Every writer, thinker — even every educated person thinks it necessary to have a permanent point of view. He climbs up some elevation and never climbs down again all his days. Whatever he sees from this point of view, he believes to be reality, truth, justice, good — and what he does not see he excludes from existence.

Lev Shestov, All Things Are Possible

So this exists now, and I couldn't be more delighted. Have a brief Season Two fix-it fic / epilogue, because it definitely needed to exist.

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I Will Face God and Walk Backwards Into Hell 1296 words

Aziraphale felt ill at ease from the moment he reached Heaven. He was always on guard there, ready to be judged harshly, but this was … unprecedented. Trying not to show it, he squared his shoulders and soldiered on. He’d made his clothes presentable to Heaven’s standards in the elevator as usual. He did his best to act as if following the Metatron to an extremely unexpected new post was nothing out of the ordinary.

But oh, the Metatron hadn’t told the other archangels yet. And that interaction went just as well as you’d expect.

They were polite, mostly. A bit shocked, which was understandable, and Michael visibly stopped herself from saying something unwise. Sandalphon did nothing but glare. Aziraphale managed not to fidget purely by force of will.

He told himself to remember the greater good, and he kept regally silent while the Metatron smoothed the way for him. This would be okay. A bumpy start, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He was going to change things for the better.

And he thought he actually could, for a while. There was an office, which was nice and posh, and there were meetings that the Metatron facilitated in which his now-subordinate archangels listened to the many ideas he had for the betterment of humanity. They even agreed to roll some out immediately.

But there were also meetings which the Metatron did not attend, and those were very different. The others talked over him ruthlessly, Michael in particular, and focused on the business of Heaven with little regard for Earth.

Aziraphale suspected that there were other meetings that he himself was not invited to, where they discussed the twice-delayed Armageddon that he was so firmly against. The Metatron still hadn’t brought up the subject of the Second Coming, which he’d hinted at before.

Never mind the fact that Aziraphale had put forth several well-thought-out measures for how to sway humanity as a whole toward the path of good, thus making any kind of conflict unnecessary. And the fact that God still hadn’t made any official pronouncements in a very long time. Aziraphale would have liked to question the Metatron directly on that matter, but he didn’t want to press his luck.

So he focused on doing good. Implementing what changes he could, keeping tabs on Hell’s actions as best he was allowed, and leading by example.

He tried not to think about Crowley. Sometimes it was hard not to, especially when checking up on Hell, but he did try. And he shared his thoughts with no one.

He’d managed to convince himself that he was doing a respectable job of things by the time he arrived at a regular meeting and found that all of his plans had been stalled, and some even rolled back entirely. Michael had a smug list of excuses. Uriel backed her up while Sandalphon grinned, and Saraqael just looked unimpressed. The Metatron acted as if everything was business as usual.

Aziraphale held his tongue and pressed with ultimate politeness for the resumption of at least the most important. Michael gave him the barest of concessions.

After the meeting, he cornered the Metatron in his office and demanded answers, afire with righteous indignation and no little amount of hurt. What was this insubordination, and why was the Metatron going along with it? Why even promote Aziraphale if this was what it led to? Was the role he was supposedly so well-suited to just as a figurehead? Was this God’s plan??

The Metatron was an unflappable as usual. He said simply that Aziraphale was welcome to ask God herself, if he doubted Her wisdom. The assumption was clearly that he would back down, shrink back into himself like he’d always done, and let the rest of Heaven have their way.

Instead, Aziraphale regarded him steadily. “I think I’d rather like a chat, if you please,” he said. When the Metatron didn’t move, he gestured for him to get on with it.

Aziraphale wasn’t privately sure who was calling whose bluff, but he stood tall while the Metatron went through the motions of requesting God’s presence. Was this even how it was done these days? He had no way of knowing. He pretended that he did.

A column of light shone into the room. The Metatron’s flourish for Aziraphale to proceed was more than a little sarcastic.

Aziraphale kept his cool and spoke into the light. He asked of his plans to improve humanity’s moral standing, to turn the Earth onto the path toward an endless Eden, with no need for war and no place for Hell’s influences to gain a foothold. He spoke of the resistance he’d gotten from the other archangels. He even spoke of thoughts he’d never shared with anyone: that someday even demons might redeem themselves enough to be forgiven. He could certainly cite one example that deserved it. He didn’t look at the Metatron as he said so.

Finally the voice of God filled the room. “You mean the Archduke Crowley? He’s served his purpose. Hardly doing much to redeem himself these days.”

Stung, Aziraphale demanded, “And is that part of your ineffable plan??”

The smile in God’s voice was absolutely infuriating. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, Aziraphale. Now why don’t you get back to work and do as you’re told?”

Aziraphale gaped, lost for words.

When the Metatron chuckled condescendingly and started forward, Aziraphale held up a hand.

“No,” he said to the Metatron. Then he repeated, “No,” to the shaft of light. “In fact,” he continued, making the first rude gesture in Heaven since Crowley had pulled one behind Michael’s back. “Hell no,” Aziraphale hissed, setting both of his middle fingers alight with holy fire.

He held them up proudly and strode backwards out the door while the Metatron sputtered and God was silent.

(If there was any ineffable snickering at how well this was playing out, God kept it strictly to Herself.)

Aziraphale continued walking backwards through Heaven, fingers held aloft and aflame, now with his wings spread for maximum emphasis for anyone who was watching. Judging by the gasps from all sides, many were. He didn’t turn his head.

The escalator down was slow, but he was patient. He simply angled his arms upward at all the staring faces. Then when he reached the ground floor, he stepped to the side and continued downward.

An angel glowing with holy fire blazes quite a trail in Hell, even one walking backwards.

It didn’t take him any time at all to find Crowley. The door opened behind him, and he finally lowered his hands to turn around. He let the flames go out.

Crowley sat on a throne much more grand and terrible than the ostentatious chair in his old flat, with elaborate robes patterned in snakeskin echoing the scales that crawled across his face. His eyes blazed yellow. His expression was stony. Minor demons cowered on all sides.

Aziraphale gathered himself, saying nothing.

Then he did the dance.

“You were right. You were right. I was wrong; you were right.”

He held the final pose while Crowley quirked an eyebrow.

“Very nice,” said the demon, starting to smile.

Aziraphale stood and held out a hand with an answering smile. “I hear Alpha Centauri is lovely this time of year.”

Crowley was silent for just long enough to make him doubt, then he surged to his feet, shedding robes and pretense as he crossed the room. Ignoring Aziraphale’s hand completely, he grabbed his fancy shirt and kissed him deeply. His teeth were sharper than usual.

Aziraphale found that he quite liked it, and kissed him back. The scandalized noises of the crowd of demons faded away as they left to just be an “us.”

“Death and metaphysics.—A superficial observer knows that the best things in life are hard to attain. Some psychologists even consider that the chief beauty of the highest things consists in their unattainability. This is surely not true—yet there is a grain in it. The roads to good things are dangerous to travel. Is it because nature is so much poorer than we imagine, so she must lock up her blessings, or is there some greater meaning in it, that we have not guessed? For the fact is, the more alluring an end we have in view, the more risks and horrors we must undertake to get there. May we not also make a contrary suggestion: that behind every danger something good is hidden, and that therefore danger serves as an indication, a mark to guide us onwards, not as a warning, as we are taught to believe. To decide this would be to decide that behind death, the greatest of dangers must lie the most promising things. It is as well not to speculate further. We had best stop lest we quarrel even with metaphysics. Traditional metaphysics has always been able to illumine our temporal existence with the reflected beams of eternity. Let us follow the example. Let us make no attempt to know the absolute. If you have discovered a comforting hypothesis, even in the upper transcendental air, drag it quickly to earth where labouring men forever await even an imaginary relief from their lot. We must make use of everything, even of death, to serve the ends of this life of ours.” - Lev Shestov, ‘All Things Are Possible’ (1905)

The habit of logical thinking kills imagination. Man is convinced that the only way to truth is through logic, and that any departure from this way leads to error and absurdity. The nearer we approach the ultimate questions of existence, in our departure from logicality, the more deadly becomes the state of error we fall into. The Ariadne ball has become all unwound long ago, and man is at the end of the tether. But he does not know, he holds the end of the thread firmly, and marks time with energy on the same spot, imagining his progress, and little realising the ridiculous situation into which he has fallen. How should he realise, considering the innumerable precautions he has taken to prevent himself from losing the logical way? He had better have stayed at home. Once he set out, once he decided to be a Theseus and kill the Minotaur, he should have given himself up, forfeited the old attachment, and been ready never to escape from the labyrinth. True, he would have risked losing Ariadne: and this is why long journeys should be undertaken only after family connections have become a burden. Such being the case, a man deliberately cuts the thread which binds him to hearth and home, so that he may have a legitimate excuse to his conscience for not going back. Philosophy must have nothing in common with logic; philosophy is an art which aims at breaking the logical continuity of argument and bringing man out on the shoreless sea of imagination, the fantastic tides where everything is equally possible and impossible. Certainly it is difficult, given sedentary habits of life, to be a good philosopher. The fact that the fate of philosophy has ever lain in the hands of professors can only be explained by the reluctance of the envious gods to give omniscience to mortals. Whilst stay-at-home persons are searching for truth, the apple will stay on the tree. The business must be undertaken by homeless adventurers, born nomads, to whom ubi bene ibi patria. It seems to me that but for his family and his domesticity, Count Tolstoy, who lives to such a ripe old age, might have told us a great many important and interesting things... Or, perhaps, had he not married, like Nietzsche he would have gone mad. "If you turn to the right, you will marry, if to the left, you will be killed." A true philosopher never chooses the middle course; he needs no riches, he does not know what to do with money. But whether he turns to the right or to the left, nothing pleasant awaits him.

~ Lev Shestov, All Things Are Possible, 21

Don’t late night post they say. When else can I talk about making a material gworl Yaddle fan cam?

April 24, 2024 Verse Of The Day

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I like to think that Vulcans who come to understand that Humans just can’t try to process emotions the same way as them, it’s just healthiest to let it out in harmless ways, decide that venting and stuff should be taken just as seriously as Vulcan’s meditation time, and will encourage the Humans around them to complain about what’s upsetting them

People who are used to aloof Vulcans who avoid Humans at all cost running into one comforting a Human

“-and then they said my cheesecake was subpar, and they didn’t even bring a dish!!!”

“The purpose of this event was that every participant brings a food item of sorts, correct?”

“Yeah!!”

“And they did not follow this rule while insulting dishes that were brought?”

“Mostly just my dish but yeah >:(“

“How illogical”

“That’s what I’m saying!!!”

Overshadowed

Have you ever felt less than, belittled, ridiculed, and forced into withdrawal because you were overshadowed by a sibling, friend, or co-worker? If that is you, then I have good news for you. Come out. Come out – wherever you are. You were not made for withdrawal. Today I am going to flip the negative “overshadowed” script to a place of contentment, reassurance, hope and joy. That is being…

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(via "Omnia munda mundis | To the Pure All Things Are Pure" Lightweight Hoodie for Sale by LivingWellness)

We know nothing of the ultimate realities of our existence, nor shall we ever know anything. Let that be agreed. But it does not follow that therefore we must accept some or other dogmatic theory... It only follows that man is free to change his conception of the universe as often as he changes his boots or his gloves, and that constancy of principle belongs only to one's relationships with other people, in order that they may know where and to what extent they may depend on us.

Lev Shestov, All Things Are Possible

Sex positivity is also about not calling Ace people prude and using virgin as an insult 👍 hope that helps

Yeniden o tehlikeli saatlere girmiş bulunmaktayım. Bu cümleye parantez açmam gerekebilir. Benim için tehlikeli çünkü zihnim bana müsaade etmiyor. Tamam bu da tam olarak açıklama sayılmaz. Parantezin parantezi diyelim. Bedenimi tamamen pasif hale getirsem de ruhum ve zihnim için aynı şeyi hissedemiyorum. Büyük bir kargaşa yaşanıyor ve ben nasıl durdurmam gerektiğini bilmiyorum.

It Still Exists!