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rose-blooms-red · 3 years

Note

oooooooooh, re. prompts-- perhaps something with bly & aayla & ryloth?? or maybe something with tim & cass & dick that's centered around the manor in some way?? ❤︎

sorry it took so long!! Hope you enjoy!!

(Read on Ao3)

The heat is not yet unbearable, but Bly is still glad that they managed to get to shelter deep below the planet's surface before the worst of the heat storm began.

It’s just him and Aayla, they’d gotten separated from the rest of the 327th in the rush to get to cover before the heat storm hit.

It’s just her; blinking up at him, beautiful and oh so kind and him; weak and half in love with her.

He breathes steadily, doesn’t think about it, doesn’t give in to that temptation. Knows it will go awfully wrong for one or both of them if he does. Refuses to let that happen.

He drops the supply bag, does a perimeter check and scans for any danger, finds none other than the heat above them.

Aayla shuts her eyes and breathes, opens them and smiles, says at the same time as him, “Clear.”

He huffs and she laughs, bright and beautiful.

Bly looks away from her, “We should get set up for bunking down, we’ll be here for a while.”

Aayla nods, “Yes, these things can last a while if they choose to.”

He looks up, watches her as she tilts her head, hums and walks steadily around the cave, “In the case we are here for a while, we’ll need to entertain ourselves I suppose.”

Bly nods, “Yes, though I’m afraid you’ve already heard most of my stories worth telling, Sir.”

That’s not quite the truth, but it’s not quite a lie either. He’s told her the fun and funny stories, the others, with pain and suffering and nothing good for miles, those aren’t worth telling, not when it will break her heart. Maybe one day, but, not now.

He is not ready for that.

She huffs out a quiet laugh, “As you say, Bly, though I’m afraid I am quite low on stories that aren’t simply the stumblings of a youngling as well.” She jokes, stops in front of a section of the wall. And Bly withholds his curiosity as best he can.

He’d be fine with whatever she gave him really.

“You know I’ve never been as into literature or all the poets as my Master and Grandmaster, yes?” Aalya asks softly as she traces a seemingly random, not meaningless, never meaningless, pattern on the wall.

He does, he knows that she would rather spar than read books on etiquette, knows she prefers katas to meditation, that she meditates anyways because she loves the feeling of peace she gets from it. Knows that when she has to do paperwork her nose will wrinkle just the slightest.

He knows a lot of things about her. Because he is her commander and her right hand, yes. But also because he finds that sometimes he can’t take his eyes off of her.

He can’t say any of that, doesn’t know how to put that into words, nods instead and swallows against the knot in his throat.

She smiles softly at him, that kind, gentle, smile with even kinder eyes. Warm with something that Bly hopes—just to himself, in the privacy of his head—is love, thinks could maybe be love, if things were different. If she were not a peacekeeper turned general, in a war she didn’t want, fighting for people who call her and her people awful things. If he were not a weapon trained from birth, one of millions and inadequate in hundreds of different ways, replaceable and meaningless.

Aayla presses her hand gently against the wall, closes her eyes and is silent for a breath, before laughing, the sound of it filled Bly’s ears and made it a little hard to breathe past how much he adored it, adored her.

She looks up at him with a grin, eyes soft and smile carefree despite the fact they are stuck in this cave until the heat storm dies down.

“Come here,” she beckons him, and he listens without a second thought.

She hums and does something with her hands and Bly is startled when there is suddenly a plant sprouting out from the wall in front of him.

She laughs, twines her fingers around the plant and coaxes it gently to bloom. Bly breathes and it feels like he is about to overflow with the love in his chest, growing every second as she stands there. Gorgeous even after the panicked rush underground, with dust smeared on her arms. The vibrant red of the plant stands out starkly against her skin, as it twines around her like she is the warmth it needs, the nutrients giving it life.

He thinks he can understand that feeling, knows it deep in his bones everytime Aayla smiles or laughs, everytime she shows just how much she cares about the men under her command.

She sighs, “It’s been growing in that little space there, this species doesn’t need the sun, just warmth and some humidity and nutrients. It’s quite happy to have all this new room to grow now.”

Bly smiles, fingers twitching at his sides, doesn’t know if he wants to reach out and touch the plant and it’s leaves and blossoms, or her. He clenches his hands into fists, stops himself before he does something regrettable.

“Gorgeous,” he says, and means her and the plant both, hopes she doesn’t know that, can’t read it off of him.

She smiles at him, a glimmer of something in her eyes, “Yes.”

She hums, strokes a few of the leaves and blossoms gently, “What I was saying before, Bly, was that I do not often read literature, nor find myself entranced by poetry.”

Bly nods, chest tight and breathing steady. His mouth is dry, maybe from the heat, maybe not, he closes his eyes and exhales, opens them to Aayla watching him. Her eyes are soft and searching and they tear into him, leave him feeling stripped bare and vulnerable.

Her voice is soft as she speaks, tone nonchalant as she fiddles with the supply bags, “Despite that all, there has always been some that stuck with me.” She glances up at him again, a wry grin on her face.

“It comes with having both Master and Grandmaster attempt to find something to convince you to appreciate the art of words.” She jokes, before looking back down.

Bly wants to go to her, hold her hands in his, press his forehead to hers and exist in that moment until the heat storm passes and they can go out and reunite with the rest of their men.

Wants, desperately in that moment, to have just this before having to go back to what is right and acceptable.

He doesn’t, folds his hands together and grips them, keeps his back straight and his too weak shields up as high as he can.

(He’s always been too greedy.)

He chuckles instead, quiet, says softly, “I imagine something had to stick eventually, Sir.”

She nods, laughs, and Bly feels that happiness in his bones.

“Indeed it did,” she agrees, taps her fingers against her arms, “I mention this because there was a set of lines, from the ending of a particular story, that always seemed to catch my eye.”

Bly tilts his head, “Sir?”

Aayla smiles, self-reproaching, “I have always been a little too much of a romantic it seems.” She says, and Bly can’t breathe past the hope in his chest.

“Sir?” He asks again, and it is maybe the voice of a desperate man.

She takes a step towards him, reaches her hands out to his, flicks her eyes up to his in question.

He has never been so thankful for his bucket, and also never hated it more.

He nods, a jerk of his head, and she slips her hands into his, squeezes them gently.

“Where you reach to the Force to hold and keep,” she begins, voice falling into an even cadence, “Tempered and tamed, A being and a lover, Entombed, Then the suffocation of the Dark will be a slow descent into madness.”

Bly exhales, and it is a struggle, Aayla squeezes his hands, runs her thumb over the back of them soothingly.

“Where you reach to the Force gently and let it sing,” she continues, voice soft, “it will glow and blossom, encourage the being and the lover to thrive, and the joy of Light will be breathtaking.”

Bly swallows past the tightness of his throat, “General I—”

He cuts himself off, doesn’t know what he’s trying to say and can’t find any words to string together right.

She hums, doesn’t look up at Bly as she explains, “It’s meant to be a cautionary tale, of the dangers of possessive love.”

Bly tilts his head, and Aayla hums again, “It’s based off of a story about a Force-sensitive who fell so deeply into love with someone, with the idea of having and keeping them forever, until the love was more important than the being they loved, that they twisted themselves into something Dark.”

Bly breathes, steadies himself, “What happened next, in the story?”

Aalya smiles, “That is the happier part of it, it tells of how another Force-sensitive fell so in love with someone and still saw them for who they were, loved them and not the idea of them. Loved them enough to respect them and to let them make their own decisions, let the two of them each do the duties they needed to.”

Bly shakes, squeezes at Aayla’s hands, feels too warm and lightheaded. He worries for a second, that maybe they didn’t head deep enough for cover but—

Aayla looks fine, it’s just him.

He doesn’t look at her as he steps back, clears his throat, “Sorry, Sir, I’d love to hear the rest of it, just getting overheated.”

She steps forward, “I could help, if you don’t mind.”

Bly’s chest is full and overflowing with love, he is shaking with it and she is kind and everything he should never be able to have, never deserve to have.

He nods, and she steps forward, kneels down and starts with the greave on his left leg, sets the plating down gently, almost reverently when she finishes, and switches to the next leg.

She is gorgeous and Bly is warm and shaking in a way that has nothing to do with the heat, the soft feeling leaving an aching in his chest.

She starts to explain the story again, as she moves up to the knee platings, “The second Force-Sensitive, with their gentle, growing love, was so bright that it hurt to look at them sometimes. But they were kind and they were wonderful.”

The knee plates join the slowly building pile and his fingers twitch at his sides, to stop her, or to help her, or to reach out and cradle her head in his hands he doesn’t know.

He feels vulnerable like this, trusts her with it in a way that terrifies him.

“A lesson story?” He asks her, and his voice is hoarse.

She hums, sets his cuisee’s next to the rest, let’s him detach the codpiece as she unclips his utility belt and starts on his breastplate and plackart.

“Yes,” she says, her hands gentle, the movements soothing and bleeding safety into Bly’s mind, “It’s a story to teach anyone the difference between loving someone so much it destroys you, and loving someone in a way that brings you both up.”

She sighs, “It’s an old one though, and doesn’t get read as often as it maybe should, but Master Quinlan gave it to me and asked me to give it a try and I did, ended up loving it.”

Bly smiles, “I’m glad that you did, Sir.”

Aayla laughs, “Yes, so am I Bly.”

He swallows, as she settles her hands on his shoulder, takes the spaulders off both his shoulders and then pauses, grips lightly there and she hesitates for a second, before she smiles again. Moves on to the rerebraces.

“There’s a poem that I always loved,” she says softly, like it’s a confession, “Master Kenobi actually showed me it. Master Quinlan would’ve been intolerable for weeks if he found out about that.”

Bly chuckles and she grins as she looks up, says with laughter in her voice, “It’s true."

She shakes her head as she sets the elbow plating down. "I think it’s something to do with the fact they’ve known each other so well and for so long," she says, "the friendly rivalry there is strong.”

She unclasps his left vambrace, and it’s so very hard to keep he’s shields up like this, stripped of armour and in her gentle hands.

He clears his throat, closes his eyes, “What was the poem?” he asks, feels the barely there stutter of her fingers over his other vambrace.

“It’s by a Naboo poet, and it’s,” she pauses, sets the vambrace down and purses her lips as she thinks, “well I did admit that I was a bit of a romantic” she smiles sheepishly, “it’s about love as well, though it’s about gentle, selfless, love, and how thankful the poet is to have their lover.”

He doesn’t look at her, unlatches his gauntlets himself and sets them down, reaches up for his helmet and is startled when he feels hands grasp his.

Aayla holds his hands in hers, and there is something so very soft and warm in her eyes.

“There’s a nebula somewhere that birthed a star, and let you find your way to me.” She says, her voice gentle, and slipping into a cadence that is soothing and leaves Bly feeling raw and far too seen.

She squeezes his hands, raises them to her mouth, presses a gentle kiss there and Bly can’t breathe past the longing in his throat.

Her voice is soft, but to Bly it echos like a thunder clap, “And when I watch you laugh I am reminded of how much I owe it.”

She raises their entwined hands to his bucket as she speaks, and Bly can feel his heart pounding out of his chest, “How do you thank the atoms in the air? The elements?”

“How do you thank something that keeps the universe spinning,” she asks, as she lifts his bucket gently, reverently, “for giving you someone so infinitely precious?”

She holds his bucket in her hand, and Bly watches as it slowly drifts over to join the rest of his armour.

She brings a hand up to his face, brushes gently fingers along the streaks of gold splashed across his cheeks, says with something awed in her voice, “I think this must be how it feels, to touch the Force.”

Bly shudders out a breath, leans his head forward, slips into keldabe as if it’s natural, and she presses up into it without hesitation.

“Not bold,” she says, voice a whisper now, “not brash, not possessing.”

Bly gives in to temptation, lifts his hands and holds the nape of her neck gently, brings his other up to press against her cheek, runs his thumb under her eye and closes his eyes.

She breathes, wraps her arms around his neck.

“Careful,” she continues, “quiet, holding in your hands the breath of the universe,”

She presses into a kiss and Bly kisses her back gently, and as if it will be the only one he ever gets.

She pulls away, and he opens his eyes, meet’s her gaze and the love-adoration-warmth there as she finishes the poem softly, “and wanting nothing more than to see it glow.”

He holds her close and laughs softly, under his breath, “I think it’s a good one.”

She laughs and kisses him again and he has never been more thankful for a planet and it’s ridiculous whether in his life.

#commander bly #Aayla Secura #star wars #The Clone Wars #aayla/bly #ro'swriting #mywriting #navndyne #ro answers

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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The contrast of our skin and other musings: (Sashea)- Mock-Star

This is a little experiment of mine that explores a more intimate, thoughtful, and adoring side of Sasha and Shea’s hypothetical relationship. Contains angst, hurt/comfort, implied smut and fluff.

Sasha adored the way Shea’s skin contrasted hers, the way her dark skin looked pressed up against her own pale skin, the way their hands looked intertwined together. She loved how their legs looked next to each other when they were cuddling on the couch together, and she loved the mental image of them she had of when Shea would cup her face to kiss her. No one would ever be able to mistake one for the other when they were entangled, and she loved it that way. She wondered how there could ever be a law against interracial relationships when she admired how her hand looked when Shea kissed or held it, black and white was such a beautiful combination, and she mourned for all of the couples who were ripped apart because of racism. Sometimes she wondered if she was making too big of a deal out of it, if she should even be as obsessed with Shea’s skin as she was, but then the light hit Shea’s skin just right, or Shea would grab for her and the contrast would be visible again, and she was obsessed once more. Perhaps it was her art trained eyes or just the fact that it was her lover, but she was obsessed either way. She hugged Shea tightly, loving the way their skin felt pressed up together, and it was incredible.

Although Shea knew how frustrated Sasha got sometimes with her pale skin, she adored how delicate Sasha could look sometimes. When she was at her palest, she slightly resembled once of those porcelain dolls she had admired as a young child. Shea wanted to touch her ever so carefully so she wouldn’t break, but of course, she was too strong to break. Her lover was one of the strongest people she knew. That didn’t stop her from fussing over Sasha when she woke up even paler, making her look sick, but eventually color returned to her face, putting Shea at ease. At the other end of the spectrum, Shea kinda loved how long Sasha’s skin would retain bruises, both accidental and intentional. Nothing was more satisfying than seeing a old love bite on her lover and knowing that she was the one to put it there. She would run her fingers over them to see Sasha’s blush as she remembered how she got them, and it was addictive.

Sometimes when Sasha fell asleep and woke back up during a cuddle session, her blurry vision fused their bodies together in an unidentifiable heap, then she blinked, and Shea’s arm would come into focus, wrapped around her waist, her breathing soft and slow in her ear. It was literal art the way their bodies curved together, and Sasha loved this art more than any other art she had seen or made. When Shea got a desire to worship her skin, Sasha would be enthralled with the way her lover moved, her hands trailing up and down her arms and sides, her lips pressing against her skin, her tongue darting out against her most sensitive spots, her movements ever constant, gentle and simple, but suddenly overwhelming, filling Sasha from head to toe with abundant love and sensation. She often cried during these sessions, both at the beauty of her lover and from how amazing she felt. It started as a few tears escaping and progressed to full on sobbing, her every sense heightened as she could no longer contain her joy. She kept trying to touch her to relieve some of the fire burning inside her, but Shea would always dodge her fingers, eventually pinning her wrists behind her back with one hand while her other hand worked double time to touch all of her while Sasha went into the most glorious trance. When Shea had her fill of Sasha’s body, she wrapped her up tightly and held her as she calmed down and came back to reality, cooing at her, and Sasha, although out of it, got to admire their skin again, her overly hot skin against Shea’s surprisingly cool skin, and it was intoxicating.

Shea liked to always be touching Sasha in some way when possible, holding her hand, caressing her face, wrapping her arm around her shoulder, kissing her shoulder, anyway she could. It was a clear signal to others who eyed Sasha up when they thought no one was looking, and a way to ground both of them in the moment, they were both a lot calmer when they were in close proximity with each other in a busy setting, at shows and interviews and even at the grocery store. Sasha’s side was her happy place. It was also why she craved, no, needed intimacy with Sasha. In the past, sex was just a way to relieve frustration and get off, mostly meaningless hookups with trade. But with Sasha, sex became the most beautiful thing. It was a way to connect deeply with her and make her feel things deep in her soul. To make her lover squirm and scream and shake in the best ways and to spoil her with love and affection. To calm down and make everything right again in her world. She went through withdraw when they were apart and unable to see each other for weeks on end, and she practically drug Sasha to bed when they were reunited, making up for lost time until both of them felt whole again. Staring into her cloudy eyes as they cuddled and cooled down was the world’s most addictive drug, and Shea was hooked. While they had opened up their relationship to a select few, literally nothing compared to sex with Sasha, and it was beautiful.

One day, Sasha woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Everything was pissing her off. How the sun shone through the curtains to wake her up, even though it did every day. The way the shower was way to cold to begin with, even though it always took a minute to warm up. When she couldn’t find her glasses, even though she had left them on her desk accidentally. When her computer had to update, even though it was long overdue. When she noticed she was almost out of her favorite k-cups, even though she had a cup for that morning and they were going to the store later that day. She knew her anger was irrational and pointless, which only made her angrier. She wanted to scream or cry or punch something or all three. Until Shea came into focus.

“Hey Baby, what’s going on? I can practically see the smoke coming out of your ears.” She asked, coming up behind her and hugging her, trapping her there.

“I don’t know Shea.” She snapped, trying to twist away, but Shea maintained her grip and held on to her.

“So we woke up like this, Ok. Baby, listen, I need you to take a deep breath and relax. Unclench your muscles, I can feel how tight your shoulders are. In and out.”

She rolled her eyes, but took a soft breath, and she felt Shea’s chest move with her, pressed against her back.

“Good Baby, do that again. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Remember your breathing techniques. You know what to do.”

Begrudgingly, she started breathing deeply, focusing on every part of her body. She felt Shea’s chest rise and fall against her back, breathing in time with her. Slowly, she felt her anger and tension melt away with each breath she took. She felt Shea press a kiss against the back of her head, and she hunched over as her anger subsided and she couldn’t hold herself up. Shea went with her, and she rubbed her back gently.

“Better?”

“Better. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

“I forgive you Baby, we all have bad days sometimes. Just come talk to me next time so we can work through it.”

Sasha nodded, and she turned around and kissed Shea’s cheek, wrapping her arms around her. Shea turned out to be shirtless, and Sasha rested her head on her bare shoulder as the world calmed down and she smiled. Shea cupped her cheek and kissed her, pulling away with a loud smack that made Sasha giggle. Shea always knew how to make everything better.

One day, Shea woke up overwhelmed with grief and sadness. It was a struggle to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. It was a struggle to force herself to shower and brush her teeth. It was a struggle to make herself drink coffee and eat something. It was a struggle to force herself to sit down at her desk and work on her newest project. It was a struggle to keep from breaking down. Until Sasha touched her shoulder.

“Darling, is everything alright?”

Shea turned around and opened her mouth to say that she was fine, but Sasha’s soft and concerned eyes seemed to stare deep into her soul, and tears started to fall as she shook her head. Sasha dropped to her knees and held her as Shea collapsed under the weight of her emotions, and she held her back tightly as she pulled them both to the floor. She let Sasha stand her up and lead her to the bedroom, and she let her strip her down to her underwear and rub lavender oil on her shoulders. She let Sasha pull back the covers and help her lie down, and when Sasha stripped down to her underwear and laid down next to her, she snuggled in to her chest and let herself cry. She was so embarrassed. She wanted to be the strong one. She wanted to be the one to spoil Sasha, to provide for her, to love her and love on her and make love to her. But some days, even that was hard. Not the loving Sasha part, but the being the strong one part. Perhaps it was patriarchy having a lasting cling on her, but she felt guilty for having a moment of weakness, for forcing Sasha to care for her.

Just then, Sasha started rubbing her back, softly humming to her.

“Let it out darling, it’s not good to hold those emotions inside. It’s ok.” She cooed in between hums of You Are My Sunshine. “If you want, we can talk about what’s hurting you once you feel better. But there’s no rush. No rush at all my love. Take as much time as you need.”

Something about Sasha’s gentle words and affection was more calming than Shea could have predicted, and she found herself relaxing in her arms, the worst of her depressive episode plateauing and falling. She shifted her eyes up to look at Sasha, her head was dipped down and resting on her head protectively, but Shea could still see the bright morning sun reflect onto her skin, almost washing her out, but instead illuminating her in a fiery, gorgeous way. Her normally pale skin was alive, dancing with light and shadows, and it was so beautiful. Shea was entranced by it, watching the mini light show as she disassociated and the light got more and more contorted until it was just solid light. With Sasha’s heartbeat in her ear and her soft skin surrounding her and her sweet song reverberating through her body, she felt her sadness dissolve in favor of overwhelming peace.

When she blinked, she could tell several hours had passed, the light had disappeared and her body was stiff, but Sasha hadn’t moved. Shea pressed a grateful kiss against her chest, and Sasha popped her head up and looked at her with a sweet smile, gently caressing her face.

“What time is it? “

“A little after noon. You slept for about 2 hours.”

“Shit. I’m sorry Babe, I didn’t intend for you to waste your morning.” Shea apologized, tears springing up in her eyes again.

“Don’t apologize, shit happens. And if you think I’m not going to love on someone I care about while they’re having a breakdown, you’re crazy.” Sasha smiled, wiping away her tears and booping her nose. Shea chuckled and burying her face back into Sasha’s chest, pressing more kisses against it. She kissed up her chest and neck up to her lips, and kissed her gently, letting Sasha take control for once. Letting her love on her and make love to her. Afterwards, Sasha wrapped her back up in her arms and held her tightly as she kissed her face, and Shea accepted her love. Sasha always knew how to make everything better.

One night, Sasha was laying in between Shea’s legs and against her chest as they watched a movie, twisting her head away at the more intense parts and laughing at the lighthearted moments. Shea stretched when her arms got stiff, and as Sasha moved out of her way, something caught her eye. Their bare legs, outstretched in front of them. The moonlight painted their skin through the uncovered window, and it brought out new tones to her lover’s skin that she instantly fell in love with. But she also noticed her own skin, the tones that appeared in her skin were equally as beautiful, but she preferred Shea’s skin in moonlight. And her toes that Shea had insisted on painting a light purple for her looked stunning in the moonlight, alongside white and black illuminated skin. It reminded Sasha of when Shea did them, pinning her ankle in her lap as she sat across from her while she concentrated, cleaning up her mistakes and running her fingers along the soul of her foot, smirking when Sasha jerked her foot away and threatened to kick her face in.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Shea whispered, noticing the look of deep though on her face. Sasha tore her eyes away from their legs and was rewarded with her lover’s head surrounded by a halo of light. She looked even more stunning like this, although Sasha didn’t know how it was possible to be so attractive. It was unfair, almost criminal that she looked the way she did, so incredible that it took Sasha’s breath away. She twisted her head further, puckering her lips to ask for a kiss. Shea met her in the middle, cupping her cheek tenderly. When they broke apart, their lips hovered, and Sasha stretched up to kiss the tip of Shea’s nose, whispering words that would never truly express what she felt inside.

“I love you Beautiful.”

#rpdr fanfiction #sashea #shea coulee #sasha velour #mock star #implied smut #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #concrit welcome

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lightholme · 5 years

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I don’t just find meaning from meaningless. That’s a vast oversimplification. And I don’t have somebody dictate meaning to me, either. There’s plenty of gurus, preachers, and writers of self-help books who can do that just fine, but that’s not good enough for me. I make my own meaning, and nobody is more qualified to do that than I am. Following someone else’s ideas verbatim would never make me satisfied, because it wouldn’t be a perfect fit for me as an individual human being. And if I thought it was meaningless I might as well just drink a gallon of military grade LSD, pop some extacy, listen to music a few hours, then blow my brains out. So no, I’m not a follower of Camus, not really. I’m not a follower of anybody at all. I stole some of his ideas, but I’ve stolen a lot of my ideas about the world from people a lot smarter than me. Maybe meaning is out there somewhere, immutable and in perfect form. Who knows? I’ve seen no evidence of that whatsoever, but maybe the greek pederast who’s 2200 years dead and thought you could figure out reality by sitting in a room and doing fuckall knew something I don’t when he wrote those ideas down with a bird feather on sheep skin.

I preferred a direct approach at commentary too. I abandoned it for the most part when I was 8 years old and got made fun of for using the “fancy” word “incinerate”. And yes, I am communicating direct meaning to you now, but you’re not like most people. I tailor the way I communicate my ideas to each individual person to transfer the ideas I have inside my head in the most effective way possible. That’s the whole point of writing, of language. The symbols and sounds mean nothing, the meaning and thoughts they represent mean everything. You should never mistake the medium of communication for the thing itself being communicated. In your case, I don’t filter much (if at all). But as for the rest of the people out there, you’re not going to change any minds with being direct. It’s an awful form of communicating information in a way that influences anybody. If someone is doing something wrong and hurting others, direct confrontation will actually make them dig in their heels MORE. Because to a lot of people, they are their ideas, they can’t step outside themselves and compare ideas outside their sense of self. So if you challenge their ideas in anyway, they react as if they are under attack. If we want to get scientific, the same areas of their brain light up as if you’d just punched them in the face.

Comedy and satire is way better at reaching people. If you can laugh at something, then it’s not as scary anymore. If you can laugh at your ideas, perhaps then you might discover that maybe there are flaws deserving of ridicule. It’s not an attack on someone’s ideas, or seen as such, as long as you don’t become insulting. And yes, it is disingenuous. And yes, it is manipulation. But ALL communication is manipulation of one form or another, and all the interactions you have with others influence them in subtle ways and bend them this way or that to get something from them --good or bad-- whether you’re aware of it at the time or not. The only difference between me and most everyone else is that I realize that this is taking place and try my best to use it in positive ways that make people happier and hurt less.

So call it a magic trick if you wish. But if I put on a stage magician outfit and saw a woman in half in front of a crowd before putting her back together: the reaction of joy from the crowd, the applause: that’s real, and you can’t tell me it’s not. I’d have made the world a little bit brighter, and that is what matters. Whether or not it’s a trick is irrelevant, and sometimes a lie can tell a greater truth, and there’s nothing immoral or contradictory about that. As for the author’s intent, it doesn’t mean anything to me on a personal level. My own interpretation and what that work of art does to influence my own life and the lives of those around me in a tangible way, that is what is important. I don’t care Hitler’s intent when writing Mein Kampf. It’s interesting to me on an intellectual level, perhaps, but the writer’s intent means nothing to me in practice, I intend to follow precisely none of the ideology of Mein Kampf. Instead, I use it as a guidebook of the kind of guy I DO NOT want to be. It’s not theoretical, that’s what I take from the book and the actions I take as a result. The author’s intent is a good thing to think about, and to find out. I don’t deny that. How you apply it is what’s significant. It’s not about the absurd, its about how you choose to react to a universe that doesn’t care about you or know that you are there. Man’s search for meaning is innate, but we live in a universe that does not have one, and this conflict creates the absurd. Camus did not worship absurdity, I do not worship it. The absurd in webster’ dictionary is not the same Absurd Camus speaks of in his works. My decision to create my own meaning in the face of this conflict of my human desire for meaning in a meaningless universe is what matters and is what Camus tried so hard to convey. It’s not an ideology of hopelessness, in fact it’s the opposite. It’s an ideology of hope, it makes you realize that you have control of what is important to you and who and what you love. There’s no man in the sky dictating it to you, no preacher, no politician, no guru. Ultimately, nobody is looking out for you in some heavenly realm, and being a good person and making the world a better place rests entirely on your shoulders. So get started. The universe is your oyster.

Hozier’s a pretty good band, though. I don’t care about Sisyphus because he doesn’t exist. He’s just a vehicle to convey an idea that relies on existing mythology people can relate to and identify. In your words, it’s a “magic trick”. If it is, it seems to have been a good one, because Camus is still read in universities in all over the world and is respected by many as one of the great philosophers of our time. His work influences millions. The point of The Myth of Sisyphus is that the struggle to find meaning in a meaningless place is meaning all oit’s own, and is actually extremely liberating when you realize the implications. It’s up to us, each and every individual, to find meaning. We’ve got that power. The Myth of Sisyphus means nothing. The Myth of Sisyphus means everything.

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hyperesthesias · 7 years

Text

Loki x Sigyn

Love Never Dies | Part XII

Rating: G

Words: 2.466

Notes: i’m tired of writing summaries tbh. i never know what to say! D: i had a second part to this but i don’t really have time to write it, and this is consistent in length already, so. i’ll make it part of the next chapter. i will probably post the next one soon. anyway, enjoy! ♥

Four days passed, and Sigyn had taken to the deer bone broth nicely -- drinking whatever Loki gave her with obedience and a will to get stronger, and not only for her own sake. But to see the lightness in his features, a levity she had not seen on him in some while, like the days of old when there was nothing else but them, her soul quietly rejoiced to see him happy. As he did to see her well. Every day, he would feed her a bowl of broth, working on the same bowl throughout the entire day -- sometimes she would finish it all, sometimes she could drink no more for fear of bursting -- but whatever she drank, he said some quiet thanks to whomever might have been listening. He would read to her, books in her own language, and books in his, recite to her poetry, recall stories of his misadventures during his absence -- being sure to eliminate any thing of his doing that might have upset her, but this was not ignorant upon her -- and day in and out he would care for her every need. And never did he leave her side. He would bid her not to speak, not so often, that she might not over-exert herself, and he asked her not to move, that whatever she needed, from moving the blanket, to the washroom, he would aide her in her every whim.

But by the fourth day, Sigyn’s voice had become less clouded by the fog of Death’s cling, and she was determined to speak to her love in a conversation, rather than some wheezed and morose hum. Thus, when she woke, she saw him sitting there in a chair at her bedside -- slumped over, with a fist to his jaw, looking entirely uncomfortable. She could only smile, her head turning more to see him clearly as the daylight fed through the space in the curtain -- he was so beautiful when he was asleep, she told herself, never getting into trouble that way. She couldn’t help a whispered chuckle as she thought on him, and how they both would say the same thing about their son. But a thought came over her as she watched him, his lulled breathing keeping him in slumber: had he been sleeping in that chair the entire time?

An attempt to move her arm proved fruitful, and she managed to slide it off the bed, lifting it with great effort to place her hand on his knee with every fragment of gentleness in her. “Good morning, my love,” she breathed -- this time with some clarity, that she smiled not only at Loki, but in pride of her condition.

Loki started awake, his fist slipping from his jaw and he gracefully caught himself as he sat upright, confusion muddling his features in whether or not he had imagined the voice that bid him hearken.

“Hello,” she said again, a languid smile now resting on her as her eyes bat sleepily, trying to hush away the claims of night.

“Sigyn,” he quietly exclaimed and immediately took her hand and knelt by her. “Are you well? What do you need?”

She shook her head on the pillow as she gripped onto his hand with what strength she had -- which had been more than any other time she’d tried. “Nothing, my love. Just you.”

A sigh emanated from him as his worry bled to contentment, and he kissed her knuckles. “You have me.”

“Then I count my fortune as every speck of sand,” she said, without a hitch, neither a breath, or a rumble or wheeze -- yet with a wide and gladdened smile.

His brows lifted as he heard her speak, keeping her hand to his lips, he let a breath of paled shock. “Your self...it returns to you.”

“It does,” she agreed, struggling to sit up by herself, perhaps a little too hasty in her efforts, but she was determined to do it herself.

Loki immediately stood to aide her, offering her his hands, after she had stopped him from lifting her by the waist. And while he would have felt shunned at any other instance when she rejected his help, he could do nothing but admire her as she lifted herself to sit with her back against the headboard. He shied from tears of relief and joy that threatened him as he watched her -- exasperated as she may have been afterwards -- as her strength returned to her inch by inch.

If he had been honest with himself, and he often was not, he would have admitted he had losing hope that anything he had been doing would help her -- that he had doomed her, and that she would be doomed until Death came upon her for a second time. He’d begun to dread each day, feeding her the broth as a last resort, where he felt perhaps it was meaningless and he might as well had been feeding a corpse. But to see her, seated there of her own accord, moving her arms and legs -- as slow and as halting as they may have been -- he had felt no such joy like the joy he felt then. Nothing could compare to it.

“Do I make you proud, my love?” she asked.

Though she had no reason to. “I take pride in your very existence, nyaphte’h,” he spoke in her language a word that has no translation, but that was only reserved for the one most beloved to the heart.

She beamed with his words. “It warms my heart to hear you speak my language. It always has,” she cleared a place for him among the blankets to sit beside her. “Come,” she beckoned him beside her. “Have you slept in that seat this whole time? Or had you succumb to exhaustion last night?”

“I took my place there,” he answered and came to sit beside her, landing his long legs out the length of the bed, as he placed his head on the wood of the headboard, hands rested behind them. “I did not wish to exceed my permission,” he sighed finding his back was much more agreed to his newfound position.

She took heart in his wish to make and keep her comfortable, but placed a hand on his leg to reassure him. “I wish you here beside me.”

“Then here is where I shall be,” he turned to her, removing a hand form behind his head to comb it through her hair.

Sigyn’s eyes closed with a breath of peace and pleasure at the sensation of his soothing -- and though her time away, as she had decided to call it, had not been perceived as very long from her own perspective, it felt as though she had not felt his touch in aeons. Every fibre of her ached to be near to him, every cell and nutrient that was huddled within her begged to never part from him again -- for just as he had missed a piece of himself in her absence, she had not been complete, either.

But when she opened her eyes, she was met not with a mutual expression of serenity, but a shadow that darkened him. A swell of pity came over her as she lifted her hand again to meet her fingers to his face. “Such dimness is always plaguing you -- I think it more familiar to you than quietude,” her voice not above a whisper, this time not out of necessity, but of gentleness to his heavy spirit.

Loki’s eyes lifted to her, an apology hidden somewhere within their emerald shade, and he pursed his lips as he averted his gaze once more. “I think our welcome may be overstayed soon,” he admitted.

“Then it is good that I have been getting better so quickly,” she offered, ever the one to balance his grimness.

“And for that I am grateful, but...” he sighed.

“What troubles my King?” she murmured, tucking a lock behind his ear.

Eyes flickered to her again, his heart not unnoticing to her words, but his relishing in them had to be saved for later. “...Thor returns today.”

“He is away?” she asked, wondering if he had told her already -- the past weeks had been naught but a blur. “Yes, I wondered why it was so quiet.”

He couldn’t help a chuckle as he returned his sights to the canopy above their bed. “I just...haven’t any notion to where we might go.”

There was a pause in her, that a question had perched itself on the tip of her tongue -- but she was afraid to ask it, unsure if she wished to know its answer: “Can we not return to my realm?”

By the breath he took in alone, she knew the outcome, and steeled herself for his words.

“All the portals are closed. The Convergence has passed, and every doorway from this side of the Universe is...gone,” he wished not to break her heart, but less so did he wish to lie to her. Especially about something so dear to her.

Then she was trapped there, Sigyn thought. Although, she supposed ‘trapped’ was too harsh a word. The Universe from whence Loki and his people came was not too frightful but...her people. What had become of them? Who led them whilst she was away? Would she ever see its golden skies again? Or participate in festivals of the deep blue forests, or feel the softness of the red meadows, or let the river wrap her in its mirth?

“I am...truly sorry,” she heard his voice call to her.

Sigyn’s eyes stung as they looked up to him, but he dared not look to her -- she knew, she knew the guilt on his complexion, there was some deed he’d done for which he blamed himself, not out of unjust cause, but she knew his words were sincere. Nonetheless, she did not blame him. What happened had happened, whatever it had been -- actions would take their course, whether good or bad, this she knew all too well, and what needed to be done would be done. All she could do was accept it, and with no people to lead in the midst of everything, she decided to lead herself. To navigate herself through whatever outcome had befallen the Realms in her absence.

“We will find some other way -- we always have,” she cleared her throat. “But you say your brother will be returning soon -- from what?”

“Some peace-keeping ruse Odin concocted,” he scoffed. “Merely to keep him away from his pet, I’m sure.”

“‘Pet’?”

“That is what I call her -- Thor has acquired a Midgardian woman of whom he claims to love,” the ire dripping from every word.

“You seem not to like her,” whilst the unsurprise breathed from hers.

“I despise her kind,” he spat, a little too quickly, and a little too harshly. He glanced to Sigyn, swallowing as he regained himself. “But Odin wishes not for any other to become the future Queen of Asgard than an Asgardian, as we well know.”

Indeed, they did. For all its grandness and all its gildedness, Asgard was not without its faults of prejudice and misguided attempts -- then again, no Realm was immune, this Sigyn tried to remember. “I suppose there will be a celebration for his return,” she mused.

“Indeed -- for three days,” he grumbled. “However, I will be required to attend, at least for a little while, lest they grow suspicious.”

“How have you abstained from suspicion thence?”

“I’ve had my mother tell everyone I was ill,” he huffed. “But I suppose that will not do for now.” He turned to her again, leaning on his side as he continued his motion of stroking her hair. “I fear to leave you.”

She took in a breath as he ran his fingers through her tresses, closing her eyes for a minute, stilling herself as he spoke.

“That...if I leave, and come back...you will be gone when I return. That you...” he trailed off, shaking his head as he took his eyes from her to the blankets beneath him. “That you were naught but once more some...figment.”

His meaning did not escape her, and her eyes fluttered open to see him, but she did not question him -- only wondering what torment he had endured to make him see her when she was not there. A hand of hers cupped around his sharp features, thumb stroking along his cheek, while her fingers reached to soothe the nape of his neck. “You needn’t worry, my love,” she whispered, nudging forward to close the space between them; her head resting against his. “I am here, and I will not vanish.”

He found he had no words left within him -- she the only one who could make him speechless -- where his hand ran through her hair to rest upon her neck, pulling her closer and closer, though there was no more space left, until his lips met hers.

The first kiss they had shared since her return -- and how sweet it was, a nectar to the bitterness that resided on his tongue; the antidote to the poison that rested in his bones -- he felt his entirety purge itself all at once, and he was both himself and not within her presence. And through all its sweetness, the taste of her was still tainted with the fog of Death, for never could he forget that her breaths of peace came at the price of screams of terror, and never could he forget that, for a time, he enjoyed it.

But never moreso than the feel of her. For tat, and more, every life had been worth it -- for she had no price, and this he remembered and held nearly as dearly as he held her.

He didn’t want to let her go -- fighting with his hands to relinquish her as he left the bed and readied himself for the banquet in Thor’s honour. An event to be dreaded in of itself, but when he had Sigyn, who needed him, who wanted him even, even more did he rue it. Nonetheless, to protect her secret, to not arise any more suspicion than his presence did normally, he obliged, wearing nothing particularly special, and assuring himself he would not stay particularly long. But any amount of time away from her was long enough.

And when he kissed his wife in parting, he felt his soul nearly threaten to break within him -- and when he closed the door behind him, he was sure it shattered with the sound of its finality.

#logyn #loki x sigyn #sigyn x loki #ship: logyn #*#fic: love never dies

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thenightofcups · 7 years

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Jellal Fernandes; Idealist

In December of last year I made a Why Erza Scarlet is Not a Mary Sue post and in that post I mentioned that I thought Jellal was more of an idealist than Erza but didn't expand on it. Thanks to @marshmavis for reminding me!

Before I go any further, I want to say that while I still stand behind my assertion that Erza is not a Mary Sue [x] (I can't say enough how much I hate this term), I've had some discussions since then and I've come to realize one of my points was not executed in the best way. The post was made in a moment of frustration and I didn't think it all through as well as I should've.

@mags-duranb pointed out to me that she interpreted the Mary Sue-esque trait of idealized/idealism differently and she's right!

It's not about Erza being an idealistic but about Erza being an "IDEAL"

In my Mood (TM) I plowed forward with proving Erza wasn't a very good example of an idealist instead of proving why she didn't have an idealized-personality. Without downplaying this difference (because it's pretty big!), I don't think Erza is either one. She has a temper, she resorts to physical violence way too often, can be incredibly arrogant, and had a martyr-like death wish until after the Nirvana arc. Flat battles aside, Erza is a complex character and seeing her reduced to some meaningless status like Mary Sue (and by people who not only dislike her already but have no fucking clue what Mary Sue means or why it's a gross term) makes me angry.

Moving on!

Idealism (the Oxford definition. Think Don Quixote, not James Jeans) can be defined as someone who is guided more by ideals and ethics rather than practical consideration. In a lot of ways, this is Jellal. I'm going to break this down into three prongs so I don't get lost.

Jellal's redemption arc is a plot hole and he's not even trying to get out.

He's dragged his guild down the redemption path but believes himself to be beyond it. He'll die for the goal.

He believes himself to be unworthy of Erza's affections even though she disagrees. He is effectively punishing them both.

PLOT HOLES AHOY!

Up until the current arc Jellal has had a pretty rigid set of goals but he's romanticized them to the point of perplexing impracticality. In his mind, all dark magic is evil and as far as he knows (we don't know what all Jellal knows, to be honest. We'll just go with what we think we know Jellal knows) all roads lead to Zeref. This on it's own is a weird plot hole. Zeref didn't create dark magic. He was cursed for dabbling in it but he didn't create it. In theory, dark guilds could continue to pop up if Zeref died right now. Jellal on a bender to destroy Zeref and all dark magic is wildly impractical and impossible.

I do think this serves his internal struggle, though. He's fine with throwing away his life because he doesn't believe it's worth very much.

EVERYONE BUT JELLAL

Crime Sorciere consists of two OG members plus the members of the Oracion Seis. Jellal claims he's helping them atone for their actions as criminals, and even though they're also victims of manipulation - and it's arguable that Jellal is more of a victim than any of them - he doesn’t see himself as worthy of the same consideration.

Brain groomed the Seis, sure, but as far as we know, no mind altering magic was used. Like Ultear, they were taken advantage of at a very young age. Jellal, however, was manipulated on a very different level. In Chapter 102, Ultear thanks Hades for teaching her a brainwashing technique and expresses arrogant joy at how flawlessly the spell worked.

So why is Jellal beyond redemption but not the Sies? The answer is that he hates himself.

In Chapter 509, Jellal has a brief confrontation with August. I've seen some disappointment with this scene but I thought it was meaningful.

August is rambling on about himself here but it's significant to Jellal and his quest. At this point Jellal recognizes that he's in love with Erza. She brings him light and comfort and a happiness he doesn't think he deserves. August points out that the concept of light vs. dark (right vs. wrong) is a rock Jellal is crashing himself against. These battles will always exist and Jellal could spend his whole life raging against the dying of the light (heh) but it's bigger than he is and the only true justice is love. Adding more love to the world is a more worthy goal. August states that he was unloved as a child. Unwanted. It contributed to his emptiness.

Even Layla Heartfilia stated all magic comes from love.

This on it's own is an impractical, romantic concept. In reality, we cannot “love away the hate.” If Jellal swung to this end of the situation it would only nail home what an idealist he truly is.

WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF ERZA?

In Chapter 264, Jellal expresses a lot of duality. He tells Erza it would make him happy if she thought of him as the person he used to be but also states he's willing to accept her killing him as vengeance for Simon. He's suffering the confusion that comes along with deep depression and is still pretty suicidal at this point in the story.

I've started wondering what I'm doing any of this for. And I can't seem to find a way out of the maze those thoughts put me in. I think that perhaps I should die after all.

Of course, Erza hates this. She literally tries to slap some sense into him. In my mind he kisses her here. The manga did a better job of conveying their mess of thoughts.

He winds up lying to her about being engaged but it's pretty clear she knows this is nonsense and asks him if he cares about this fiancé. He blushes and says yes. I personally don't think this is even subtext. She's talking about herself and he responds honestly.

However, because Jellal is Jellal he says later to Meredy and Ultear:

It's forbidden for us to fall in love with those who travel the path of light. All I wish is for Erza's happiness.

This whole scene in the cave bothers me and I could go on about how Ultear views atonement very differently than Jellal but that's another post for another day. Jellal says he isn't allowed to fall in love with Erza – but he's already there. He does love her and I think that's part of his problem. He sees his love for her as an indulgence he doesn't deserve but that doesn't stop him from feeling it (because Tada! feelings and emotions don't work on command).

This is impractical and ridiculous. Jellal has romanticized his journey. He loves his darkness. He's gotten to know his demons and prefers them because they're all he understands. Jellal likes his control. Most of his life he's been denied the most basic kinds of agency. Erza represents something new and probably terrifying – a departure from the darkness. It's completely understandable, to be honest.

But it's also selfish. He says he wants Erza to be happy and have her freedom – but what Erza wants is Jellal. He is effectively punishing them both by denying her [and himself]. It's an ethical quagmire.

In conclusion, Jellal is a smart guy but he's also an impractical romantic. An idealist.

#fairy tail #jerza #jellal fernandes #erza scarlet #my meta #these always take forever but I never regret it...

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sleepysibilance · 6 years

Text

Letter to a new friend

Friendship. A lot of thought and very few real answers, that’s all I’ve really got to go on with this. My attempts at becoming closer to people so often feels terribly clumsy, perhaps over investing too quickly in new people who I like. I’ve been my own worst enemy for as long as I can remember, questioning everything even when it leads to near crippling insecurities. I know they often show but I don’t want to push them on anyone else. It is my responsibility to deal with, not other peoples to reassure me no matter how much I appreciate it when it happens. What I seek to do here is to explain rather than justify myself, to ask for patience not to ask someone else to take on my burden.

Closeness. Someone told me once that the hardest friendships to develop are the ones you feel an inexplicable closeness and trust with the person on first encounter. Perhaps because these are the friendships we most want to build we care too much about messing up and hold back losing that connection we found or perhaps in an attempt to build it we push to hard and too fast and make it uncomfortable. I’ve done both many times and rarely stumbled onto an ideal middle ground except by pure dumb luck. No one thing is going to solve this and there is not going to be some perfect balance of the committing yourself to a new person while not pushing too hard, that balance point will change from moment to moment not to mention from person to person.

Insecurities. The question of how best to deal with these is a hard one that I have no real answers for yet. One thing I am sure is not a good answer though is to convince yourself that everyone likes you or blindly assume that people like you. It may seem to help for a while but it is always going to be proved wrong sooner or later because if you actually interact with people there are always going to be some who don’t like you. That’s ok but if you have been trying to convince yourself everyone likes you by contradicting that the whole mechanism of dealing with them insecurities tumbles down with it. Insecurities often whisper in your ear that you aren’t interesting, that nobody could possibly want to be friends with you, or even more insidious that people are all just nice and put up with you because of that. These things are lies, of that much I am sure. Still they effect so many of my attempts to make friends and become closer to existing friends.

Urgency. There is a sense of grasping at a new friendship and trying to make a close connection that often grips me. I have almost no friends I see on a particularly regular basis, the desire to fill that gap with more friendship and connection is hard to deny at times. The insecurities almost certainly play into this urgency too, whispering that this person will leave soon. I often end up feeling like I’m trying to push my way into someone else’s life and judging what is simply insecurities speaking and what is this overinvesting too fast can be near impossible at times. To those who I’ve pushed too much, I’m sorry. The only apology I will make in this letter. Along with the apology I would ask you to please tell me, even if you no longer want to be friends with me because of it help me do better in future.

Vulnerability. The double edged sword that is so easily misunderstood. It’s saying I’ll let you see enough of me to hurt me, invest enough of myself in this that it will hurt if it fails. That very concept is easily taken as the whole picture, a risk of being hurt making it better to wall yourself in. Keep everyone outside a carefully built inner bubble. It’s like deciding to create a company with a really great idea but then being afraid to invest any time or money into actually creating the idea, how can it hope to succeed without the investment. If you don’t give people a chance to know you then they’ll never like you or dislike you, they’ll merely like or dislike the image you put on for them. So I fight to be vulnerable without wearing my heart on my sleeve, to allow you to see who I am without shoving it in your face. I fail again and again, falling on both sides of the fence, somehow at the same time.

Trust. The heart of a real lasting connection I think. It is the belief that the person will tell you when you fuck up rather than whispering it behind your back. Equally it is the sensation of feeling comfortable talking to that person about things that normally make you uncomfortable. Trust is what lets us say something is wrong and fix it rather than walking away from it. Without building and nurturing trust there is no foundation for any lasting connection. Trust is what allows us to be honest, to talk about how to improve things and to deal with mistakes without need for blame or guilt.

Openness. Perhaps better named honesty but it is possible to be honest but not say all the things that need to be said. This leads out of trust without that this is meaningless. Western culture is obsessed with the idea of political correctness to the point it affects our ability to build friendships. The idea that we shouldn’t say it when people annoy us or push us a bit further than we are happy with. Instead we just carefully push the people who do this further away. There is a perverse irony to this, that the so called acceptance preached would make us less forgiving. Giving people a chance to mend their ways in a world where we aren’t truly taught how to properly maintain relationships with each other gives people a chance to become friends who otherwise never would have. To remove this as being “nice” to everyone does simply allows the person to repeat the behaviour again believing it to be correct more and more as they do it again and again. Openness is hard, we are taught not to be so much by our society yet it is so important.

Growth. It can be easy in both new and old friendships to get stuck in the same old routine, the sense of connection that built that friendship fading till gradually it’s a habit as much as a friendship. Growing together is a fundamental part of how we keep friendships from fading. This isn’t to say we all have to be interested in the exact same things, rather that we are willing to try new things together and invest time in each other. It is to learn new things together and and to find motivation and passion that you nurture together. The scene in Hitchhiker’s Guide when Zooey Deschanel asks the main character if he wants to go to Madagascar comes to mind when I think of this. Arthur Dent suggests going to somewhere that isn’t new or different at all in response to her urge to try something new.

Balance. The answer that is a question, what is the right balance in the myriad of struggles and joys that bring us together and connect us. The balance that builds closeness rather than distance. The balance that allows for trust both in ourselves and in each other. The balance that allows us to grow together with all of these things walking new paths without losing sight of the old. To walk upon our own paths yet also walk alongside each other. These things are what I strive for, I ask for patience where I am slow and help where I fuck up. Thank you <3

Sam

#friendship #mental health #thoughts #letter #reconnecting

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