done. I honestly do not expect you to ever trust me. With the mistakes I have made, I firmly believe I would not deserve it.”

Virgil blinked in surprise, not having expected his captor to admit to his faults straight off the bat.

“Okay.. Well, we’re here, might as well hear your side of the story. So.. Shoot.” Virgil said lightly, distrust and suspicion still evident in his tone and stance.

“I would assume at this point you are well aware of how the story you have been told paints me as the villain, a mastermind seeking power, immortality, and revenge? At least, that is what I am led to believe is still the story, it has been many years since I have heard the tale first hand… And... Well. Would that not be so lovely?” Virgil made a face, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“I am serious. Life would be so much easier if it was all black and white, true or false, good and bad, would it not? If those who meant well knew everything and those malicious few could not corrupt anything?” The Guardian frowned a bit, frustrated with his words that couldn’t seem to cooperate with him.

“Would it not be lovely if I could talk to you without fighting to keep from turning every honest thought into a question or theoretical statement just to let it be said? That my words could hold a meaning not forcibly disguised in the forms of fables and riddles?” The Guardian looked down lamely, his words tapering off in agitation. For a moment, Virgil waited as the Guardian was silent, contemplative. Then, the next moment the Guardian’s face scrunched up in sadness and his words were soft as he placed a hand over his golden wrist markings.

“My story is complicated, and twisted with shades of grey. One could say what I did was an attempt to keep you safe, another could say that what I did was outlandish and impulsive, and stupid. But no one will be able to tell you that what I did went according to the plan I had... at first. No one will tell you that my intention was to save you, to keep your fate safe. No one will tell you that my plan was ruined. Because there is no longer anyone who remembers what happened that night except for me,”

The Guardian’s eyes flicked up to meet the ravenette’s, a hurt look passing over his face as he continued. His steady voice now just barely trembled with uncertainty as he continued.

“No one but me and the soul who wants so desperately for everyone to forget. The soul who ripped my own in two to bury the secret, and ruin you and I both.”

“My final warning is this: Beware of the man who carries the world on his shoulders unflinchingly, he will be watching you closely. You have immunity to his power thanks to our connection, you might use this knowledge well to find the truth that lies in plain sight. However, your fate lies in the decisions you chose to make with this knowledge, I can only warn you of what might come.” The Guardian nodded solemnly, choosing to finish his cryptic warning there.

Virgil stood there, reeling with the information. Sure, he definitely wasn’t completely convinced he could trust this cryptic stranger, Guardian? Foe? Friend? Virgil wasn’t really sure what to call him anymore. But damn, his life was already so fucking crazy, this was all just fucking crazy! He could just be dreaming for all he knew.

But… Deep inside, he was hoping he wasn’t.

This was, well. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear when facing the man whose, er, body? Had originally tried to strangle him? Now he’d heard his sob story and, well, Virgil wasn’t that easy to fool, but he’d also been told that it wasn’t expected that he’d trust the guy even in the end and he didn’t really want to.

He’d been on the path to death for so long, and then just two days ago everything had changed. So much was happening, it was frankly exhausting. What the fuck was he, some book protagonist? Couldn’t he get a little time to think about all this before he went crazy?

Still, something under all his incredulity begged to hear the guardian out. He vaguely wondered how Stockholm Syndrome worked before he gave in a little. What difference did a little more crazy make in his life at this point?

“Fine, I’ll heed your warning, or whatever the fuck. But only if you can tell me what you mean when you said that this guy ripped your, uh, soul? In two.” Virgil huffed, partially relaxing. It was odd how comforting he found it to be, floating in this weird feeling imaginary world, where he could interact with objects that weren’t real. It felt like he was really standing in his home, and yet it was just built from memory.

The guardian’s solemn expression formed into a grim smile, eyes distant once more before nodding. “I will do the best that my words will allow.” Virgil nodded, and waited for the now very familiar stranger to gather his words and take a breath. Then he began, his markings lightly flashing gold.

“You find yourself whole one day, as you have always been. To be whole of body, whole of mind, both human and guardian in nature. To have conscious thought and control over your whole physical being and soul..

“You find that yourself and others of the winged variety are capable of separating your soul from your being, though only the most Elite can do it well. You find out the family you made would soon be in danger. You then find yourself lost and alone when you once had a home to call your own.

“You find yourself knowing a truth, a perilous truth. Your home is in shambles now that you are gone, yet they do not know it. This truth is at fault, but the blame is not fully your own in a world built on lies.

“The source of truth tucks itself into blankets of grey, drawing itself further from discovery with each passing day. Now only you know the truth. The source of the truth finds you, it seeks to hide you too.

“You find yourself split one day, as you have never been before. Forced apart from the body, trapped within the mind. Guardian in nature, to have conscious thought and your dying soul trapped within, a false mind piloting the puppeteered confines of a broken body with a blind goal.”

“You find you cannot control what you used to, you are a prisoner to a body that is no longer your own, mostly unconscious to the world around it. Crazed by the false emotions that fuel it.”

“The you that used to be is no longer, and has not been for over a hundred years. The world that knew you knows not of what you’ve become. Knows not of the shackles that bind you.

“The you that used to be is no longer, and will never be again.” The Guardian finished, hesitant yellow eyes meeting Virgil’s carefully. Phantom goosebumps trail down Virgil's arms as the final sentence strikes a cord in him.

Virgil found he really wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, the rawness in the other’s tone spoke volumes of the sore spot they’d reached.

“Your body rests, but your mind also needs time to process today. I shall see you when you next rest, though only if you wish to seek me. Rest well knowing that you will not be scooped from your safety once more, as I hope I’m never to do so again. And...” The guardian paused, considering their next words very carefully.

“I know it is selfish to ask... but, I hope and wish that Thomas is alright, after all this time... Do take care of him, would you?”

Virgil paused and stared, finding only concern and longing in the guardian’s expression. And, well, fuck. What a way to pull at a guy’s heartstrings.

“Er, yes. Yeah. I’ll try my best.” Virgil gave his signature mock salute, the Guardian tipping his hat in return.

“Trying is all I could ever ask of you, Virgil. Rest well, you will need it.” And with that final sentence, the world around Virgil gently grew dark, and he sunk into the comforting arms of sleep.

Despite it all, Virgil still found his mind vaguely conscious. Sluggish at best, but awake nonetheless.

He figured it was likely some lingering effect from the Guardian’s dream realm, but didn’t dwell on it. His life had way too much else going on to be debating the side effects gained from Guardian powers.

First, he’d been pretty damn convinced two days ago that he was going to be a goner by the end of the month. Completely resigned to die believing that his very existence was scorned by the world he’d been unwillingly born into.

Then Patton had stumbled onto his shitty apartment’s roof, found him in all of his resigned and depressed glory, and changed his life forever.

They’d mostly skipped the whole ‘Human nature is a series of life, death, and rebirth’ spiel that guardians were known to give in these situations because... Well, It wasn’t like they’d really had time to address it before the truth about his soul had come out. That he wasn’t exactly human to begin with.

Virgil didn’t think that Guardians had ever had a situation like his before. There wasn’t a protocol for comforting a kidnapped guardian soul. It’d never been a possibility before!

So it wasn’t surprising then, that Virgil didn’t have any better of a time processing it.

His whole life, all that he’d known to be true, all that he’d believed in? Everything had been uprooted and turned on its head. He’d apparently been living a life that was not supposed to be.

Perhaps for the first time in two days, Virgil realized that the thought of his death at the end of the month had not been consistently worming into his brain. It had once been something he could never seem to stop thinking about.

The death indicated by his soul timer was now perhaps the farthest thing from his mind.

Perhaps the strangest thing so far was that he wasn’t alone anymore. He’d possibly had more physical contact with other people in the short two(three?) days since this adventure started then he’d had in the past 16 years.

And wasn’t it just the cherry on top that he’d also gotten nearly choked out by the very guardian accused of kidnapping his soul in the first place? And now he was considering trusting the damn guy.

Virgil hollowly wondered why he even cared.

Why did he care about staying alive now when he’s spent his whole life believing he never would? Up until two days ago, that belief had still been true. But now? Avoiding death was the goal, Logan had stated as much.

Really, would Virgil lose anything by trusting the banished guardian? Even if the guardian was trying to trick Virgil and got him killed, what difference would it make? That’d always been the goal before. What did he, Virgil, really have to lose?

If it happened that Virgil lived past his twentieth birthday, if he became a guardian like he was supposed to be in the first place. Would he want that? Did he want that?

He wasn’t sure. Didn’t know if he ever had been.

His life had been built on resignation to the inevitable. Nothing seemed to motivate him towards liking or hating that possibility. He was just that.

Indifferent.

And wasn’t that just the greatest revelation of the night? Finding out that you’re indifferent to living or dying.

Once this was all over, if Virgil lived that long, he would make a note to see a therapist. He knew very well that this kind of mindset was unhealthy to keep. It just couldn’t be helped that the nineteen years he’d lived with this particular affliction couldn’t be fixed by a few extra hugs and comforting words.

Even if he didn’t like the fact that death sounded like the more peaceful option.

His thoughts paused, mentally sighing at the downward spiral he’d caught himself in. It was tiring, and going nowhere.

‘For now,’ he decided, ‘I’m just going to see how this plays out. The Guardian said that none of the others remember the truth, or whatever. So, It’s a ‘he said-they said’ situation right now...’

‘I’ll have to keep an eye out for the guy that he warned me about, then. Who knows if he's as dangerous as The Guardian made him out to be. It’s hard to tell with the weird way he has to talk..’

Virgil paused again, a realization striking him. If he could have groaned, he would have. Not once had he been given or even remembered to ask for the name of said Guardian. What was he supposed to call the rogue Guardian now? He couldn’t just keep calling him The Guardian!

Amidst the disbelief of such a slip up, a foreign yet familiar feeling prodded questioningly at his conscious mind. Adding confusion into the mix of emotions, he returned the feeling with a questioning thought of his own.

He briefly heard the Guardian’s whispy voice once more, now acting with permission.

“You may call me Janus”

Then all at once, Virgil woke up.

.

.

.

Chapter Nine

[deafwestnewsies]

you tell me you love her (i give you a grin)

And I'd choose our fate a million times over.

david jacobs x jack kelly (unrequited love)

read it on my ao3!

The grass crumpled beneath his boots. His shadow left a broad dent in the shade

(his body was still a marvel- when had Jack Kelly become so strong? When did Jack Kelly grow into his wimpy shoulders and snivelling ankles? When did Jack Kelly ditch his dreams of a boy to become a man?)

that towered over a lean man who was casually basking in the weak October daylight. He frowned at the sudden loss of warmth, but his eyes danced with mirth as he gazed over his former selling partner, current best friend, and long-time confidant. “Why, Jack Kelly. I thought you stood me up.”

“I’d neva, Dave,” Jack bent down in the mellow grass next to David. “They caugh’ me onna big shipment just as I was ‘bout to leave for lunch. Tell Esther that the market’ll have a good deal on trout tomorrow.”

Their heads nearly touched at the temple, and if Jack had the nerve or the gall, he could move a miniscule inch and connect their homely skin. It would only take a second- and what is a second, honestly? A moment in time? In the everlasting universe? And Jack Kelly wasn’t a very smart man, but he knew that humans only took up a small part of the whole existence of the world and a single second of humanity could manage to be wasted on the shifting of a cold, lonely wrist to lay on the freckled arm of another-

David rolled onto his side, more interested in a patch of dandelions than the market predictions for the next day. “Besides,” scrunching his nose, as if that would clear his irreverent musings on the universe, “not all o’ us are fancy medical men with all the break time they could ask fa’. I’m the big man pullin’ the weight ‘round here.”

(And it was true, to some aspects. Jack brought home honest-to-goodness bakery bread on Fridays so they could practice Shabbat without travelling, as Mayer so liked to do. He gave Les nickels to spend at the fair and bought Sarah hair ribbons for no particular reason. There was the gas bill he had paid one particularly difficult December, and the endless hours of doing various handiwork around the house when David was studying and Mayer’s old aches came to haunt him. The Jacobs’ home was also Jack’s, not because he needed it, but because they needed him.)

(He needed it too, he supposed.)

A yellow dandelion hovered over his nose, gently twirling with the teasing hum of David leaning in so close. Jack’s teeth snapped at it.

“You can drink the milk of these, I read,” David mused.

Jack wrinkled his nose. “Dandelion salad‘s only good tha first five times. Plus, it’d turn Crutchie’s tongue yellow.”

Dropping the little flower altogether, David rolled flat on his back and turned to gently nudge Jack on his shoulder with his premature wrinkling forehead. “Jackie,” he whispered.

(“I love you,” he would go on, later in Jack’s dreams. “I’ve loved you since I met you, I love you like a wildfire, I love you so much I cannot bear it, I love you like every character in all of my books, I love you.”)

“I’ve met a girl.” There was a hint of mischief in David’s tone- and Jack didn’t recognize it. There was suddenly a gated city wrapped around David’s heart and Jack was frantically scrambling for the key; For the first time, he was locked out of David’s life. He was an onlooker upon territory he had memorized by touch, by heart, by memory.

“Yeah?” If David had been paying attention, the word would have pinged around his Tin Man heart- hollow, empty, overused. “The Walking Mouth finally has someone to use it on?”

He relished in the feel of David’s uncalloused palms shoving playfully at his tanned, muscled arm. “Don’t be crass,” the boy chided. “Her name is April.”

(Jack was born on a misty-eyed April morning, with the clouds swabbed over the sun and an ominous wind blowing throughout the emptied streets. His mother had called it a bad omen. His father couldn’t fathom why.)

The crook of Jack’s elbow was full of David’s lingering fingertips; A question he didn’t dare ask left a sour taste on his tongue. He smiled at David’s far away face, his gaze belonging to a girl,

(a girl, a rotten girl, a girl that wasn’t even Katherine because that would have hurt much less, understandable even. She was an unimportant girl and she would never be enough for Davey, his Davey)

(A girl.)

and his smile was full of thorns.

---

“I can’t believe-” the words were practically ripped from his throat. “We’s goin’ so fast!”

David couldn’t drive in the technical sense, but he was captaining a true automobile as the Earth did spin. Jack sat in the passenger seat to crow at any poor little commoners that walked along the beaten path, none of them good enough to ride in the electrical engine Mr. Ford had handcrafted himself.

It had been a graduation present from a fellow doctorate student (one with a wealthy father and ill-meaning connections), a spin in his brand-new electric carriage for his reliable old pal, David Jacobs. Jack’s eyes widened to the size of half-dollars as the man passed over the keys to David- David, who had once put the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and walked around crooked all day, too proud to admit he had made a mistake- and they tried to conceal their excitement as the engine turned over for the first time.

He was going to do it. Right here, right now, in this strange man’s car, with clunky work boots on his feet and David’s spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“I love you!” Jack roared over the engine.

“I’m going to ask April to marry me!” David practically sang into the wind.

Jack’s throat closed up, his skin was set on fire, and he suddenly wanted to see what happened when you jumped from a gadget that was moving so fast.

“Wait, what? Did you hear me?” David’s hair was beginning to grow long enough that it was wild in the gust of the automobile. “I’m going to ask her to marry me!”

(When he was seven, another newsboy- only a handful of months older than him- had asked him if his momma had ever taught him about love. No, Jack had replied, both sour about being outsmarted by a kid who picked his nose and not ever having a momma in the first place. “It’s this great big tree that grows on the inside of our tummies,” the boy went on. “And one day, someone ‘s gonna come along and pick all ‘f th’ fruit on our branches, one by one, until all you have are pretty green leaves. That’s love.”)

(That same boy would kiss him in a dirty alleyway seven years later, and Jack would crack a joke about all of his apples still being intact. The boy would stare back with blank, unrecognizable eyes.)

Jack couldn’t even be angry- he wasn’t strong enough to be furious anymore, not when his days were long and the nights were spent clutching at empty bedsheets. He couldn’t be angry at his good, unselfish Davey, the boy who rubbed at his mother’s aching feet when she spent too long at the factory lines and clumsily darned socks when his sister couldn’t feel her slender fingers. There was no resentment for the beautiful, dark-haired girl who had accidentally collided with David at the grocer’s market when they reached for the same can of something-or-other. She had been nothing but kind to the gentle giant who lurked in the shadows of David’s life, telling inappropriate jokes and interrupting their dates. April always made a place for him at their table.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all year,” Jack called out, and watched his words dance away in the wind.

---

Katherine had struck him, hard, when he asked her to marry him.

He cradled his jaw with a shock that reverberated around his skull. “Kathy, what did I-”

“You are the most selfish, careless man I know, Jack Kelly.” Her skirts whirled around her ankles- the candy-pink cotton matching other bridesmaids’ dresses to contrast the delicate white lace of April’s wedding dress. David Jacobs was now a married man, and Jack Kelly a desperate one. “We all see how you look at him. There’s not a single person who hasn’t noticed. Get it through your thick, unfeeling skull.”

(“They say,” David’s vows were memorized. His voice never wavered. “That only someone in love would truly understand the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice: a man walks through the Underworld to save his begotten bride, to only turn around and lose her at the very last second. I’ve spent years pouring over that story, wondering why Orpheus would be such a fool, such an irresponsible, lovesick fool, if he truly loved her. But now, standing before my own darling little bride, I understand. I’d turn around for one last look at you. I’d turn every. Single. Time. I’m your fool, April. And I’d choose our fate a million times over.”)

“He doesn’t love you,” Katherine’s voice was heavy with disgust. “And I’m beginning to understand why.”

---

The train ticket was heavy in his palm. “I just don’t see why you have to go,” David whispered. “Who is my son going to learn his bad habits from? Who’s going to teach him how to hawk a headline for extra change? How to poke fun at his papa?”

“He has Les.” Jack’s voice was a barely audible rumble, rusty with misuse. He didn’t talk much these days, Jack Kelly now preferred to linger in the background of conversations, the memory of a bright young man he used to be. Those days had come and gone without much complaint, even if Jack secretly yearned to be so terribly free that he believed in a future for a gangly, fresh-faced boy and a hardened boy with the silver-tongued lies.

(There were rumors, you know. About horrible men and horrible things, about broken ribs and jail time even the Mayor would disapprove of. Jack didn’t do much to dispel the irrational stories people told about him.)

(To prove a lie is false, you must present the truth.)

(Jack didn’t have a truthful bone left in his body.)

A carefully measured silence stretched between them. “Is this about…” David’s hand instinctively reached for Jack’s rough palm- a second of contact, the flash in the pan, their moment in the universe.

He withdrew from his gentle touch, and taking a bullet to his leg

(Jack was twenty-three and alarmingly brave. David was twenty-two and studying to become a doctor. They both cried as David’s unsure hand stitched an unclean wound back together- David, tears of worry; Jack, hopelessly lovesick and falling apart at the seams.)

had been less painful. “It’s about Santa Fe, Dave. Kiss Esther goodbye for me, won’t you?”

The platform to the train was busy, flowing with New Yorkers that had somewhere to be, a place to go, or a person to meet. Jack was the lone soul that took his time to feel the cobblestone under his worn-down boots, the ragged laces dragging against the streets that raised him as their own. His suitcase, a single-handled brown leather

(the only item inside was a bundle of letters, all addressed to David Jacobs)

thing, had never seen a polish rag or repairman’s case, and he felt as if he had the weight of the world to carry with him all the way to New Mexico, where the cattle roam free and Jack Kelly wouldn’t have a broken heart to board up behind slats of wood. The train whistle blew, sharp and piercing, and Jack couldn’t resist his own dreadful hubris; He turned.

And David Jacobs had already disappeared into the swarm of faceless people with their endless inventory of needs to be met, so Jack Kelly got on a train to Santa Fe.

[achtung-attitude]

CHAPTER 46: Gangsta’s Paradise – Part 4

“Let it not be said,” Dust sighs, “I never gave you a chance.”

The preacher man walks backwards and morphs into the mirrors once more. Shizuka dashes in pursuit, but is suddenly overcome with a wave of lightheadedness. She stumbles and collides face first with a nearby wall, clinging to it for support, as her arms and legs tremor. When her vision blurs, she recalls her earlier, backfired attempt to turn invisible. “ACHTUNG BABY…?” she murmurs

But she doesn’t sense her ability circulating. Something more sinister is causing her affliction. From within the mirror in the alcove adjacent to her, and also from all of the phantom mirrors, Dust renews his sermon.

However, if you do not obey the LORD your God and do not carefully follow all his commands and decrees I am giving you today, all these curses will come on you and overtake you...

Shizuka gags and collapses on the floor. The Escherspace begins to collapse, flickering out of existence. She tries to breathe, but can only choke. 

Truly, I didn’t want it to come to this. You were so proud of yourself for bending this dimension to your will, but you have always been in my grasp. This is what I meant by giving you a chance. You have been doomed since you entered this place...

The countless Brother Dusts look down upon the convulsing Joestar from the infinite mirrors, a look of disappointment on his face.

Humans inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide… GANGSTA’S PARADISE reverses this. Each breath you take starves your blood of vital oxygen and floods your body with deadly poison.

To think, how eager I was to finally meet you. You are strong, Shizuka Joestar. We could have achieved much together. But I am beyond strength.

The ground beneath Shizuka’s feet begins to fade into nothing. Grunting, she forces it back into solidity before she can slip through. She clutches at her throat as it seems to clog from the inside. 

“You…” she chokes, “talk too much…!”

ACHTUNG BABY flutters in and out of sight. With a wave of its hands, two new staircases materialize from the Escher-space. They swing like giant baseball bats at the mirror where Dust had entered, crashing into it, crumbling stone and shattering glass. Her efforts are futile, as the preacher’s resounding laughter proves. He is beyond her, safe in the mirrors. 

As Shizuka tries to lift herself off the ground, abruptly, she senses the preacher’s presence behind her.

“Brute force fails you. Like Job, you are helpless before divinity.” 

Shizuka turns, grinding her teeth at the sound of his smug voice as he continues, raising his black book in the air. “Behold, the hope of him is in vain; shall not one be cast down even at the sight of him?”

Before Shizuka can move out of the way, Dust graces her neck with his Bible. Not a moment passes when, in her periphery, she sees something thick and blue splatter onto the ground. With horror, she dabs at her neck, feeling the slick blood running from the thick gash that has formed. “Agh…!!”

“That would be your carotid artery I’ve severed. To think, the Good Book is supposed to guide and heal. I’m not fond of warping its purpose this way. Perhaps you understand now, the desperate measures I’ve been forced to take?”

Shizuka pays no attention, as she’s lost in the pain of her cut neck. She kneels on the ground, her knees dipped in the dark puddle.

“My throat…!” her mind reels, “Can’t breathe at all now…! It’s taking all I have just to keep the Escherspace intact…! how do I get out of this... how can I defeat his Stand…?! Wait...” she stills, staring at her hands. “My hands have... Stopped shaking…! But why... no way, you gotta be kidding!”

Dust saunters towards her. “Could it be you’ve finally given up? It’s too late to change your mind, but perhaps you can make peace with-” The preacher’s pompous monologue is cut short by the rushing of air behind him. He shudders, sensing the oncoming threat, and ducks swiftly, barely dodging the staircase that swings past him. Looking back at the source of the staircase, he sees Shizuka on her feet again, stooping, blood still draining from her neck, but her eyes are as resolute as ever. From her jacket pocket, she draws the switchblade Kilo gave to her.

“I really hope this works,” she wheezes. “If not, then this’ll be a really stupid way to die.”

With that, she plunges the knife into her neck, right into the cut, and starts running the blade along the wound. Dust grimaces in displeasure at first, but then notices that rather than cutting deeper, the flesh closes along the path of the blade. An action intended to harm instead heals.

“You’ve adapted well to GANGSTA’S PARADISE…” Dust declares, raising the bible. “But it counts for nought, as long as I am in control of this world!” Dust’s book strikes her, but immediately, he senses something wrong. “You are not...!”

Shizuka smirks as the book hits her across the face. The strike blows a chunk off from the side of her head, revealing a glowing cavity. The body transforms into light, nothing more than a hard light clone. Dust turns just as the real Shizuka swings another Escher staircase at him. He guards, taking the strike, which sends him flying backward.

“How is she standing?! The carbon dioxide poisoning should still be affecting her!” As he flies, he notices Shizuka’s face, cheeks are puffed out, filled with air. “She’s holding her breath?! Of course! If breathing itself was killing her, then all she had to do was stop breathing!”

Dust lands feet first into a mirror, as he starts merging with it. “Just as I thought,” he thinks, staring at his opponent from his esoteric vantage. “She’s too strong. It’s not only her ability or her fighting prowess. It’s not even her intelligence! It’s everything! That persistent personality and her creativity; all of it makes her dangerous! Without a doubt, this girl... is the strongest opponent I’ve ever fought!” Before long, he slips completely out of view, planning his means of attack.

Shizuka glares into the mirrors. When he doesn’t reappear, she begins to sigh, then stops herself, careful not to exhale anymore precious oxygen. “Well, it worked,” she reflects. “But even so, my body’s running off the oxygen I’ve currently got left. Like a motorcycle running on gas fumes, I’ll break down sooner or later.”

She walks up a staircase and glances up. Above, GANGSTA’S PARADISE hangs in its usual position, never moving on its own accord. Shizuka glances into a nearby mirror, then another. In all of the mirrors, everything is reflected, except for the Stand itself. In the entire twisted dimension, there is only ever one GANGSTA’S PARADISE.

“I have one big advantage: While Dust in his mirrors, I can’t touch him. But the Stand is always in this space with me. If I can attack the Stand directly, then I can win! All I need to do is figure it out… What’s the source of its power?”

Shizuka rubs her stiff neck, unable to see the ominous discoloration around the scar left by the cut. She remembers the bright flash of light that beamed from GANGSTA’S PARADISE, right before the world was changed. The light that engulfed everything in sight. She pauses on the steps and stares, realization hitting her like a brick.

The light…

Before she can act on her realization, Shizuka staggers to the ground in front of the Stand, shivering like she’s freezing. A dark chill moves under her chest.

“What!?! What is this?... Why do I feel… like ice is forming under my skin!!” She inspects her chest. The veins over her breastbone bulge ghoulishly. “HOLY SHIT!! What did that bastard do now?!” 

Dust’s voice answers promptly, desperation peeking out from beneath his smugness.

This is not my doing, but your own, Shizuka Joestar! Blood is red because of oxygen! The purpose of blood is to spread life-giving oxygen through the body! GANGSTA’S PARADISE reverses everything it touches, warping its intentions! Now I ask you, what happens if GANGSTA’S PARADISE touches your blood?!

At that moment, Shizuka remembers the blue blood from earlier.

Yes! The blood cells deprive themselves of oxygen and turn blue! And now, by your own hand, that toxic blood runs through your body! Once it reaches your heart, there will be no hope for you!!

Shizuka looks down and stares at the blade she reverse-cut herself with, stained with darkened blood.

Bleed out, and I win! Heal yourself, and I still win! Every action you take benefits me! I told you: The moment you entered this place, MY place, you were doomed!! So long as I have this power, I am fated for victory!!! This is the penalty for rejecting my offer, Shizuka Joestar!!!

The girl can do nothing else but fall to the floor, as the Escherspace begins to crumble away. Dust takes out his terrible black book, leering down at her. .

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways!

The voice echoes and throbs in Shizuka’s ears, stage whispers like rusty nails scratching her from inside her ears. She can feel the thin membranes of her eardrums, afflicted by the evil sounds. The cold blood pumps through her veins, drawing closer to her heart. She knows, in her mind, they cannot endure this attack for much longer.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known!

She screams for the voices to stop, but she cannot tell if she screams it with her own voice or in her mind. Her eyes roll wildly, her heart rate accelerates, seeing the man in white surround her on all sides, sneering at her through infinity. Overhead, the chandelier swings, mimicking the sick joy of its master, the unnatural light bathing the refracted world in sickly pale blue.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love!

Misshapen light. So unlike that of the sun, which was full, warm and life-giving. The same light Shizuka drew her power from. Compared to that, this was just a pale pretender.

[zorya-wellness]

Are Tarot Cards Witchcraft, Magic or Evil? Understanding How Does A Tarot Reading Work

Tarot cards seem to be surrounded by the atmosphere of mysticism and often in relation to the “dark” occult practices.

Some claim that trying to find out the future is bad luck or sinful and will certainly bring only misfortunes.  

The myth that Tarot (or Runes) are the elements of Witchcraft or “dark” Magic is being shaped by the movie industry, video games and books of a particular genre.

My partner recently was playing this video game called Cyberpunk and mentioned that Tarot cards were part of his quest series. A woman that was “reading cards” in the game looked all mysterious and had those dark “witchy” vibes.

As a result of the game popularity, there is even Cyberpunk Tarot deck now available for sale which has only 22 cards and naturally, has nothing to do with Tarot.

The reason I bring this up is because when we look at the scenes where Tarot cards are used, we see evil witches that gather to perform some kind of a Satanic Ritual or curse someone and, of course, they have a Tarot cards deck, a crystal ball and Runes handy.

In this Blog post I will try to look at Tarot cards from all the different angles.

We will look at Tarot from the view of occultism, psychology and religion. Let’s break it all down.

What the Tarot Cards Really Are?

A simple explanation is that Tarot is a tool for divination. But, of course, Tarot is much more than that.

Tarot is a tool for analysis of a situation, person or action.

Tarot is a work with the subconscious layers and shadow sides, uncovering deepest desires, fears and intentions.

It doesn’t matter what you believe in, the essence of Tarot is taking the energy from a person you are reading cards for to create the best future for them.

Tarot reader is merely a guide. You can call Tarot a weak energy vampire that takes a bit of your energy to transform it into information and give you an answer.

The correct work with Tarot is based on the reader’s ability to help you choose the path that is right and best for you given all current circumstances.

Is Tarot A Form of Black Magic or Witchcraft?

What Is the Difference Between A Ritual Work Divination?

Tarot reading works by the means of receiving information from the Source through the cards and uncoding this information to a client.

It has absolutely nothing to do with ceremonial Magic or any kind of Ritual work.

A ritual is done to shape the reality the way you want to see it. You are influencing an event or a person. And in this post, we only cover the nature of the Ritual working briefly, just so that you understand what is behind the words “Ritual” and “Witchcraft.”

Tarot does not intervene or influence a person, forcing them to do something they may not want to do. It completely allows for the Free Will to be the only natural way of human experiences.

Tarot gives you the information you otherwise may miss or not see, sometimes quite willingly, to make the right choice. This is why sometimes clients say things like: “Well, this is what I expected” or “I have known this all along.” This is because the answers are within us and a Tarot Reader is only guiding you to see them.

Can Tarot Be Used for Ritual or Magical Work?

I hope you can see that this is a completely different question.

Tarot can and is sometimes used as the Ritual tool. It can be a part of spell casing, for good and for bad. When Tarot is used for evil intentions, it is not because Tarot itself is evil but because people misuse it for their nasty intentions.

And the problem is in people, not the cards.

If Tarot Is Not Magic, Where Do Tarot Readers Get the Information From?

There is different information circulating around with regards to “Where Tarot Readers get their answers from?”

Some believe that the source is Akashic Records which is considered to be a universal information “storage”, so to speak, that has a record of all the thoughts, emotions, words and also events.

But those who claim the existence of such records seem to deny the existence of divination. For example, Vadim Zeland, the creator of Transurfing of Reality, states that divination does not exist because there is way too many “paths” and “variations” of future events to be able to predict them.

However, here comes my long-standing point about the different between divination and fortune telling and I briefly touched on this in my Blog Post “What Questions Tarot Can and Cannot Answer”. And this is where people like Vadim Zeland, who by the way created his own “Tarot” despite claiming its limited use, are wrong.

RELATED POSTS: What TAROT CARDS CAN and CANNOT TELL. Questions to ask during a Tarot reading

Tarot does not tell you what you are going to have for lunch tomorrow or give you a straight yes/no answer.

Tarot reviews those possible paths and variations of events and helps you make the RIGHT CHOICE.

Tarot helps you to go to your subconscious mind and from there pull the information about yourself to help you understand what internal challenges are preventing you from growing and becoming, from letting go of the past and from working on your future.

"The Good” In Tarot Cards. Tarot as A Tool for Psychoanalysis.

If you think about it, people do many different things on a daily basis to learn more about themselves. They go to see a psychologist to resolve their personal matters and figure out the roots of their anxiety, fears and phobias.

People try to understand the meaning of their dreams and see the signs of communication from Spirit Guides and Angels.

Modern psychologists use cards, not only Tarot, during their sessions as the tool for a deep analysis and consulting.

Tarot can help a person uncover and understand some moments they were not able to connect with before mentally. These include hidden thoughts, desires and intentions.

Unlike Tarot readers, psychologists use cards for the most part to work on the ISSUES OF THE PAST, deeply analyzing it before making any prognosis or goals for the future.

How do psychologists view Tarot?

In this case, psychologists don’t even think about the “mysterious” aspects of Tarot or their connection to esotericism, paganism or occult, it is simply a tool for them to do their job better.

First and foremost, Tarot is used for symbolisms, associations and imagery.

This system helps a psychologist to connect the dots and figure out what is happening at the subconscious level of their patient. Tarot become a diagnostic method that at some situations becomes quite sufficient for a basic diagnostic.

Finally, Let’s Think TOGETHER. Are Tarot Cards A Sin?

Naturally, the answer to this question depends on your religion and what it says in the scriptures with regards to divination of any kind. But I trust that by the time you are reading this, you can make the right judgement yourself.

For the most part, Sin is a concept of JCI religions. And here we also have two categories of people to address.

If you strictly follow ALL the rules of your religion and live by them, then you shouldn’t seek an answer to this question in the Blog post of a Tarot reader, a witch or anyone who deals with magical and ritual workings.

You should address this question an official representative of your religion who is qualified to answer.

If you follow a religion, using it as a moral compass or it is a cultural part of your life, then the word “Sin” takes on a totally different meaning.

In this case, you need to assess what your religion means for you and what other rules, commandments or dogmas you have broken throughout your life. And if during those times you have at all considered the sinful nature of these acts.

For example, when you saw men cheating on their wives, a person drinking alcohol, lying or being jealous of your new IPhone, did you, even in your head, call them sinners?

Most people don’t think that printing a spiritual development book on their work printer is a sin, and yet it breaks the rules of the 6th Commandment.

Therefore, a factual sin is not a part of a religious-ethical category that is for the most part not used as a guide for our day-to-day actions.

It is rather a culturally created concepts of morals, about right or wrong, that shape the tendencies, and also change and evolve together with humanity.

Another example I want to mention is something you probably would not have even ever considered. And this is my beloved practice of Yoga.

Many of those who practice Yoga, being under the influence of the practices and travels, said they turned to Buddhism or Hinduism (both have Yoga as a part of their religion) for their spiritual and personal growth. And this is not normally being labelled as something sinful, even though looking at it factually, it is a change of Religion.

But quite conveniently, normally such person is described as a healthy and spiritual human being that enjoys travelling, sings Mantra, dresses up exotically, even doesn’t eat meat! What an example to all. A modern, soulful, educated and highly spiritual being. He is not a sinner, well, a hipster at the most.

I believe this will also answer the question “Is Tarot Evil?” because evil and sin go hand in hand with each other.

What is “good” and what is “bad” came from religious and philosophical teachings that are also subject to change based on the shifts, changes and revisions we are going through every day.

Should I not be afraid of Tarot then?

In my opinion, when going for a Tarot reading, you should be afraid not of committing a sin, but of your intentions and actions.

If you are asking a question about your own life, without getting a third party involved, (such as “What is happening in my best friend’s relationship with her boyfriend?) if your questions and life morals don’t contradict each other, then there is no need to be afraid of the consequences of the reading because there are none.

Let it be a reason for you to think what your life position is. What morals and principals do you follow?

If you take time to consider everything said above in this Blog post, you will understand that working on your future using Tarot is neither a sin or an evil. A Tarot reading will not bring you bad luck or misfortunes because it’s not on its own a magical tool.

Tarot is your guide to the better choices, better life and happier future. Use it wisely, use it to help others and don’t forget to always thank the Source.

[youralternantpersonality]

Eternal Love

Paul x Reader: Eternal Love.

Part 1: Eternal Love

Part 2: Everlasting Love

Part 3: Endless Love

Part 4: Enduring Love

***

Darkness. All I see is darkness…I’m calm yet scared. I don’t understand what’s going on. I am in the forest in La Push, walking aimlessly. Not heading anywhere. I want to go home but I also like it here. I feel…at peace. I look over and I see a never-ending path of trees. What makes it eerie is that there’s no animals, no background noise, even when I get close enough to the dirt, no worms, ants, spiders, anything. I feel like I’ve been stuck here for almost an hour or so. And after some time, I realize something…where’s my dog?

“Snout! Snout! Where are you?” I yell and start looking around. I hear a bark in the distance and run towards it.

“Snout! Baby, come here!” I hear more barking and I run towards that direction. Something seems familiar about this. I just can’t figure out what it was.

Paul’s POV

Five days. That’s how long it’s been since the good doctor Cullen has told me that the love of my life, the only reason I even exist, the one who would calm me yet irritate me out of love, The One; gone. At least, not completely. She’s in a vegetable state—can’t move willingly, can’t hear, smell, taste anything. Hooked up to a machine that is keeping her on this earth. I haven’t moved from this spot by her bed unless I have to shower and eat (demands by Emily).

As I sit here, looking at my beautiful Y/n, bruises along her left side of her body, a cast that covers her arm, hip, and legs, bandages wrapped around her head, I can’t help but cry nonexistent tears. I have cried all of what I had left over the past few days. I can remember everything that happened so clearly. Regret consumed me, so much so, that Dr. Cullen was gracious enough to fix the damages in the bathroom attached to her room when I smashed my fist into the mirror, and he got her, her suite in the hospital.

I fucked up. Everyone tried to make me feel better, but deep down, we all know what I did was what put her in this situation. Which is why I begged, no pleaded, even bargained with the Good Doctor to change her. He wanted to help, but because of the treaty….

“…I cannot Paul. The treaty states…”

“Fuck the treaty! She’s the love of my life! I can’t lose her! I may have fucked up and caused this, but I can’t let her go! Please!” I pleaded outside of his home. His wife, Esme, came next to me and hugged me as I fell to the ground. I didn’t care if she was eerie rock solid or cold as ice, I just needed my Y/n/n back.

As I am looking at her currently, caressing her little finger that is hanging outside her cast, I think back to how we met.

At the Beach: September 2nd, 2018;

There was a birthday party at the beach and, like what anyone would expect from us, the guys and I crashed it. It seemed boring until we, I, showed up. The host was too tipsy to give a crap and was just happy to see more people. I was flirting, per usual, with some lovely girls when the host calls out a name. And what made me respond was the voice and fragrance that came with it.

“What hoe!” a laugh followed afterward. The wind blew a sweet fragrance, pomegranate mango with an orange-like citrus smell to it. I turned my head at the right time to see Y/n. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she walked towards who I found out later to be Angela—one of Bella’s old friends. She went up to hug her and Y/n looked around. That’s where our eyes came in contact. Everything else around me disappeared and I didn’t care for anyone or anything around me. I slowly made my way up to her and she just smiles as I do so.

“Hello, beautiful. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here. I’m Paul, what’s your name?” I smile, not one of my flirty smiles, a genuine smile. It’s weird, I never wanted to imprint EVER in my life, but over time, it didn’t seem too bad. And now, I’m not complaining.

“Hmm, you seem dangerous.” A cheeky smile is placed on her face, she looks me up and down and turns her body towards me.

“I’m Y/n, but people call me Y/n/n.” I smile and shake her hand. Both of our eyes widen at the electricity flow, the magnetic force pulling us to one another, and this cloud 9 effect that is taking over. I look down at her and smile.

“Hmm, you seem like you’re about to ruin my life,” I said jokingly. She smiles and laughs.

“I guess we’re a match huh?”

“I guess we are. So, tell me about yourself.” And from then on, we were together.

But it seems like life wanted to make a full circle.

Current Day: August 30th, 2020

“Paul, the council is still debating. I know this is hard, but please, at least for Emily, go home and get some rest.” Sam said. Normally, I’d take alphas orders, but this time, I can’t. I shake my head and head towards the bathroom. I brush past him and Jake and just stand there behind the door. I look at myself in the mirror and can see emotional and physical damage.

I’ve lost weight, I have deep dark circles around my eyes, my eyes itself is bloodshot red. My skin is sickly pale, not it’s normal “golden glow honey brown sugar” skin that my little raven called it. I laugh at that memory. She was whimsical, mysterious, and protective like a raven. Her secret personality was as big as one too. She called you in naturally by her beauty—inner and outer beauty.

At Paul’s house: November 2018

We were laying on the couch relaxing before I had to go on patrol. She was reading a book with her legs planted in my lap, I was deep engrossed to the video game I was playing when suddenly, I feel a pair of eyes on me.

“Make a video to remember this moment then replay it when you miss me.” I smile and look over at her. All I could see is her big y/e/c eyes staring back at me. One eyebrow raised and her book was covering the bottom half of her face.

“You know,” she says sitting up, putting down the book, “it’s not fair how clear and bright your skin is. You have this…this golden glow…with, like, honey brown sugar swirled in it. You suck.” She says pouting. I pause the game, lean over to her, and place most of my weight on her while kissing her neck. She squeals underneath me and starts laughing. I smile and kiss her softly while poking my nose into her cheek.

“I love every bit of you, my love. You may see flaws, but with my heightened eyesight, I can see little freckles kissed all along your face. Matter of fact, let me show you where.” Then I proceeded to kiss all over her face. She laughs uncontrollably.

“But you don’t have the curse of hyperpigmentation! You see freckles, I see never-ending scars.” I hate it when she gets like this. It hurts me, to see the love of my life feel as if she has to be something different to even be next to me.

“Baby, stop,” I said calmly, I learned quickly that I would have to control my tone around her. She can read me like a book and because her emotions can get the best of her, yelling could end in two ways. One, she’ll fight back—she’s all bark and bites—so no one messes with her for a while when she’s at that point. Or two, she starts tearing up and holds back tears. Not for manipulation reasons that most girls do, but for the fact that she intakes certain emotions and she has no control over hers.

“I know you may feel that way, and you have to remember, I did too. You know, I was human like you before my wolfy sense’s kicked in.” I smile as she smiles back. “Just know my love, I don’t see anything wrong with you. I could never.” I place my forehead on hers. “I love you too much to worry about things like that.” I kiss her. She looks at me and says,

“So, if you didn’t love me, you’d notice it?” I look at her with a blank face, roll my eyes, and just roll off the couch. I can feel her watching me.

“Well…”

“You know, you’re a little shit, right?” I say with my hands covering my face. She lays on top of me and says,

“But you love me, remember.”

“Oh my god…” I just squeeze her to me and laugh along with her.

Current Day: August 30th, 2020

I step back out into the room where Dr. Cullen and Sam are waiting for me. I stop and look at them.

“The council decided…” Sam said, I looked up with hopeful eyes…

“They will agree to it, if…” Carlisle started.

“If what?” I say, taking a step forward.

“If she leaves until she can handle being around humans. And…” Sam began,

“She can’t go back to La Push,” Carlisle said. I replayed what they said…. she can change but can’t come back until she’s able to be around humans, but she can’t come back to La Push. I nod my head.

“How long does it usually take for your kind to get better at being around humans?” I ask quietly. Carlisle looked at Sam with guilt and answered.

“It depends on the person's restraint. Within their first year, their blood still runs in their body, so blood lust, especially from humans, is out of control. After a year, it gets better. Although, with our diet, it’s harder but not impossible.”

“But how long in total?” I asked anxiously. He looked at me with genuine sad eyes.

“Up to three years or so.” He said with sorrow in my eyes. For once in the few days I’ve been here, a new emotion that I haven’t touched came out. Rage.

“Three years! I can’t go that long without her! I’m coming with you.” I said to Carlisle. Sam looked at him for an answer. This is the first time I’ve seen him rely on his answers on another person’s answer.

“You can, but there’s no guarantee of anything. Her body may or may not accept the venom. She may or may not remember you. She may have anger towards you about what happened if she remembers what happens. Anything could happen Paul. Is it worth the risk?” without hesitation, I answered.

“Yes.” Sam nodded his head and gave me the okay. Even if he wouldn’t have, I still would have followed them. He knows just as much as anyone that separating imprints from one another is a death sentence.

“We leave tonight. Edward and I will take her to Alaska with some friends of ours. I will administrate the change there. Because you are in no condition to shift, we plan on flying. Medical services will meet us there with her. We have paperwork stating that they are her closes family since she doesn’t have one.” I nodded my head and took a deep breath.

“Thank you. I know this is a reach, but can I ask for one favor.”

“Of course.”

“Can you freeze her eggs.” They looked at me confused and with shock. So, I explained,

“We’ve always talked about having children. She’s always wanted children of her own and to adopt some. I know she wouldn’t care too much about it, but I also know that would make her happy.” I begged the doctor. He sighed and nodded.

“it shouldn’t be a problem, since she’s already under my friends name as family, Eleazar would be okay with it.” I nod my head and look back at my angel.

“Emily, Kim, and Clair will be up here in a few. Go home and rest for tonight Paul. I promise, she’ll be okay. If she’s going to have the procedure, you need to be ready for when it’s over and to head out.” I didn’t argue this time. I walked over to her and kiss her head.

“Don’t leave me, my love. I’ll be here waiting for you. Always.”

My Love (for the series)

Masterlist

[caithyra]

Don’t think about it...

...Because when you do, the Thieves’ Guild/Nightingale questline just becomes more and more disturbing, and you might just end up feeling sympathy for the guy you have no choice but to kill.

Basically, I am trying to create an abbreviated timeline of Skyrim’s characters’ history just in case I get off my butt and write fanfic, and I ran into this:

Mercer Frey is at most, around 50 years old in 4E 201. I guess this because he lives in the sewers (illnesses flow down with the dung and trash+no sunlight is aging and bad for the health, so if he was older he would probably be sick) and crouches (ages the joints) all his life, yet was spry enough to climb a giant statue and pry jewels that had been in the rock for millennia loose. If he was in his 60s with his lifestyle he likely couldn’t have done that, Skeleton Key or no Skeleton Key (also, not a single gray hair that I could see, so...).

Subtracting 25 years after Gallus’ death, gives us around 25 years old. subtracting at least 3 years of Karliah being a regular Nightingale not on the lamb, because she seems pretty comfortable with the role and the Skyrim locations (and was also the lover of an adult, we get perilously close to underage the further back we push this, and she’d been his “little nightingale” for so long she was obsessed with killing Mercer 25 years later), he would be around 22 years old when she was inducted.

And he was a senior Nightingale, I would guess at least 5 years her senior as a Nightingale.

So when Gallus and Karliah’s mother sold his soul to Nocturnal, he would have been around 17 years old at the oldest. And given how small a margin I’ve given these years, I would guess the more likely age for Mercer’s selling of soul would have been 15 years old.

The thing is, he and Karliah would have been about the same age (as an elf, she looks younger, heck, her grandmother, Barenziah, was pretty spry and popping out her mother at the age of 379, and if Karliah is only as young as Mercer, then Karliah’s mother popped Karliah out when she was around 170+ years old) and as a Breton, he probably matures slower than a regular mannish race without half-elven ancestry (a half-elven Emperor, Cassynder, is remarked upon to have aged “like a Breton” suggesting slower maturity, as he died of ill health and so certainly did not have the lifespan of a Breton).

And on top of it all, the way Karliah’s life plays out in Gallus’ book (Nightingales Vol.2), it seems like her lover and her mother waited until she was an adult before inducting her to give her a better choice, unlike Mercer (who was likely inducted because Karliah’s grandfather died, or because Lorthus, who may or may not have been Karliah’s father, died in Whiterun’s dungeons, and because it needs to be a Trinity and they didn’t think Karliah would have been ready), who was put in the position of selling his soul as a child while pressured by authority figures that it was a great honor.

Not only that, but Frey is not a Breton name. In fact, as a surname, it seems very Nordic, and given that there is no trace of Mercer’s background or parentage and that the highest population of Bretons and Reachmen lives under the thumb of Nords as serfs (and children take the race of the mother) in the Reach and that he picks a second-in-command with a Reach accent...

Yeah, so it seems more like Mercer’s conception may or may not have been consensual. That he somehow ended up in Gallus’ path when he was a very young child (at best, his mother died when he was very young and his father either also died or there was no relationship so he didn’t recognize Mercer, or Gallus kidnapped him), and Mercer grows into his midteens in the guild when the guildmaster and a legendary figure (Nightingale, Karliah’s mother) either convinces him to sell his soul to Nocturnal, or tricks him like Karliah tricked the Dragonborn and Brynjolf.

And then he grows into adulthood and realizes what they’ve done to him (eternal slavery even beyond death, even worse than the Reachmen in the Reach).

Is it really any wonder he “desecrates” Nocturnal’s shrine to live large while he can? Why he kills Gallus when Gallus starts trying to be all moral about it? (Oh, and given the sticky timeline, if Karliah is any younger than Mercer and not the same age or older, her and Gallus’ relationship likely started when she was barely legal after he watched her from her mid-teenage years as her guildmaster and superior; isn’t Gallus a swell, moral guy? Totally a honorable thief!) because he now hates Gallus? Is it any wonder that Karliah is framed when Mercer’s entire life and death has revolved around her and her family/lover?

Notice that for 25 years, he was content taking care of the Thieves’ Guild and only skimming the top of the (dwindling) profits and practically did everything to keep it running (again, I do not believe the Guild fell on hard times because of Mercer, given that their luck is sooo bad that they randomly recruit the Last Dragonborn when it is at its worse. Given how little the other leaders seems to do, it seems more self-inflicted, also given that the Last Dragonborn can fix it all up by doing a bunch of regular quests any thief in the guild, but most especially senior members like Brynjolf, Vex and Delvin, could have done).

Also I would like to point out that Karliah lies or is paranoid when she says that she’s been hunted for 25 years by Mercer’s contacts, given that there is only evidence of him having 3 contacts who would do such a thing, and the Black-Briars knew nothing, the Dark Brotherhood certainly wasn’t wasting their dwindling resources (they were hunted to near extinction 13 years ago and were losing Sanctuaries even before that) on her and the Thieves’ Guild were all surprised she still existed.

Given that Karliah constantly lies about things like this (even Gallus, in his book, contradicts her attributing everything to him, by pointing out that her mother and Mercer were there in the same capacity), she’s likely lying. But then again, Gallus had the gall to lie to my face as a ghost (stating he wasn’t in the Sepulcher when the sealing happened and then stating with certainty what happened during the sealing, even though only Daedric Princes would know enough to make an accurate guess, and even then might be wrong unless they’re Nocturnal herself), so maybe he lied in his book?

But anyway, back to Mercer. So for 25 years he’s been content being guildmaster.

And it is only when Karliah shows up again and escapes his attempt at killing her that he empties the vault and leaves (and again, Karliah was trying to destroy the guild in a more permanent way by angering Maven Black-Briar. At least you can refill an empty vault, you cannot refill the ranks of killed master thieves so easily. Then, when the Dragonborn gives Karliah the option of an in with the guild, she just skates right on in and no one points this out. Either that or her plan was so stupid, she planned, as the known killer of the previous guildmaster, to walk into the guild with the current guildmaster paralyzed over her shoulder waving her boyfriend’s supposed diary in an unreadable language and claim innocence? Also, a thief’s diary that only mentions what she needs us to know but not his great love for his “little nightingale”? Or even just “we danced the horizontal tango yesterday, her mother is angry because she thinks I’m too old for her, fortunately she was killed by mercenaries finding our super secret hideout that only I and Mercer knew about~Time to turn little Karliah into my little nightingale~”).

Like imagine if Karliah moved on from her (creepy) boyfriend and made a life for herself outside Skyrim? The only thing the guild to complain about when it comes to Mercer would be his admin fees (skimming) because no one else have done the accounting for 25 years (looking at you, Bryn and Del, oh and notice how long it took for Gallus to notice? He was guildmaster but did he foist the admin work on Mercer too? On top of selling Mercer’s soul?) and doesn’t want to step up in any capacity to do any of his work (See Guildmaster Dragonborn despite there being three senior leaders left in the Thieves Guild; at the least Companions killed off Kodlak [who dreamed about you] and Skjor and caused a schism on the lycanthropy topic between Aela and the twins before you became the Harbinger who is just a mediator and advisor, and you just arbitrarily becomes the Listener because “Sweet Mother” is a fucking troll who played deadbeat to her “children” for 13 years, and I cannot really justify the Archmage thing, but I can do it much better than the Guildmaster thing).

And there wouldn’t have been any selling of souls to a demonic goddess Karliah calls a “scolding mother” who is more deadbeat than the Night Mother and who, like the Night Mother, keeps you in servitude beyond your death.

But like I said, don’t think about it.

Oh and I’m not the only one who is kind of put off by Karliah’s “specialness” what with being the secret granddaughter of THE Nightingale and Queen Barenziah, and the only Dunmer I can think of without ash-red eyes (even Vivec’s Dunmer half had a red eye, and he was considered as powerful as a god, just to show how all-encompassing Azura’s curse was) and instead have violet eyes, and how everyone praises how smart and skilled she is while everything she does is stupid and failing?

Oh right. I need to stop thinking about this quest-line and the fact that my only choice was killing the child victim of a demonic cult after he grew up and tried to escape for the crime of taking some going-away-money I could replace in five minutes, just to avenge some dude who sells children’s soul into slavery after his girlfriend tricks me into selling mine and... Okay, not thinking about it!

[moonchildsaurora]

The Hercules of a Weapons Master/Mechanic

»»—— Crew Member #8 of Space Pirates ATEEZ ——««

all aboard The Perihelion, welcome to the co-pilot’s log system! here you’ll be able to access the crew’s profiles should you wish to read about their journeys: (no nsfw content)

[CAPTAIN] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

“so you want me…to break them? As in literally or figuratively?”  

is the baby of the crew but actually the eldest in his own family

epitome of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’. With a well-grounded and balanced mindset along with a great sense of independence and self-discipline

is a native Draerair born and raised on Corebos, a relatively peaceful planet where several clans co-exist across the different regions specialising in agricultural and metal work

[database file: Draerairs are shape-shifters by ancestral blood, however not every individual are born with the ability to shift into their bestial forms (though they retain some of their inhumane strength and traits). Each clan’s lineage has a specific beast they’re associated with. Individuals with the ability to shift can do so at will, be it partially or fully]

Jongho and his family are descendants of the Silverclaw clan, their associated beast is that of a bear. He’s the only one currently in his family that was born with the shifters ability, his grandmother was the previous individual with the ability

in his human form his hair is dark like the coals in his father’s workshop, honey tanned skin from hours of work under the sun and a gentle shade of hazel for eyes        

when partially shifted he gains a good 2 and half feet in height as bones and muscle mass expands, nails are elongated into claws, canines sharpened and eyes become more of an amber gold colour. Faint markings appear around his eyes as well as down his arms. Fur of black-brown shade emerge the closer he shifts into his beastial form

his strength is renowned throughout his clan, at the tender age of 5 he shocked the souls out of his parents after they found that he’s managed to bend the metal bars of his youngling playpen simply to get out so he could go on a mini adventure to find an afternoon snack

“oh sweet Zeus, we’ve lost the baby!”

they found out very quickly that he particularly liked snacking on fruits especially apples and sometimes would have to hide extras from him, otherwise they’d have none left

Jongho had always looked up to his father and his speciality with weapons forging. During his youngling years he’d be allowed to sit at a safe distance and observe, wide eyes with wonder when he looked at his father welding ambthanite metal together or carving a blade from crystalline emeyl

it was no surprise that Jongho followed in his footsteps and begun his apprenticeship by his 12th summer, his immense strength was a sure advantage when it came to being efficient and how easily some techniques were mastered 

“who needs a machine when you can just bend it with your bare hands?”

his younger siblings adored watching their older brother (it felt like déjà vu) build anything as small as a hunter’s dagger to fixing up parts of visiting ships. It’s also an extra treat for them whenever Jongho would crush fruity snacks single-handedly, because he loves hearing their joyous laughter and applause

The Perihelion had actually made a supply stop within the region that Jongho resided in to trade for food and energy cells. Under the recommendation from some of the market farmers, the crew were led to the Chois’ smithing workshop to fix up minor damages on the ship’s hull and to assess if any defence upgrades were available to be installed on such short notice  

“…I can’t tell if that’s Hercules or a beast hammering away in there”

the expressions on half the crew’s faces were priceless once they met Jongho, right after they saw him heave a 7 tonne slab of frerhil iron [database file: a common metal for heavy duty spears used by barbarians & warmasters] on to the bench without batting an eyelid

“you sure are one strong baby!”

“MINGI SHUT YO-“

“oh don’t worry, I get that. A lot”

and if it wasn’t for the overly toothy smile that Jongho sent their way that made the crew slightly nervous, it would’ve been the way his muscles flexed tauntingly as he gripped Mingi’s hand in a handshake during introductions Seonghwa nearly sweated out his worries just wearily watching that exchange

“I think what our lovely tech engineer meant was that you have a bab-ahh youthful face, yeah, youthful appearance! Not that you’re a baby at age”

“of course, I just passed my 15th summer not too long ago actually. So what can I do for you lot today?”

Hongjoong didn’t even try to hide how impressed he already was, he hadn’t come across too many shifters before and knew very little of their nature and abilities so this was great insight for him. He couldn’t care less with Wooyoung snickering in the background when his chest puffed out proudly after Jongho complimented his ship

Jongho was genuinely amazed that The Perihelion had managed to hold out until now (after hearing brief stories as to how the damages were acquired), without even having a ship’s mechanic for regular maintenance. His awe elevated when Hongjoong told him that he, a self-taught, was the one who worked and spruced the ship up from its near-scrap stage

Jongho’s father made similar comments when he came round to check up on his son and the workshop, even helping a bit with fitting in newer protective panels around the engines and windows. It wasn’t anything fancy, but Jongho did promise should the crew make another stop by in the future he’d have some better upgrades for them

it wouldn’t be till nearly 4 years later where their paths would cross once again in the city of Acreon. Jongho having made the decision to leave his home planet to start living life a little more, though he’d still pick up smithing-mechanic work along the way of his travels. Probably not the most ideal way to reunite with the crew, especially amidst a bar brawl of all things    

having not fought in his entire life (unless you count sand wrestling during his youngling days), Jongho was running entirely on pure adrenaline when he recognised Hongjoong and swiftly grabbed him out of the way – seconds before a stool came smashing down

“what th-OH hey! It’s you!”

the crew witnessed Jongho partially shift that time, almost bowling the entire crowd over with his solid mass to get Wooyoung and San out of the fray. Throwing them over his shoulders and bolting with the rest out the back door of the bar (Wooyoung’s shrieking could be heard down the street)

“thank you for that, really, we owe you one”

“do your evenings out usually end up like this? Never would’ve pinned you lot as the type to throw punches at a bar”

“listen here, that slimy loathsome spawn of a troll deserved it for inappropriate treatment of the dancer”

well at least Jongho couldn’t fault them for having good morals and standing up for it, though he wouldn’t be able to live it down come the following day when news spread throughout the city of ‘a beast from the nether realms’ being involved in the incident at The Illusion he dreaded getting an earful from his parents should his family ever catch wind of the news

Hongjoong invited him to tag along with the crew for the rest of their time in Acreon (highkey hoping this time Jongho would stick around more permanently), which allowed him time to evaluate the state of The Perihelion since it’s been a long while

Jongho officially became a member of the crew after he convinced Hongjoong to head over to Vostrilles, a place he knew had supplies of the latest ship weaponry and mechanical resources, and stuck by long enough to help with the upgrades that the crew pretty much adopted him into their wholesome chaotic family

he grew to thoroughly enjoy their company and now have the luxury of being doted on by his older sibling figures (he’d still deck anyone who dares call him a baby with the exception of mumma Seonghwa)

“watch your language! There are children on board”

the crew realised just how much they needed a proper weapon smith/mechanic on board after a few close-calls with a rival crews – Jongho’s newly installed point-defence canons had given the ship an advantage on its durability and defensive structure that it could withstand enemy attacks enough to make an escape

no one would openly admit that they cannot stay angry at Jongho for longer than 2 minutes, even when he was being in an argumentative mood

not to mention that everyone is extremely protective of their baby bro  

ends up being closest to Mingi, Wooyoung and Yeosang, the latter having a calming presence when he needs some downtime and he appreciates the other chaotic duo when they join in singing random duets with him (a habit he does whenever he’s in his workshop)

recently Jongho found some quality metal paint, he pitched the idea of giving The Perihelion a proper makeover – Hongjoong and others could customise the colour palette they’d like and finally give the ship the glo-up she deserves (no one noticed Yeosang’s little character doodles he so sneakily painted at random spots/corners of the ship hehet)              

(moodboard made with love, by @s1ardusk​ ♡)

[theviscountbridgerton]

Interview with Jonathan Bailey in Style Magazine (October 2020) where he talks a little bit about Bridgerton. The interview was conducted in English, transcribed into Italian, and then translated back into English by Google Translate so, you know, there are some things that get lost in translation. 

Love affairs, marriages of interest and intrigues. It is the portrayal of the new Netflix series Bridgerton, a bit of a Jane Austen romance, a bit of sexy in the wake of The Favourite, with the right dose of Downton Abbey-style family drama, but “so modern that it could almost be set in the present day” enthusiastically states Jonathan Bailey, at his great opportunity to really make it internationally, playing the fascinating bachelor Anthony Bridgerton, the quintessential English nobleman of the early nineteenth century, who at the age of 28 finds himself at the head of a clan of seven brothers and sisters. One who “has to play the part of a loving brother and son and instead loves women and forbidden pleasures” ...

The Regency period has been less represented than other moments in British history, but the film industry abounds with period dramas. Do they still make sense today? Our instincts are the same, in 2020 as in 1820, and to observe them in a restrictive and oppressive context such as 19th century England where the will of the individual was stifled, sexuality was suppressed and there was a strong division between the social classes, puts them even more in evidence. Each of us at some point in his life felt forced into a role due to the expectations of others, just like Bridgerton's characters.

Women more than men, but ... Only in appearance: of course all the decisions are up to men, and Anthony for example to decide who should marry Daphne, but they are also forced to repress their feelings, which makes them unable to live a happy life. Patriarchal society has wreaked havoc on both sexes.

Bridgerton also has the virtue of surrounding Queen Charlotte with a court that is not exclusively white: the terrifying Lady Danbury and played by Adjoa Andoh, Regé-Jean Page plays the role of Duke Simon Basset and Martins Imhangbe as his best friend. Is it worth abdicating historical accuracy to be politically correct? We decided to do the opposite of whitewashing that so many historical moments have suffered. Here the question is to be faithful to the events told in the books by Julia Quinn from which the series is based, not to be historically accurate, so we can also imagine that at the time of Queen Charlotte it could have been an inclusive court. custom and the freedom given to the actors to model the characters, to make them current.

The fourth season of The Crown will also arrive on Netflix in the coming months: have you wondered why the public is still so fascinated by the nobility? We all love what we cannot have, which is closed to us. Even without getting to the royal family. Think for example of the world of the Bennet sisters and Mr Darcy of Pride and Prejudice: they were far below the social hierarchy, yet they have been represented countless times in period films. Personally, what intrigues me most about the golden world of the aristocracy is not the parties and privileges, but what lies beneath the surface: I wonder what the human cost of that life is. Bridgerton's characters always pretend to be something other than who they are: the real drama and their distance from the truth in a society of appearance, and this is what intrigues us about them.

Is the society of appearance then different from ours? If at the time classism was based on the distance between people, with the aristocrats who did everything to limit what the people could know about them, today social media allow us to <approach> characters that otherwise we would only idealize and this does so that high society no longer exists.  We never knew so much about the royal family, but I don't think it's good.

Speaking of royalty, you started in the theater with the King John of the Royal Shakespeare Company: is the stage still your first love? A love that has only grown since I first saw a musical Oliver! as a child. I love the experience of being in the theater, first of all as a spectator, it's magic. But as an actor I have to admit that it's much more tiring than cinema.

And instead to dub the protagonists of the video games from Anthem and Final Fantasy XIV, how did he end up? That was one of the funniest things I could do. They have a really huge fanbase and I consider them an incredible art form as well as a thriving industry. He played them a lot when I was a kid and I rediscovered them during the lockdown.

What role do you dream of playing? I think it's better for me not to know, I prefer to be stimulated by reading a script. The important thing is to work with people who have a very defined idea of ​​your character: it makes him stronger, you can already imagine him on the page even before taking on his shoes. But I can say that I'd like to play someone who looks a lot like me, who tells my reality, I'd like to find out how I would feel. It sounds like a paradox, but I think Hamlet could never play Hamlet.

And could Hamlet ever be a woman? Thanks to the role of Jamie in Company, who was originally an Amy, you won the Laurence Olivier Award for Best Supporting Actor in a Musical. Amy was transformed into a man, yes, but homosexual, and it is no coincidence: I believe that women and gays, even if in different ways and at different levels, are both oppressed minorities. In Company the goal was to make the reflection on marriage more modern by putting a man in crisis, because, given that gay marriages are now legal in many countries of the world, it almost seems that one has to marry by force. In general, however, I don't think we should cut the female parts on men, both because they are related to purely female experiences, but above all because of complex male roles I would say that there are already enough. Women are finally being given roles with an emotional complexity never seen before: it is interesting to see them act as protagonists in a society that has long been dominated by men, sometimes very weak, others brilliant.

Who is Jonathan Bailey when he's not on set? A boy who loves being in nature. I just finished a week of cycling in the English countryside where I covered about 700km. I think if I wasn't an actor I would retire Cornish hut.

I had read in an old interview with him that as a boy he dreamed of becoming a pilot. I think I was trying to reassure my parents that I would settle down and find a stable job (laughs). But in reality maybe I could have become a teacher, not because I necessarily think I have who knows what to pass on, but I believe in young people, it will be that I recently spent some time with my six year old niece. Instead it is not that I really had the opportunity to choose, fate did it for me.

Does it owe more to fate or to his willpower? I don't come from a family of actors or artists, when at the age of seven I was offered the part of Tiny Tim in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol which was to be performed at the Barbican in London I simply jumped at an opportunity. Many kids who love theater go to drama school, but having grown up in a small town in Oxfordshire, I wouldn't have had much choice but to join the basketball team. So I will always be grateful for that chance, but it has never been an easy path. I believe in hard work, which always rewards.

[forgottenyear]

an up

[Long text - it does get better]

A friend suggested I should read Janina Fisher. I have added one of her books to a list, for when I can afford it. I will follow through, despite all that I am about to write. I am grateful to my friend for the suggestion.

This brings up a lot of fear and confusion in me. I have been dealing with a multitude of distracting thoughts and projects that would have me quickly forget (but I added the book to a list so I am not depending on memory).

I am not writing to entertain the distractions and would-be barriers. I am writing because this is how I have lived my life for as long as I have been me. I want to understand the game so that I will no longer be the one being played. For too many years, I did not know that this was happening, much less how it was happening.

I have an opportunity to find a healthier path. I intend to try. I will not allow anything to block me from this.

When I did not understand how I have been “herded” by the identity fragment, and when I did not understand what an identity fragment was, I was helpless. For too many years.

I am angry over this dysfunction. I am angry that it feels bad to be angry. I am angry that it feels bad to want to end the dysfunction. I am angry that I feel like I am instigating war with an identity fragment that has taken care of me since before I was me.

I am angry that all of this sounds crazy. I am angry that this, to all outward appearances, is me arguing with myself.

I will not, but there is an insidious feeling that if I will only turn my back and forget about this, I can go back to feeling safe again. This feeling is why I have stagnated. It is akin to compulsion, as I understand it. There is an intangible “bad” that will come of failure to perform specifically.

It is complicated. The identity fragment is not set against me. The identity fragment is not my enemy within. The identity fragment is probably the only reason I am alive today and not in an institution. All of which makes it so much harder to wrestle for control, to instigate.

An argument could be easily carried that the identity fragment does not exist, which is a complication in itself. But the point is that the identity fragment is less identity than fragment. The identity fragment, outside of extreme emergencies, does not directly control anything. I am not commanded to do this or that. The identity fragment does not force me to do things against my will. The identity fragment does not have even a voice (I cannot begin to explain how communication happens).

If, as I did for years before the last decade, I were to forget the identity fragment, I simultaneously would forget the trauma and all that goes with it. It goes away like magic. The trauma and the fragment are intertwined. It would be the easiest solution.

Of course, trauma is not so neatly packaged. As much as I am sure that the identity fragment would have wished, there is no control to be had over the nightmares. There is no control to be had over the terror. The flashbacks. There is no way to prevent trauma’s random return visits. Memory, however, is frighteningly easy to manage.

I have no reason to think I have not had nightmares continuously since the forgotten years. I am almost certain that I have more nightmares than I realize, even during my current nightmare storm. With one or two exceptions that I can remember, I do not wake from a nightmare with a vivid recollection of what was just happening. I wake with fear and dread for everything, especially sleep. And when my body recovers, I mostly forget the event entirely. But for the fear of sleep. I do not remember the nightmares, but I cannot forget the fear of sleeping.

Ten years ago, when the fantasy world of my identity’s “childhood” was intruded upon by reality, I was confused by my lack of nightmares. I took this for a sign that the trauma was imagined. I believed I had no nightmares, but I had frequent periods of disturbed sleep.

Recognizing somniphobia as a byproduct of my nightmares, I have no reason to think I have not had nightmares for as long as I remember.

The identity fragment does not control me. I have a choice. I am exercising to buy a book by the therapist suggested by my friend. I exercise my choice with every post I write. I am not locked into – or out of – any specific thought or action.

What does happen is in feelings and attention. I will feel like it is bad or dangerous or scary to think or do a thing. I will also feel like there is a greater thing to think about or to do. I may press forward with my original thought or action, if I am so determined. But the easiest path is always to forget and to move on to that very interesting thing that was offered instead.

There is a large part of my mental processing that gets handed to the identity fragment. This is done by choice, although I have never known there to be a choice. Nor have I always known there to be a need for a choice. We do not regularly think about how we walk or talk, or how we think. The boundaries between my thinking and the thinking done by the identity fragment are not clear.

I take in information, and then I wait for the solution. I have known this about complicated puzzles for longer than I have been aware of the fragment. Where I am less aware is the simpler puzzles. Judging from the confusion that I experience when I press on with writing posts for this blog, I hand off a lot of my thinking to the identity fragment. When the collaboration is done, it gets a bit sticky to start trying to assign credit for this idea or that (as anyone who has work on team projects may attest). The “conversation” is so fluid that the sum ceases to be that of two individuals.

I do not think the identity fragment is necessarily preventing me from working on this stuff. I think that I am unaccustomed to working solo. That I am not aware of my dependence until I have to do without.

I also cannot say that the identity fragment induces fear. The fear could be the result of my insistence on going it alone.

It occurs to me that I do not understand the identity fragment as well as I might. I began this post with an unhealthy amount of suspicion. And maybe blame. I began with too little ownership of my responsibilities.

I can function, arguably, without the identity fragment. If we can function together as one, that is far better. If we can function far better, that is still far betterer.

I am without an opinion on integration. I see no need. It would probably be ridiculous, given the circumstances of the last integration. The current system is good. Surprisingly good, given the circumstances of the last. The alternative was not (not good and not to be).

I think there is always room for growth and improvement. That is the opportunity I see here.

*

I have my ups and my downs. Clearly, my last post was a down. I am looking forward to more ups.

[nutty1005]

Wei Wuxian – An analysis on Xiao Zhan's acting Part 3

Part 1.1 – Wei Wuxian

Part 1.2 – Wei Wuxian

Part 1.3 – Wei Wuxian

Part 2.1 – Yan Bingyun

Part 3.1 – Period Dramas

Part 3.2 – Period Dramas

Original Article: https://www.weibo.com/ttarticle/p/show?id=2309404473348091412589 Original Author: 诗债累累

From Conscious to Subconscious, the Art Behind Crafting a Role

Let us quickly review the previous two articles:

1.1 Grasping the character’s base psychology by understanding the character’s childhood and teenage years.

1.2 Crafting the character’s theatrical actions during the Yiling Patriarch stage, using incite and conflict.

In this article, we will talk about the creation of Wei Wuxian, from the conscious to subconscious.

In Xiao Zhan’s portrayal of Wei Wuxian, his realism blurred the line between role and actor, and caused viewers to believe that he and the character were the same person. In his interviews and events during the publicity period for “The Untamed” in China, audiences were usually struck with the sudden realization that his personality is quite unlike that of Wei Wuxian. This was further amplified when “Jade Dynasty” was released – “Was the actor for Wei Wuxian the same actor who did Zhang Xiaofan?”

Following the timeline of this article, we should be currently at the point of “the invincible Yiling Patriarch” until his eventual death in the Never Night City. Using dramatic action, the incident and conflict came from the changes from war to postwar, i.e. winning was paramount before Sunshot Campaign; distribution of the spoils of war and political maneuvering became the main activity post war.

The changes in situation also created an opposition for Wei Wuxian.

(1) The fear of an uncontrolled power

This could be attributed to the natural instinct of the survival of the fittest. Even if the tiger would not attack you, you would feel threatened by his existence nonetheless, because he could if he wanted. The existence of Wei Wuxian became a threat.

(2) Orthodoxy (path of the sword) and unorthodoxy (path of the spells)

This basically stood for the difference in values, and in this, Wei Wuxian was a heathen. Values were something that meant nothing during times of crisis and war. For example, Lan Xichen said, “He had read all the books in the world to no avail”, or Lan Qiren said, “No eggs are spared in an upturned nest”. However, this would definitely become a problem in peace times.

(3) Wei Wuxian’s pragmatic altruism

This character cannot be bribed or restrained by worldly rules. He would not haggle, nor would he abide by norms. He was not self serving, he did not have any specific desires, maybe with the exception of protecting the Jiang Family.

(4) Breakdown of clan structure, because his existence could not be surpassed

In the Bloodbath of Lotus Pier, a new clan leader rose and joined the ranks of established clan leaders. However, Wei Wuxian became some sort of a special force on his own, an ace, one who could defeat tens of thousands on his own.

(5) The horror of demonic cultivation

This was overlooked in the Sunshot Campaign, but when peace times arrived, for one’s psychological comfort,  they would judge those who were demonic-cultivated using their ethical and moral values.

This was the environment in which the character faced, and this environment has a very strong sense of realism. This is a classical trope, for example, under the benevolent ruler, a very strong general might be asked to relinquish his military powers and retire, but under a not-so-benevolent ruler, this general might be killed after completing his conquests.

This realism also stimulated the actor and the audiences. Audiences would have been drawn in and mesmerized by the sense of impeding tragedy and doom.

For the actor, with feedback with partnering actors, the above 5 points of opposition were able to arouse creative intuition. As briefly stated in my previous articles, Xiao Zhan’s handling of direct emotional scenes, i.e. scenes that required a direct reaction without much thought, was still quite halting, as though he would be thinking about his reactions, but for the scenes which required complex emotional outburst, he handled very cleanly.

Xiao Zhan’s understanding of his character during this period could be summarized in the following phrase: “What’s black or white, what’s good or evil?” Note that this refers to this period – this is not a conclusion of the character, just a status of the character. The gist of it was that it was impossible to determine what is right or wrong during such trying times, and hence whatever he did or whichever path he took, would have to answer to himself according to his values and morality. In terms of status, it meant that he would be swinging between black and white, good and evil, and he would only be faithful to his heart based on the current situation.

Xiao Zhan captured this status perfectly and showcased his intelligence as an actor. He did not simply portray this as an antihero, but instead, added layers of tragedy, self-conflict, and selflessness to his character.

During this period, most of Wei Wuxian’s actions should have been thoughtless. Most of his reflections would be related to whether he could have walked a different path from demonic cultivation (he could not), and whether his actions would really bring forth a better world after killing so many people.

This resulted in Wei Wuxian not providing any explanations for this actions, but instead, creating a system of philosophy for himself such that he was able to face his own values and morality. Once this system is not unified, it would break apart, and once it broke apart, it became highly sensitive to him. Xiao Zhan added this layer of fragility and high sensitivity, when Wei Wuxian met Nie Huaisang after his return – he dodged his arm, shrunk away from his touch and went into high alert, which reminded his viewers of his days in the Burial Grounds.

When Lan Wangji told him about how demonic cultivation would harm his spirit and possibly become uncontrollable, his reaction was to rebut, “How would you know the kind of person I am?” and thereafter, comforted by assuring that he would not have any problems.

When Jin Zixun refused to tell him where the remnants of the Wen Family were, he became conceited, his lips curling in a grin, his hands twirling Chen Qing. He almost drew Chen Qing like a weapon, as though he was telling everyone that he was a bomb ready to be set off. And he gave these famous words: “Who dares to stop me? Who can stop me?”

In the Ambush at Qiongqi Path, he was confident at the beginning that he would survive even though there might be traps. However, when Jin Zixuan died, he broke down. His performance showed two points – this was his brother-in-law, and this was his retribution.

At the Battle of Never Night City, Xiao Zhan’s emotions reached his peak, showing extreme arrogance and condescension, and he viewed his existence as an outlook of life and values. He had lost all sense of logic and rational thinking.

When facing Jiang Yanli, his performance became childlike, akin to a child who has made a terrible mistake.

When he jumped off the cliff, he had understood that this was truly his retribution, and his performance showed relief, liberation and atonement. Life was but a tragedy, and only death could put an end to all of this. 

The emotions, action and psychological characteristics in all these scenes are connected and highly coherent, and encompasses the phrase: “What’s black or white, what’s good or evil?”. This was a conscious effort leading to the subconscious creation of the character.

Subconscious character creation requires the actor to be able to control and summon his inspiration, and you would need a lot of hard work on the conscious creation in order to do this.

When actors create their characters, knowing how to do so is easier than the action creation – the actor will need to temper his will, and get close to his character, and draw inspiration from the actor’s personal experiences. In order to experience the character, the actor will need to firm up his external actions to allow his audiences to have a fixed impression on the character, and then display the internal fluctuations appropriately. This would enrich the performance and create a drama that would be worth watching again and again.

With a complex character such as Wei Wuxian, Xiao Zhan has stepped into the school of acting through his painstaking hard work.

Author’s Note

With this, I end my analysis of the character, Wei Wuxian, because the scenes thereafter would be his reconciliation with himself, and would create repetitive analysis.

I would slowly edit and supplement this article, but there would be limits to this. This article was meant to create some food for thought, and I welcome friends to add pictures or videos to support this series of articles.

Upcoming would be an article on Yan Bingyun.

[sol-futura-est]

When I finally step into my room, I unlace my shoes, undo my jumpsuit, and strip almost naked, save for my boxers. On my desk, besides the dim lamp, is at least four or five stacks of journals, most unread, organized from the formation of the first republic, to the modern era, but I only read about the recent wars more closely. I had returned all but a few of the ones of the beginning. What was open and waiting was Lawrence di Firenze’s account of his movement from Mesopotamia to Saint Petersburg, after fighting numerous skirmishes and enlisting the help of men on the path, he defied the orders of the senate and abandoned a quiet sector in favor of facing the fire, predicting the enemy’s advances as if he knew them more than anyone else. When he arrived to relieve his brother, and routing the siege, he was widely considered by people from east and west to be more than a mere tribune, but a hero worth talking about.

"Today marks the first of February, 2236. I’ve personally, let alone commanded the death of, killed so many of these machines and zealots that I’m beginning to view this war as something eternal, something worth finishing sooner than later. Araasi, the elected chief of the armies and political mastermind of the Svarogovist war machine, has laid siege to the great city of Petrograd, Saint Petersburg, Leningrad, whichever you prefer. As I already made clear to the senate, and the consul, he intends to take the city for the rail lines and airstrips that tie it to the rest of Eastern Europe and north into Finland and Scandinavia. I was ridiculed. I was told he would be stupid to challenge my brothers forces to open combat while entrenched in the city, and that I should take my horsemen and my commandos to greater effect in waiting for another attack from the Caspian Sea, or a new set of tunnels in northern Persia to burst. Despite my track record, despite my national appeal, from Mongols, Sikhs, Latins, Intermarians, even among my auxiliaries from even farther parts of the world, the senate, a handful of men, refuse.

It’s too bad I’m already here, on the banks of the sea to the west, encamped, ready to give the order to advance across the south and give my brother some relief. My chief lieutenant, my divisional legate, is still young. His aptitude is unquestionable, but he’s deeply afraid, almost embarrassingly so. He insists that I’m insane for using my horsemen like I do. I always ask him who won at Sinjar, in Central Asia, or even further back, in Kunduz, or Khalistan. Every time he just shudders, calls me old fashioned. I always tell him that it isn’t the implement, it’s the organization, it’s the application, the details. He insists that my ways will get me killed. In my eyes, this is why I’ve been so successful. Twenty years ago, my adoption and adaptation of coursers was laughed at, until we pushed Araasi’s predecessor into battle and killed him. For the first time in three hundred years, horsemen marched on city streets as heroes. My brother was amazed. He even told me before we deployed that his power armor would be the new knights of old, that I could not be in the spotlight as he hoped. After, it was as if he was seeing horses for the first time. Part of me wishes it was him, that the future, the grand spectacle of old books, where man fought different enemies, with suits of steel powered by space age technology. Little did I know we still used rifles and bows and lances, swords, knives, we even fought in hand to hand ambushes. Those were grand times.

Araasi still has us outnumbered two to one. Most of his other forces are south of us, dealing with Roland in the Caucasus, and the Sikhs further still.  All I have to stop is this one individual, and when this front collapses, I can end the war completely. If I end it, that’s just gonna exacerbate what certain voices are already shouting in the west.

It isn’t just youths who want me to take the mantle of dictator for some time, but even a lot of the men and women my age. Rumors that the senate gamed things after the first war, and allowed this one to happen, and my zeal against the enemy, it all makes these folks wish I was the one making decisions, not men who once upon a time were my peers. 

These dreams of mine are always alight with the same scene. I’m charging headlong through a valley of fire, against frightened machines, mutilated and disformed men, lowering my rifle and gunning them down. But I can see my horse and myself alight, in golden flame, as if the sunlight was pouring out of me. I can feel the horse galloping fast, the thrusting push of my rifle, even the fear through the air from the demons in front me. 

But it goes black suddenly, and I can’t wake up for a few moments. When I wake up, I feel as if the fire had only just gone out, as if Sol was trying to tell me something, but I cannot be sure. I want to believe that his is truly with me, that he was there when my father crossed the alps to take Bern, I want to believe not only that the republic is chosen, but many men themselves, but should I be afraid?"

Almost abruptly, the entry closes. Two weeks later he enclosed Araasi on a field and both of them died in the ensuing battle. Lawrence was found and carried out, Araasi was apparently either mutilated or simply drug back to the underground cities, entombed in whatever strange way they did things.

Specifically, it was this tale that caught my thoughts in moments like this. Two weeks after he penned this, he died. More than that, I know nothing of the man’s ripples in the lake of what remained. My body shivered trying to imagine what that battle was like, how it ensued beyond the tide of time, how the memory that existed on paper was so that the memories of those that adored him could feel his heartbeat through the letters. When I folded the tome and set it down again, next to one of Tarquin’s journals from the first war, I remembered reading it for the first time seven years ago, slowly, each night when one page became ten, ten became twenty or thirty. Mortimer told me once when there was a book or a movie the owners of this place didn’t want a fighter to see in his possession, that he got sent to a mining colony in the Urals. One of the few mandated by the senate, but operated by what used to be Svarogovist refugees. Those were my bedtime horror stories. Mortimer let his hate sew into me from youth on. When I’m stuck here, I can’t know if that’s true.

If the night was going to last forever, I might stay up, read more, but there’s not much reason to. Tomorrow always comes. When I slip under the thin blanket on my bed, I drift closer and closer to sleep as the dim lamp lights my desk, but not revealing the far off corner I was in. Each ride of the waves as they came onto me dragged me into the current, until suddenly…

Stop.

I know it’s a dream, but when I open my eyes again, I’m no longer in the arena, and somehow, I know I’m no longer in Karelia. When I stand, My feet are buried in flowing grass, and my ears can hear the faint whistle of the draft wrapping around me, and in front of me is emptiness, as far as I can see. All there are is rolling hills, the same I have seen every so often in my dreams. If I do dream, it’s lucid, just like this, just as if I can see and feel every little thing in some far off place I’ve never been to. The sun is always at dawn, gleaming rays striking firm into an endless horizon beyond the human imagination, a light that always inflicts on you the fury of comfort, of confidence. Nothing here can hurt you, nothing here is imperfect. Sparse trees and shrubs, hills that come in waves, glimmering dew, glistening blue sky, it all comes together to paint one picture, serene, perfect. Mountains afar stand taller than the ones here in Karelia, and faintly, from the north, is the smell of the ocean, riding the wind. Urban stench, sound, and surefound idiocy are gone. This isolation, the temporal, spiritual, physical isolation is not uncommon to me, but my own life, and I thrive within the quiet moments, where all that is left is to either think or lie down and breathe.

The first time I heard of a dream, I didn’t know what it was. When I found out that Mortimer knew I had dreams, he regrettably mentioned he knew nothing of the dreams I had. When I pried as a young kid, all he could do was shrug, and I came to think there was a local rarity within myself. When I found myself dreaming more than twice a week, I heard comments from the legionnaires, within their own conversations, and I’ve figured out that my dreams weren’t common, but still rare. I got lucky that day hearing that conversation; it helped me not be so afraid of being alone here. At first, all I could do was hope the shadows around trees were the light dancing. Eventually all I learned was that fear is a beast that starves without your hand to feed it, and this world was nobody’s but mine. In domineering it, I domineered the one part I could control.

When all you hear is the wind whipping, every little noise becomes another sound against the background, water running, grass flowing, trees groaning and twisting, and eventually, your own heart becomes an addition to the symphony. I didn’t want anything here. I never wanted more than this, but in my heart, I was curious for more. Every nagging thought, asking if this is all life is, was at times too much. Those nights I would wake up, pace my room, maybe even exhaust myself with two or three hundred push ups until the pain distracted me, and when I finally slept, my eyes simply stared at the absence. Every time I woke, rested or not, I went about my day.

But the questions would stay for night after night until the quiet of my mind returned, and when I finally went back to the dream, to the rolling hills I now sit in, encapsulated by walls of granite on one end, and the endless ocean on another. Each air into my lungs was rhythmic, patterned, as if I was breathing with the earth, with the wind, and no longer was I so detached for a few moments. Even as the hours drew on, the dawn never rose to the day, and the dew never rose up. 

Soon enough, my visage faded more and more, as if there was a great weight on me, and just as it began, my eyes shut.

Stop.

[teddiebearie]

a list of quotes

from The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness, 2015, by Shin Kyung-sook, translated by Ha-yun Jung

This book, I believe, will turn out to be not quite fact and not quite fiction, but something in between. I wonder if it can be called literature. I ponder the act of writing. What does writing mean to me? [...] This book, I believe, has turned out to be not quite fact and not quite fiction, but something in between. I wonder if it can be called literature. I ponder the act of writing. What does writing mean to me?

Unable to bear it, I stand from my seat. / I am running. I catch myself as I run. Sit down, you can no longer run. Then or now, and always. Sit down now.

One does not always age according to conventional number sequence. One can go from sixteen to thirty-two in one day. It was that day at the restaurant that I, then sixteen years old, suddenly turned thirty-two. That day when I saw Older Brother sitting here, weary inside the smoke of pork ribs, treating Cousin and me to a barbecue dinner but not taking a single bite himself, I believe I that I turned thirty-two, the age that I am now.

“You see, I got a book as a present once, the only time someone ever game me a book. It was a relative who gave it to me and I tried really hard to finish it, since it was a present. But I just couldn't read it. I didn't get it at all. It's been four years since I got it and I still haven't finished it. It must be that some books in this world are reserved only for educated, knowledgeable people. That's why I was wondering what level you write at. I was curious if you wrote things that someone like me can read, or things that are at a higher level.”

From the mudflats deep inside me, something lifts its head with great effort and shouts, What are you trying to do? What are you trying to achieve by digging out obscure little details? Don't try to make a summary, lining up events in chronological order. That will only make it more and more unnatural. You're not under the illusion that life is a movie, are you? You're not thinking life can have a linear plot, are you?

The word 'user' pops out of Yi Ae-sun's mouth. We turn quiet all of a sudden. Our users who use us.

She is standing there inside the erased sentences.

She is back to her blurred self.

The harder I try to speak cheerfully, the stifling ache in my heart worsens. It makes me so uncomfortable to put on an expression that is the opposite of how I feel inside. [...] I get to thinking that from now on I will start living in a manner opposite to my feelings. Laugh when I feel like crying, say I'm not angry when I am, answer that I've been here a short while when it's really been a long time.

how come there are people who died but no one who killed them?

Looking back now as I am about to come to and ending, I realize that the person watching me was none other than myself. That I was trying, awkwardly, to have a conversation with myself.

Only now I call them my friends, they who had to continue moving their fingers, all ten of them, and keep producing things, without end, their names forgotten, their efforts completely disassociated from material riches.

The footprints made on the beach today seemed to be connected to the lone room. To that place I ran out of and was never able to return to.

Writing. Could it be that the reason I am so attached to writing is because only this will allow me to escape the feeling of alienation, that I, my existence, is nothing?

We will always exist, not as the delightful and loving sentiments of everyday life, soaked in merry humor, but as pale shadows, barely able to afford a chance to bask in the sun on rooftops at lunch break.

Even if I am not called Number One, my name no longer exists. The name that I have been called for sixteen years cannot come work with me at the company because I am sixteen years old.

Literature, however, is destined to be rooted in the problem of life, and the problem of life has less to do with hope and what is right, but more with the unhappiness and what is wrong. After all, isn't life about living on even when one is trapped inside happiness without hope? [...] At times this recognition makes me give up my surgical knife. And in the end, I choose the many-layered web of meaning over a single point. And I tell myself that I should approach and confront that thickness; that it is not the writer's, but the readers' part to unravel every single layer and observe what she finds. Would it be best if what I write would lead ten readers into ten different directions of thought; that life is supposed to take varied forms and shapes; aren't there some lives that do not allow literature to intercept them?

Union Leader. I remember the things he said. “I wanted to make you realize that while you are working your night shifts, somewhere in this world, there are people soaking inside tubs full of warm water, in the bathroom attached to their rooms. I wanted you to at least realize that you are being sacrificed and that you seek out your rights, to learn to cherish yourself.” [...] We do not know how to cherish ourselves. As he said, we are incapable of thinking that we are being sacrificed.

Is that how it goes with writing? That as long as you are writing, no time is ever completely in the past? Is this the fate that befalls all writers—to flow backward, in present tense, into a time of pain, like salmon migrating upstream, swimming against the current back to where it started, struggling through waterfalls that break and tear its fins? It always returns, pushing through waterfalls, carrying a deep wound inside its belly, risking its own life. It returns, taking the same route back, tracking its own trail, traveling that singular path.

Later, even when I became devastated by loneliness amidst the exhaustion of everyday life and the absence of meaningful ties, I never abandoned the thought that I would one day go see for myself the birds from Cousin's photo book. [...] I would see the egrets in the forest, the forest after nightfall, the flocks of egrets leaning close together in clusters, blanketing the entire forest beautifully with their sleep, as if they had forgiven everything in this world. [...] One day, I promised myself, with even more desperation on days filled with despair and loneliness, I would make my way beyond the ridge that was blocking my view, my arm rattling on the windowsill of my train car.

On this trail, I encounter an odd sense of calm. At no time do I think that my family is poor. I have never felt we were affluent, but we are not poor, either. The father down this narrow trail I go, the less poor I am.

This is fiction, I told myself, but all the while my heart ached enough to kill me.

Unsure that I could confront it face to face, I quickly closed the lid and that was when I realized the truth. That those years had not completely passed for me. That I was carrying those years on my back like a camel's hump. That for a long time, perhaps for as long as I was here, those years would be part of my present. [...] Six more years have passed now, and during that time, whenever those years tried to leap out through my sentences, I took a breath, pushed them back down, and closed the lid.

Some day, I am going to see the beautiful birds asleep with their faces towards the sky. No matter how people look down upon us, I will never abandon this hope. I will live on with the pledge that I will someday go see them with my own eyes. The birds sleeping in the forest with their faces toward the stars will forgive me, won't they. They will forgive everything that went on in the world. I will go and see with my own eyes the flock of egrets beautifully blanketing the forest with peaceful sleep. Do you want to come with me?

From the plane carrying me back, I gazed out at the world and saw a water route. The stream was flowing into the river, and the river was flowing into the sea. This was actually taking place. I thought, if only today's hours could flow into yesterday, and yesterday into the day before yesterday, if time could keep flowing back like that, back, back into the room of 1979 and place this book of hymns on Hui-jae's lap. If only that could be, then I would feel less lonely about living on.

I wanted to go back if only I could. But to where?

People who lived in heaven did not have to think about hell, I write. But the five of us lived in hell and thought about heaven, I write. Not a day went by that we did not think about heaven, I write. For each day of our life worse us down, I write. Our life was like war, I write. We lost every day in that war, I write. / Mother, however, endured everything, I write.

Oppa. What I really hated back then was not the president's face but things like the knife refusing to slice through the radish that we had bought to make soup because it had frozen solid. Like on a snowy morning when I turned the tap. I loved it when the water gushed out unfrozen, and hated it when it was frozen and refused to come out. I wanted to write not because I thought writing would bring a change. I simply loved it. Writing, in itself, allowed me to dream about things that were forbidden.

We are alive. Even if the life we lived in that alley had resembled a makeshift lodging, what is important is that we are alive.

When I was with them, it felt unfathomable that somewhere in this world there were still factories, that somewhere in this world there were thirty-seven rooms and a marketplace with dim, dark alleys.

May comes around every year. Just as it did back in the days of the poet Yeongnang's days, when he would cry for three hundred and sixty days, dismayed at the peonies falling in May. Just as it did in 1980, the year I was eighteen years old.

Perhaps armored vehicles were invented for the purpose of trampling over spring. 

The living, I suppose, feed on death.

But we are soon overcome with awkwardness. The sunlight is to blame. It is the awkwardness of encountering, under the bright sun, faces that we have seen only at night under fluorescent lights.

But that was all. All I did was to take the lock that was hanging on the door and fasten it to the latch, as she had asked.

She was a ruined part of my heart, keeping me from building more intimate ties. Whenever I got close to someone, I felt compelled to tell the person that it was me who had locked that door. And I feared that this new relationship might again impose on me, without giving me a choice, a role that I cannot comprehend.

Good-bye… I will hold dearly in my heart how you cherished and cared for me.

[acim]

Imbalance and Thankfulness

I have been incredibly imbalanced the last few years of my life and have been living off the good will and kindness of others. I am beyond thankful for all of them, especially my sister, and thankful that they have been able to get me through years of my negative worry, anxiety, apprehension, and separation. Many people that have helped me through this time may be surprised to hear me say this, as perhaps they did not know I was so imbalanced, or perhaps they were just happy to help me out in what they thought was a short time of need. But it is important to bring this to light, although it may surprise people, as hiding this has created a distortion in the unity between myself and others. That communion between myself and others is sacred to me, as it is all we as people truly have: connection to one another. So I need to resolve this distortion to feel whole again. And that is such a tricky thing to do when I should feel whole and content currently according to society: I have clean water, I never go hungry, I am surrounded by people I care about, I have a good job, I live in a nice apartment in a great city. But still something is missing. All of these things are so external and so materialistic, they do not focus inward on my true self. My true self has been neglected for years, and that is the root cause of this imbalance. Regardless of all this, for my family and friends that have helped me, I am endlessly thankful.

I opened my eyes to this reality of imbalance after my diagnosis and treatment for ADHD just a week ago. After a short 30 minute meeting with my new doctor I logged off from the appointment with a pep in my step and a feeling of knowledge that this one thing would turn my life around. I am naive sometimes. For sure, being medicated for this disorder is like a breath of fresh air, a sense of calmness and motivation and exuberance for life has grown incredibly quickly within me. I feel as if I can actually listen to people and respond without getting sidetracked internally; words aren’t jumbled in my head like an unsolvable puzzle; I am not constantly on edge, not constantly needing to find something that is easy and stimulating so that I can be absent from myself and others. It is surprising how deeply ADHD has affected me. But this one fix is not enough for me to feel whole, it is simply a tool to use in order to better myself. 

I am beyond thankful for the clarity that comes with this medical change, but as I said still a deeper change needs to be made within myself. There are parts of me that are holding me back from true wholeness. I have noticed these traits and have lied to myself and others about them; I have spent enormous effort in trying to establish a reality that does not exist. And the reason I do that is just because I want to make sure that others love and accept me, and my imbalanced self thinks that others will like me more if I’m “good”. Whatever that means, it’s fucked up. I think we all do stupid stuff just to feel loved and accepted, and there is this weird shame placed upon that desire for some reason. We always want to hide that most basic desire, whether that be because of toxic masculinity saying men have to be “strong” or out of fear of rejection. But it is universal, no one wants to feel left out, and so hiding something that everyone has is pointless; embracing your innate social desire is the only way you can truly be loved and accepted.

Anyway enough rambling, here is my list of traits that are getting in the way of my wholeness

I do not truly love or accept myself

I feel separate

I am complacent

I am closed minded and stubborn

I flee from conflict

I resent and envy others and thus cannot truly forgive them

I don’t stand up for myself

I lose myself in others

I do not know myself

I do not mean to sound negative, the list of things that I love and cherish about myself is even longer than this list, and I am thankful everyday for myself and the path I have been placed on. But, in order to feel truly whole, these are the things I need to focus on. I am expressing this not only because I want to stop hiding anything, as I mentioned above, I also want to normalize these feelings. We are currently living in a strange time, and everyone feels off, and saying these things can normalize the extreme offness we are all feeling. These are big changes that I am shooting for and to get to the heart of them, I need something bigger than myself, something deeper than myself, something more than myself and my physical world. 

Growing up I have always eschewed traditional religion. Between fighting my parents everytime we had to go to to church and “trying out” every non-Christian religion my mind could think of (buddhism, wiccanism, druidism, satanism, etc.) when I was 13-18, my parents gave up on trying to mold my beliefs. While part of this rebellion was out of my desire to divorce myself from my parents and create my own identity, as every angsty teen is want to do, I still think that traditional religion does not work for me. However, after listening to Marriane Williamson (we stan) talk about A Course in Miracles, I believe that that book could help me solve so many of my imbalances I mentioned above. So I will be writing out my thoughts about it on here as I work through it, along with other thoughts I have.

Writing this has been truly cathartic and I am so excited for this new future with myself.

I feel like I can truly act with clarity and meaning.