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yoimix · 1 year

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「 from eden 」

if the rtawahist theory of parallel universes is true, you are certain that you would hate ALHAITHAM in every single one of them.

it is an ambitious theory, however. alhaitham calls it fiction.

“that’s not what the algorithm does,” he grumbles, lowering his head to rest his forehead against his palm. he looks nearly as distressed as a pyro fungus on water.

“i did not draw the wrong chart.”

“you filled in incorrect values.”

“no way.”

“i can’t believe i’m here with you at 3am.” he heaves his deepest sigh yet, mingling into the cold air outside puspa cafe. you prefer the warm, coffee-scented interior, but to get your words across, you need them to ring inside his thick skull.

“well, what else were you gonna do? sleep?” you roll your eyes.

“yes.”

you pull a face at his expressionless response.

“now, let’s go over the algorithm again,” he presses, eyes piercing enough to draw you closer, and bowlike lips sporting his regular frown. there is no need for him to be here. he just happened upon you at the cafe five hours ago, just to point out the mistake in your assignment. of course, that didn’t end well. you’d rather deep fry and eat a consecrated shell than let a man tell you how to solve your problems. so, he didn’t need to be here. he just never left.

the answer to that is simple: in every single universe, he will choose you over anyone else.

not that you’re aware. alhaitham makes sure you never will be. he’s unfamiliar with languages of the heart; and no amount of your biting remarks and teasing voice, your pensive smile and zaytun perfume, will get him to pronounce the syllables right.

he looks over at you, your full lips moving at rapid speed as you reiterate the contents of your lecture. the side of your neck is exposed, and the distance isn’t so wide that he can lean in comfortably. no, if he did, his shoulder would touch yours, and his hot breath would be against your skin. then maybe he’d get to hear your words die in your throat. these few inches are haphazard, bordering the lines between friends and a face you cannot stand.

what a wonderful caricature of intimacy, he thinks.

“even if this language has the structure you claim, it’s nearly impossible to know. this poem could be dating to thousands of years ago!” you exclaim, growing frustrated, “are you sure about this? i’m starting to think it can’t be deciphered.”

you’re done with translating the first part. it is as abstruse as can be, and you’ve been scratching your head over it for the past three days. you’re not sure if you’re supposed to solve it like a riddle, or agonize through the steps of the translation algorithm to complete. though, the embodiment of agony is already seated beside you.

what is the difference between me and the sky?

hell, if you know. you’re not even sure what’s happening anymore. the letters float across your vision, little taunts in their movement. teetering on the edge of dropping out, you groan again.

“i think you should get some rest,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

your shoulders sag, and alhaitham wonders if he said something wrong.

“don’t patronize me.”

“i am not.”

“i never know what you mean, and what you don’t,” you mutter, picking up your pen again to scribble notes on the corners of the paper. it contains alhaitham’s neat explanations, arrows indicating grammar and some numbers signifying the presumed utilization years of this lost language. yours looks like a little kid’s next to his.

but i say what i mean, he thinks. is there a point to saying it out loud? his chest constricts at the idea of you curling your lips, dismissing his chest laid bare for your predefined ideas. he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. but something in your voice betrays this thought of his.

his aventurine eyes settle over you. but you bear no distaste, only mild annoyance from this wall you’ve hit. he must say, you’re a commendable scholar. the relentless pursuit of knowledge has far more meaning than simply possessing it, and he’s seen your weary form in the house of daena at too many midnights. you are self-sufficient and he’s certain you’ll arrive at the answer anyway.

“i’ll be leaving then,” he says, standing up. “i hope your darshan doesn’t find you groveling by a stack of papers in the morning. it’s rather unbecoming of their paragon.”

a shout of exasperation leaves you, your shoulders tense.

“it’s because of you the haravatat are known as snobs!” you shoot, crossing your arms.

“it is your choice to believe in rumors,” he responds, idly gazing at your form. “it reflects you more than me.”

“do you always have to be so robotic?”

“i’m more well off than most, so i doubt changing my mannerisms will be of benefit to me.”

you exhale, on the verge of exasperation. “do you ever hear yourself? i can’t imagine the agony your poor roommate goes through.”

“kaveh has nothing to do with this.” he grits his teeth.

“no one has anything to do with you, alhaitham.” you stand up, glaring at him. “to you, people are no different from cats, or dogs, or- or flies—you don’t seem to understand that our languages were made to bring us closer.”

“they were invented for communication. a group that understands each other survives longer.”

that is true. but you’re not wrong either, even if you’ve chosen more romantic phrasing.

“i think—”

“archons,” you fume. “what about poetry? and literature, and dedication pages at the start of novels? we do it for each other.”

“your own perception adds substance to sentimental texts. i cannot agree with the poets. they led far different lives than i do.”

you scoff. “your little bubble of comfort is all you care about, don’t you? pray tell why you bothered with this anyway. was it to stroke your own ego? i... i genuinely believed you wanted to help.”

that one stung a little.

“you seem to have an entire image of me already. do i have to be present here?”

you heat up in the face, nearing a boiling point. you’ll have to apologize to enteka for causing a commotion; but your mind is heavy and you cannot quite think clearly.

“i understand that you don’t bother with what people think of you. but you could at least be honest with me- without- without your damn glaring, or sarcasm or—”

“i don’t look at you with the intention to glare.” he raises his voice for once. “i cannot let you see what i’m experiencing because i don’t know what it is yet—and it is imperative you don’t poke your nose into this.”

his chest heaves as he steadies his breathing. there is nothing you can say, not when you’re taken aback by his quiet outburst.

“and i’m not frowning like you think i am. i am simply not wearing an expression at all. my collection is unordered but i mark my books alphabetically when i lend them to you. i say i bring an extra cup of coffee to have a second fill even though i know you will ask to have it. i despise the conditioning in people that they must pair up in meaningful ways for a good life. and despite that...”

he catches his breath, not realizing he was holding it in.

your eyes have softened by now, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“...if i were to end my speculations and call this love, i would be satisfied.”

you part your lips and close them again. to expect an answer, perhaps, is a grave overestimation on his part. some things are better left unsaid. it’s how languages die.

alhaitham sighs. “right. it’s too strong a word. i mean to say i feel comfortable around you. and content. though i never thought there was anything amiss in my life. as for affection, i am not familiar with this kind. and—”

you cup his face, still at a loss for words. “you talk so much. i never realized.”

“last time, you said i don’t talk enough.”

“i just like the sound of your voice.”

he purses his lips, and swallows his words. once more, you have decided to speak in a language he has no expertise in. the drumming in his heart says he cannot wait to read poetry in it.

“no more sighing, haitham. and no more glaring. no sarcasm. and no irony.”

he furrows his brows, but he makes no attempt to release himself from your touch.

“say it again. your conclusion.”

his lips part, a sharp breath running through his lungs.

“i believe this is the notion of love. every gesture points to it.”

“is your head clouded?”

“no. it’s never been clearer.”

and he lets you lean in closer, closer till your lips are brushing against his.

“so?” you whisper.

it takes him a moment. he closes the distance, and though he has rarely felt devotion, he moves his mouth against yours in a fervent prayer. carefully, he rests his hand against the small of your back, more to steady himself than you.

this makes sense to him. you’re so familiar. like dragging his fingers on his mirror from ages ago, he finds you a perfect image of what could’ve been. you and him are pages of the same incoherent book, dancing between the same two sentences.

“for clarity’s sake,” he whispers, pulling away. “i say what i mean. i’ve lived long enough to know misunderstandings are beyond my control, and truth is something to be actively pursued to gain. but i cannot stand the screen between my words and your ears.”

his gaze is focused, unwavering. it’s the way he’s always looked at you.

“i know,” you respond, after a moment. “i know what you mean. and if it is your words that you want me to actively pursue—”

he clears his throat. “that- that is not what i said.”

“—then i will do so.”

you smile, and he can feel his lips twitch.

“well, i’m no genius...”

“neither am i,” he interjects softly. “but i’m persistent. i will keep trying, over and over. and if i’m not wrong, you’re the same.”

“you’re not wrong.”

have you always looked at him this way? he thought he’s seen all of your faces before. a new language blossoms in his mind. for once, literary devices are more than just devices.

“the poets are wrong,” you state, laughing bashfully, “it’s not so earth-shattering as i thought. maybe... maybe you were right on that part.”

a small smile forms on his face, and your breath hitches in your throat. “that’s ironic. i thought i finally understood them.”

“really? then do you know the answer to this ancient poem from the sands of hadravameth?” your eyes are curious as ever. “what is the difference between me and the sky?”

he recalls the lines from a long-buried poem, and they click in his head. the sands cannot swallow words as well as it swallows life.

“the difference, my love, is that when you laugh, i forget about the sky.”

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham x reader #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact fluff #alhaitham fluff #genshin x you #alhaitham x you #alhaitham scenarios #yoimix.drabble #the switch in pov jesus christ lord knows i can never commit #anyway i want to treat his character with dignity and compassion despite me clowning him every day #i feel like i am contradicting myself haha #kaveh passing them by: BARF #also last part is from the the poem my love asks me by nizar qabbani

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godoverus · 28 days

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It wasn’t until Eve bit into the fruit that her eyes were opened to sin. It wasn’t until then she felt the need to hide from God, because she knew she was naked - she was ashamed.

It is because of the same shame that women still hide. Whether it’s behind makeup, hair, clothes, filters, achievements - whatever it is. The lies of the enemy in our ears, telling us we’re not pretty enough, we’re not thin enough, we’re not smart enough, we’re not good enough.

For how beautiful it would be if we lived freely and confidently, embracing the truth of who we are as daughters of God. To walk unburdened by insecurities, knowing that we are fearfully and wonderfully made in his image.

Just like Eve in the innocence of Eden before knowledge of sin, we could revel in the beauty of our existence.

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trans-writes · 14 days

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Transcript under the cut

Letter to my mother’s second son:

Dear freak, dear idiot, dear asshole,

Dear blood of my blood,

Dear baby brother,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the unwelcome,

I’m sorry for the hostility,

I’m sorry for seeing your visits as invasions.

I’m sorry for the bitterness when your home became my prison,

I’m sorry for casting you, scrawny and skittish and scared, as my jailer.

I’m sorry for Our Father, who art in jail,

I’m sorry that he loved me, or at least,

I’m sorry that you thought he did.

I’m sorry for mom’s ex boyfriend and the hole in the wall and the cracks in the tile,

I’m sorry for the locked door and the empty stomach and the silence or the screaming,

I’m sorry for the little boy in the corner learning nuclear fusion, melting fear and hunger into

anger, into energy,

I’m sorry no one came to save you.

I’m sorry for our grandfather, his apathy, his old-fashion, his misunderstanding,

I’m sorry you don’t know how to stand down in peacetime,

I’m sorry he’s always up in arms.

I’m sorry for your dead friend,

I’m sorry I don’t know what to say,

I’m sorry no one else is saying anything but go do the dishes.

I’m sorry for this stupid fucking town and how everyone here has something rotting in the

cupboard,

I’m sorry for your stupid fucking friends,

I’m sorry there’s little better to be found here.

I’m sorry for trauma, for tragedy, for being unable to hold it all,

I’m sorry the doctor won’t help you,

I’m sorry you’re stuck here.

I’m sorry,

I love you.

— r.a.b. // 05-19-2024

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8honeydew · 5 days

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CHASING THE DRAGON

i think the reason gojo went so freaky in shibuya pre-box was because he was chasing a high he could never feel since he battled toji. god complex on this kid must've been monumental. set the scene.

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gojo felt warm. his mind was red, his brain pink. sweat poured over his body in gallons, the warmth and density the same as being washed in blood and it was something so pleasant that he'd like to feel it again forever. he was the lamb bathed in blood.

gojo was the sun. he was warm, and he was the star everybody could see, could not escape from.

he laid in his lovely puddle of sweat and blood and thought, if this is the kingdom of God, He will have to pry it back out of my hands. it is warm and mine, and this is how i will die.

except, he did not die this time. he sat up slowly, a jolt of pleasure throbbing at a point in his head and running up his spine. there was no pain when he sat up, but even if there was, he would be surprised at such a useless feeling that impeded him. only on his mind was himself. every thought he could think could be traced back to him. he was the center of the universe, and he would show this illusory his complete hold on the universe.

every step vibrated under his feet, the earth was welcoming and accepting him. no, it was submitting. it was submitting under his path just like the lowest of the maggots were, who were about to feast on the unholy body of the fraudulent, and like the highest of dogs.

gojo is of the dogs, for a dog always finds its way back home. to toji he went, because toji was the last thing on his mind before he was reborn, and will be the last thing on his mind before he dies. but today was not his time. oh no no. toji will not have the pleasure of killing him. he was a failure, and needed reminding that he had failed.

gojo was toji's father. he yearned to beat the failure in and out of him. he would knock out tooth after tooth to make room for the improvement. he would watch him beg for forgiveness, but gojo didn't need remembrance that he was all powerful. amen.

gojo was toji's son. in his chest, he felt a tightening, of pride and delectation. he must present him with this power he has attained, as if he stole if from the Lord Himself. he will relish in the reaction of toji, swallowing every expression of astonishment, jubilation, and envy in big swills. he will take pride in toji's reluctant pride. i'm your creation, do you love what you've done with me? you put the pieces together, i am whole. i will pry my chest open and stick it out to you. look inside, it is whole. you made me whole. forgive me father, for i have sinned.

toji was everything gojo imagined on his fateful walk back. his walk back home.

his face, his words, gojo wanted to worship him for his predictability. he wanted to worship him for what he made for gojo. he validated everything gojo had thought of him and himself. it was like toji was worshipping him, too. the lamb will show God what sin it had cured.

gojo had walked straight into the double-edged sword. it pierced the wholiness that toji had pieced together in his ribs, which he had realized was mashed together harshly. in his own way, toji had still won. he walked straight into this sword, and walked to find the end of it. but there was no hilt to catch him. he spiraled down, down, for toji was not there to stop him or fix the pieces he never really fixed. his own selfishness led him to this path, and he would have to choke it down. he was mortal, and he had killed the cause of his godliness.

he could not fill this void. it never got larger, but it never shrunk. he lived with the same pain for years, one unchanging.

until the rapture.

this was the closest he would get to the drug he has been addicted but withheld from since he was a boy. such a foolish boy he was. if only toji could see him now, gojo would stomp his sole into his face and grind it down. this is what you did to me, but i have used it and i am stronger, i am better, you are below me like the maggots who feasted on your body. i hope you felt below those degenerates, as you are so below me. but as the same, he wanted to kneel and clasp to toji's legs, begging for forgiveness. i was a good boy and used this power you gave me, why have you abandoned me? you left me to rot the same as i did you. but how dare you? don't look at me with your empty eyes, so depleted of love.

the creature crucified to the wall had no eyes. its appearance furthered gojo to make it aware of its insignificance and infirmness. it was gutless, eyeless, and gojo could still feel it looking at him, through him. he smiled, pleased. can you see these broken pieces of Him in me? you cannot take them from me, you cannot pry them out. they are mine.

he closed his eyes for a mere moment, and when he awakened, there was nothing. no, he was not empty inside. he was filled. the pieces wadded together crudely, but it was warm. gojo was filled with warmth and sudden eagerness to show off his new wholeness. his ribs felt as if they were dilating, making it easier for him to tear his chest open and brag. there was the feeling, and he would not let it escape again, not after all this time of him walking down this sword.

he caught the eye of the replacement. and there was an actual eye there instead of the hollows of the last maggot. it made gojo's heart pulse, his intestines careen. his brain throbbed behind the point where he first felt this burst of pleasure from toji. this one was different than the hollow one. he would surely make gojo feel complete.

"next."

gojo could not help but feel deja vu as he laid in his warmth. his puddle. sweat and blood. the warmth was familair, more nurturing than the first one. like a womb, it was encouraging and gentle. the first one was tough love, don't let him beat you, it told him in its splashing pulses. the man he who he thought would finally replace toji stood off to his side, preaching, and all gojo could feel was tranquility and even melancholy. he did not hear a word he said. his warmth was singing to him, lulling him gently. it sung his name a way that even his mother could not compare to.

"i won't forget you for as long as i live."

and as he laid there, he did think of toji. he looked like him, fought like him, but wasn't him. if he was, gojo supposed he would've won. gojo will rather take the punishment of losing than the pity. i failed you, and you must cram it down my throat as a i gag. but you can't, you won't. so, i lay here as my punishment instead, which is unbearable.

he laid in his sweat, which weakly trickled out of his pores. it did not flood, and gojo felt delicate. the blood was there to substitute, but that was another reason this was different from his rebirth. this was it.

they would come to collect his body. and all his blood would be there. he would share his warmth; it was no longer important to him. or was his. they would scoop it up with their greedy hands and gojo would say:

"drink this, all of you. this is my blood. God's new covenant poured out for many people for the forgiveness of sins."

would love to do a separate post ab correlations/metaphors if some didn't understand what i was putting down, jus lmk!

#tbh idek half the words i used #feeling biblical #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo fanfic #toji fushiguro #toji fanfic #jesus christ #poem #original poem #sukuna #ryomen sukuna

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heartoflesh · 2 months

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Jesus bore the holes in His hands and feet so that my heart wouldn't have to

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graciousheaven · 2 years

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AT YOUR WRATH Woe to those who walk in the counsel of the wicked! They have made themselves the object of your wrath, Those who walk after other gods to their hurt, Refuse to amend their ways and their doings And follow the counsel of their hearts, That they may provoke You to anger with their abominations. But they provoke themselves to the shame of their own faces; For on them, You shall pour out your wrath And it shall not be quenched. At your wrath, O King of kings, The earth shall tremble; The nations will quiver at the sight of your indignation. In your anger You will bring them to nothing; They will be ashamed of their harvest. By your power You have made the earth, By your wisdom You have established the world, And stretched out the heavens at your discretion. At the utterance of your voice, There is a multitude of waters in the heavens, You cause the mist to ascend from the ends of the earth, You make lightning for the rain, And bring the wind out of your treasuries. Lord, You are the Maker of all things. The Lord of hosts is your name! Your Word is the joy and rejoicing of my heart. Your word, O Lord, is like a fire, And like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces. You are my fortress and strength, My refuge in the day of affliction. Your anger, O Holy One, will not turn back Until You have executed and performed The thoughts of your heart. O King of kings! You will bring an everlasting reproach And a perpetual shame upon your foes. But those who seek your counsel, Walk in your statutes and obey your ordinances Will inherit everlasting glory. Be blessed, O glorious King!

https://www.faithintheoneaboveall.com

#The Wrath of God #poem to God #God's wrath #hymnal #praise #spiritual life #poem to Christ #praise of God #God's judgement #graciousheaven #psalms #worship

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the-bible-study · 18 days

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The Song of Song's is sensual!!!1!

The Song of Song's is spiritual!!!!1!

The song of songs is spiritual and sensual, and literal and allegorical, and dreamy and passionate, and mystical and earthly, and erotic and pure, and romantic and abstinent, and idealistic and realistic, and pastoral and political, and religious and relatable, and historical and messianic.

And a failure to understand that all of these things are simultaneously true and are not opposites nor contradictions, is a failure to understand this book. And it's a book worth understanding. This book reverses the Fall of Eden. It is Paradise Restored. It is the healing of the relationship between humans and humans, between humans and The Divine, and between humans and nature.

I repeat, a failure to understand this, is a failure to understand this book. Now go read it!

Also, one final thing: no, The Song of Songs is not in conflict with "Pauline Theology" (goodness I hate that phrase). In fact both the author of Songs and Paul are both dedicated to the same thing: healing the rift between humans and each other, and healing the rift between humans and God. Part of understanding the Scriptures is understanding that is is a commentary on itself. It all goes BACK to Genesis 1-3 (The Sublime Creation Narrative, and the Eden Narrative) and FORWARD to the Messiah

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egharcourt · 8 months

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They say there’s no scene that humanizes Jesus more than his prayer at Gethsemane. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all reiterate the same desperate plea: “Take this cup away from me.” Luke goes even further in describing Jesus’ agony, so tangible it manifested as sweat that fell to the ground like drops of blood. It’s almost theatrical, in a way— the composed Christ inconsolable, the faithful Martyr faltering.

But I know that anguish is not ephemeral. For it festers within you, bursts out from you when you can control it no more, and ends with you. They only see the eruption. We hear about Jesus as a precocious child, questioning his earthly parents, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?” Does knowing his Father mean knowing his demise? Did that comprehension come later? Was he as oblivious as Issac then, asking his father on their journey, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” At what point did he realize that he was the lamb that God had provided? When he learned that fate meant him to die did he realize it entailed such cruelty?

It’s perfectly reasonable if he didn’t. The sacrificial lamb is always adored. Without blemish, without broken bones, without fault. They dote upon you like a prince until they pin you to the chopping block. Your father nurturing you with a knife in one hand, saying, I love you so much that I’ll let you bleed out for God.

And you’ve internalized it. You’ll cry when you see the altar, but you’ve long ago conceded that you can’t escape doom. So you bargain to make it a little more endurable, to meet the end with a bit more poise and dignity. It’s the final resolute “May your will be done.” It’s Issac struggling in his binds until his strength is spent, taking one last glance up at Abraham to whisper, Make it hurt less.

"Elegy for the Messiah by the Sacrificial Child-Lamb on the Altar", E. G. Harcourt

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