#The Luminous Regions of Reality

[warping-realities]

A Better Familly I

Melissa was furious but she couldn't show her feelings, not there in her workplace, although it was precisely because of her work that she felt that way. She was a daughter of Mexican immigrants and had encountered her share of asshole rich men in her life. But she wasn't expecting to find an arrogant boy lying completely naked waiting for her in the dorm she would have to clean. It was a tremendous shock, as the place should have been empty and suddenly she was facing a… a… she preferred to forget. At that moment she wanted to finish off the boy with her broom. But she needed that job to support herself while she attended nursing school at night. Her father could have helped her of course, his auto repair shop was doing well, but she refused on principle to bother him about it. And there was that other reason too… Henry, though in there he was Professor Roberts. Here's a rich and influential man who broke the mold, she thought as her eye was caught by a glow in the corner of the hall.

"What do we have here?" She murmured to herself, holding a small metallic disc in her hand.

As she admired the Reality Warper someone snuck up behind her and hugged her around the waist. "Hijo de la …" She started to curse thinking that the cheeky boy had decided on a new type of advance, but she controlled herself when she saw who was actually grabbing her. "Henry… I mean, Professor Roberts, don't do that here."

"Ah, Mel, where then? We never have time for ourselves." "I know, but this is my job and yours too, it could get us into trouble." "It won't if the relationship is official." "Henry, don't play with this." "No kidding, I know your classes don't start until next week. How about I drop by your house tonight so we can make things official with your dad? You told me he's the traditional type, so I want to start from a right way." "Oh Henry!" She responded with a smile on her face, followed by a quick kiss. As she tucked the small metallic disk into her uniform, not paying much attention. And there it stayed until Melissa got home and inadvertently knocked it to the living room floor as she pulled the uniform out of her bag. ….

Henry put on his best suit and put on his biggest smile for the difficult battle he knew would lie ahead. Diego Huerta, Melissa's father, would be a difficult opponent, he had crossed the border illegally carrying Melissa as a child in his arms, shortly after the death of his wife in Mexico, the trigger for the small family to come to the USA. He faced all kinds of humiliating work and over time managed to establish his own business, a car workshop that became a reference in the entire Latino community in the region, just like Diego himself. Soon he found himself surrounded by options of women who would love to be his new wife, but from what his daughter commented, he never took any of them into the house he shared with his daughter. Melissa was his top priority, all of his focus and dedication on her. He had authorized his daughter to work outside the home only after much insistence. Henry suspected it would take a lot more insistence to get the man to accept that his little girl was dating someone like him, that in her father's eyes he represented the white privilege the man so detested.

Despite all this Henry was confident that he would manage to win the man's trust, the feelings he had for Melissa were true and once her father realized that things should become easier. At least that was what he longed for. With a last breath he rang the doorbell of the Huerta house, willing to do anything to show Diego that he would be the perfect son-in-law given the opportunity.

As soon as the front door opened and Henry found himself in front of Melissa beaming with beauty, he was absolutely sure that any argument, dispute or injury would be worth it to keep her forever. She was stunning wearing a simple floral dress that enhanced all her beauty, from the cheerful face with the luminous smile that would warm the coldest hearts to the long and shiny black hair.

"You're perfect." He said looking dumbfounded at her.

"I think that was the best good night I've ever heard in my life."

"I'm sorry, but I got totally lost when I saw you!"

"So it's time to find your way back, my father is on his way and we need to talk before he arrives." She said opening the way for him to enter the house.

He tried to kiss her as he walked through the door, but she dodged and directed him straight to the couch.

"Please sit down, mi amor. I'm afraid my father will have a harder time accepting our relationship than I thought. He's furious."

"But why?" Henry asked sitting on the couch and staring back at her with a questioning look.

"He expected me to meet someone from our community. Don't get me wrong, my dad loves America and his greatest pride is that we got our citizenship. But we've been through a lot before that, and when it comes to me he's like even more... defensive."

"Then let me prove to him that my intentions are good. I come from a good family, I have a steady job in a prestigious place, not to sound arrogant, but I'm a great catch, he can't possibly refute someone like me."

"Not only is it possible, it's why he was against our relationship. My father is convinced you're going to take advantage of me and dump me like a used object."

"Melissa, never say that again! I would never do that to you… I… I… I love you!"

"Henry!"

"It's true, I've wanted to tell you this for weeks, but I was afraid of scaring you. But now I see that I can't hide it anymore, I love you and I'll do anything for you!"

"Oh Henry!" Melissa said with tears in her eyes as she threw herself on him and kissed him passionately.

And it was precisely in this position that the two were found by her father.

"Hija, ¿qué está pasando aquí?"

"Papá, puedo explicar..."

"No hay nada que explicar, ¡tenía claro que no quería a este tipo cerca de ti!"

"Papá, no es como piensas, Henry me ama y yo lo amo".

"¡Déjate de tonterías! Y tú, maldito sea, sal de aquí antes de que lo mate".

Not fully understanding the altercation, Henry tried to intervene.

"Mister Huerta, please let me explain..."

"Don't speak to me, otherwise I'll kill you." Said the older man being prevented from advancing by his daughter.

"Papá, no, por favor, cálmate, vamos a otra habitación. Henry, please go away, I... I'll try to calm him down."

"Exactly boy, get the hell out of here and don't you dare come back." She added Diego letting himself be carried away by his daughter. Leaving behind a stunned Henry, who, without realizing it during the discussion, placed his hand on a small metallic disk that completely altered his future when he uttered the following words:

"Damn it, I just wanted to be the son-in-law he expected."

When he finished speaking those words, he got the biggest scare of his life. The small disk expanded, enveloping him in a metallic cocoon, without him even having time to think about running away or calling for help. If anyone else had been in that room, they would have seen the front part of the structure liquefy and solidify again, demonstrating on its surface the image of a young man very similar to Henry, to then liquefy and solidify again, demonstrating the image of a completely different man.

Finally, the metallic cocoon retracted back into the small disk that originated it, leaving a man who was certainly not Henry Roberts sitting on the sofa in the Huertas' living room.

This new man was a fine example of what the Latino community and the male gender itself has the best to offer, a handsome square face, with a well-trimmed dark beard accentuating an already marked jawline, almond-shaped brown eyes and stylish hair, all this accompanied by an enviable physique, wide pecs and big arms, wrapped in a blue button-up shirt that didn't do much to hide all that musculature. That man's picture could be placed next to the word sexy in any dictionary.

Unfortunately for those (many) who showed some interest in him, disappointment would be the only answer. That big fish had already been hooked and it was the voice of his fisherwoman that woke him up:

"Rico, can you help me with the table while Papá gets ready for dinner?"

"Of course. I'll be there in a second." Answered the man leaving the small metallic disc on top of the table in the living room. As Henry himself inadvertently wished to be changed without knowing what he was doing, reality readjusted itself around him in a way that his wish was possible. Henry Roberts was now Enrique - Rico - Ramirez, Melissa Huerta's longtime boyfriend, whom he intended to propose to her father that night.

Rico worked as a Physical Education teacher at Saint James Prep School. An active member of the local Latino community and the neighborhood's golden boy, he played baseball in high school and won a college scholarship, though he never made it to the professional level. But he didn't care about that, being back where he belonged and next to the love he had cultivated since adolescence was more than enough for him.

Rico’s relationship with Diego couldn't be better, he was the son that Sr. Huerta never had. So much Diego supported Melissa's boyfriend throughout his life. He hoped for a few years that Rico would take over his business, but when it became clear that the boy had talent, he buried those dreams and supported young Ramirez in his new job, allowing Melissa to work in St. James just knowing that he would be around. The girl had applied for a job as a cleaner there, but with the help of her boyfriend, she ended up with the position of secretary in the sports department. For which her father was extremely grateful, he doubted any spoiled brat would dare with the coach's girlfriend.

Which made that marriage proposal just a formality. But Rico knew how important such formalities were to his future father-in-law. Therefore, before dinner is served, with everyone already seated at the table, he begins his speech.

"Mr. Huerta, you have been like a second father to me my whole life, some of my earliest memories are running through the equipment in your car workshop when I was so little that you could lift me up with only one arm. Because I've known you and Melissa my whole life and because you know me so well and know that I'm the only person who will love your daughter with as much love and care as you do, I humbly ask you to her hand in marriage." Concludes the young man, his voice trembling with anxiety and expectation as he faces the serious face of the father of the woman he loved. Only to see that face break into a bright smile.

"It's about time, boy! I thought you two would never give me grandchildren. You know I always wanted a big family! Of course you have my acceptance and my blessing. And, I ask this even though I know the answer in advance Is this what you want, Mel?" Diego concludes with a voice as shaky as his future son-in-law's, looking adoringly at his daughter. Which in turn opened a smile as bright as his father's.

"Si, papá. It's all I want in the world!"

"So let's toast to the beginning of a new family" Said a proud Diego raising a glass and being followed by his daughter and son-in-law.

.....

The following morning, Diego Huerta watched through the window with a smile on his face at his daughter and son-in-law, whom he loved as if he was his son, thinking that finally his family would grow the way he always wanted.

Possessing an enviable physique and a handsome face, maybe he could finally get back on the market, he thought, with the image of a specific woman coming to mind. As he absently held a small metallic disk in his hand.

....

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, in the same St. James as the Reality Warper's new journey began, another young man glared at his car, unaware that very soon his history would also be permanently altered...

...

[hydrasra]

Boredom

SIDE STORY #2

SYNOPSIS: ah yes, boredom. quite self-explanatory.

DISCLAIMER: gn!reader, it should be obvious at this rate. these side stories are not in order nor in a particular order. count them as stories that happened off-screen? pov moments, swearing here and there so beware. side story to the MAIN story. read the main story for better context. or don't. it's up to you. THOSE IN BOLD COULD NOT BE TAGGED.

TAGGING: [ 19/30 ] @bloop-booop @sunsethw4 @neverlandlostchild @ghostlysyntaxed @wolfe02 @valeriele3 @the-dumber-scaramouche @weirdducky17 @esthelily @shroombro @ayanokomu @bamboowritess @reblogs-of-sagau-content @bloopthebat @maybeyourcat @theblueblub @7smexy7diva @shimi-shimi @issy-lol

SIDE STORY#1

SHENANIGANS #2

you rolled around with a groan on the grass, the sun hitting you at full force yet it didn't bother nor burn you and you were grateful.

what bothered you was the fact that you were bored.

that and you did not have internet connection.

when you first woke up, you had your phone with you and it was working just fine but when you realised that you were indeed in genshin impact as soon as you settled in sumeru and reality hit you like a chancla being thrown at you by your mother's hand, you realised that you didn't have your charger with you.

simply your phone in your pocket and your wallet but you doubt that the currency you used back home would come in handy in teyvat.

from where you were seated, by the south entrance of sumeru city on the grass, the blonde traveler, whose floating companion was not with her, watched you with an amused expression, "what is it, [name]?"

you lifted your head and looked at her, grass adorning your dishevelled hair.

oh! and you were pouting.

cute.

"I'm bored..."

lumine sighed, sympathising with you.

the first time she found herself in teyvat, she realised that she could get bored easily without what she used to do to get rid of boredom on the previous planet she was staying on with her twin.

so to get rid of boredom once in teyvat, the traveler from afar explored the region you would have just unlocked in the game and explored with her, again, as much as she could when you were taking a break from having to help her with the archons' requests for help with their nations.

"hmm... do you want to explore?"

you perked up at her suggestion and quickly scrambled to sit back on your legs, eyes wide, same for the grin on your face.

"yes! I want to visit Inazuma."

"weren't you the one that kept on muttering how much you hated Inazuma?"

you gasped loudly, earning the curious stares of sumeru city's passer-bys, "yes! simply cause the thunder kept hitting you! that and the enemies are a pain in the ass."

the first sage of buer couldn't help but agree with your words before adding, "undercover, though."

you nod once in response, grinning from ear-to-eat.

"then–"

"you are not going anywhere," wanderer's voice sounded out as he made his way over to the two of you, coming out of the city.

you pout at him, visibly deflating and, knowing that it was futile to try and convince the puppet, the traveler wrapped an arm around your waist, saying how visiting inazuma would be for next time.

when it's safer.

the ex-fatui harbinger watched you two before sighing and pitching the bridge of his nose then looked back at you two as he crossed his arms over his chest, "not unless you bring me with you."

he hoped buer would forgive him for that.

he also hoped that he wouldn't regret his decision. though after seeing how you looked at him in both admiration and gratefulness, a part of him knew that he wouldn't.

a tug could be felt in his chest, where his heart should have been, has he not been a puppet but a human.

unbeknownst to him, irminsul already delivered their next itinerary to the archon of wisdom.

and the little god simply smiled gently.

⠀⠀ ══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══

the way I had to wait before posting was both driving me insane and hurting me lmaooo

[riverscrypticchronicles]

The Enigmatic Shore Laddie: Scotland's Lesser-Known Cryptid

The Enigmatic Shore Laddie: Scotland's Lesser-Known Cryptid... Written by River T

Nestled in the annals of Scottish folklore lies the enigmatic figure of the Shore Laddie. Unlike its more famous counterparts such as the Loch Ness Monster, the Shore Laddie remains a lesser-known but equally fascinating cryptid, capturing the imaginations of those who delve into the rich tapestry of Scotland's mythical heritage.

The Shore Laddie is said to inhabit the rugged coastlines and rocky shores of Scotland, particularly in the Highlands and Islands region. Descriptions of this elusive creature vary, but common accounts depict it as a small, humanoid being with features resembling both a young boy and a sea creature. Often sighted at dusk or dawn, the Shore Laddie is believed to have an affinity for the liminal spaces where land meets sea.

Witnesses have reported seeing the Shore Laddie cavorting among the tidal pools and seaweed-strewn rocks, its skin glistening with a peculiar, otherworldly sheen. Some claim it has webbed hands and feet, aiding its agility and speed in the water. Its eyes are often described as large and luminous, exuding a sense of ancient wisdom and melancholy.

Legend has it that the Shore Laddie is a guardian of the coastal realms, protecting the delicate balance between the natural world and the human encroachment. Fishermen and sailors tell tales of encountering the Shore Laddie during storms, when it is said to guide lost vessels safely back to shore. Conversely, those who seek to exploit or harm the marine environment are believed to face the Shore Laddie's wrath, experiencing misfortunes at sea.

Despite its benevolent nature, the Shore Laddie remains an elusive and mysterious figure, with few concrete sightings and even fewer physical traces. Skeptics dismiss it as mere folklore or misidentified wildlife, but for those who have glimpsed its fleeting form, the Shore Laddie embodies the spirit of Scotland's wild and untamed coastlines.

In an age where the line between myth and reality often blurs, the Shore Laddie continues to enchant and intrigue. Whether a creature of legend or a yet-to-be-discovered marvel of nature, the Shore Laddie stands as a testament to the enduring allure of Scotland's cryptic creatures. So next time you find yourself wandering along a Scottish shore, keep an eye out for the Shore Laddie—you might just catch a glimpse of this enigmatic guardian of the sea.

[nature-godsgardenofeden]

galaxy NGC 3256 dominates this image from the NASA/ESA/CSA James Webb Space Telescope. This Milky Way-sized galaxy lies about 120 million light-years away in the constellation Vela, and is a denizen of the Hydra-Centaurus Supercluster.

NGC 3256 may seem peaceful, a swirl of tightly entwined spiral arms set in a hazy cloud of light, but this image shows the aftermath of an ancient cosmic clash. This distorted galaxy is the wreckage of a head-on collision between two equally massive spiral galaxies which astronomers estimate to have met around 500 million years ago. The tumultuous past of NGC 3256 is captured in the long tendrils of shining dust and stars which extend outwards from the main body of the galaxy. The striking red and orange regions spread across the galaxy contain young stars created in the merger that are irradiating small dust grains, which then emit infrared light that is captured in astonishing detail by Webb’s instruments. Further out, there are extended tidal features, which are mostly stars pulled out of the galaxies when they collided.

If you were asked to picture a galaxy collision, you might picture stars careening into one another with catastrophically explosive results. In reality, the spaces between the stars in a galaxy are vast; when galaxies collide, their clouds of stars pass through one another and mingle like two clouds of smoke. The gas and dust in colliding galaxies does interact, however, and with spectacular results. The galactic collision that created NGC 3256 triggered a luminous burst of star formation that can be seen in the brightest portions of this image. These infant stars shine most brightly at infrared wavelengths, light which can penetrate through obscuring dust in the galaxy, and which makes the stars perfect subjects for Webb.

This observation is one of several which take a detailed look at the physics of star formation and black hole growth in nearby merging galaxies, hoping to transform astronomers' understanding of galactic evolution. Capturing a selection of luminous infrared galaxies like NGC 3256 will help the astronomical community to understand how Webb can unravel the complex histories of nearby star-forming galaxies.

This image contains data from Webb’s Near-InfraRed Camera and Mid-InfraRed Instrument, which — as the names suggest — capture NGC 3256 in stunning detail at infrared wavelengths. Previous observations of NGC 3256 with the NASA/ESA Hubble Space Telescope revealed this cosmic collision at visible wavelengths, and Hubble and Webb observations are shown side-by-side using the slider tool here.

[Image Description: A large, face-on spiral galaxy. The core is radiating very brightly. Streaks of dust glow intensely red, in the centre and across most of the galaxy. This gas is surrounded by a dark grey halo made of the galaxy’s stars. The halo stretches out into a tidal tail at the upper-left, and another at the bottom. Small stars and galaxies surround the spiral galaxy, on a black background.]

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter XIV. Summary and Conclusion

It has been said of Newton, to express the immensity of his discoveries, that he has revealed the abyss of human ignorance.

There is no Newton here, and no one can claim in economics a part equal to that which posterity assigns to this great man in the science of the universe. But I dare to say that there is here more than Newton has ever guessed. The depth of the heavens does not equal the depth of our intelligence, within which wonderful systems move. It looks like a new, unknown region that exists outside space and time, like the heavenly realms and infernal abodes, and on which our eyes plunge, with silent admiration, as in a bottomless abyss.

Non secùs ac si quâ penitùs vi terra dehiscens

Infernas reseret sedes et regna recludat

Pallida, Dis invisa, superque immane barathrum

Cernatur, trepidentque immisso lumine Manes.

Virgil. Aeneid. lib. viii.[51]

Here the throng, collision, swing of eternal forces; there the mysteries of Providence are revealed, and the secrets of fate appear uncovered. It is the invisible making itself visible, the intangible rendered material, the idea becoming reality, and reality a thousand times more wonderful, more grandiose than the most fantastic utopias. So far we do not see, in its simple formula, the unity of that vast machine: the synthesis of these gigantic gears, in which the well-being and misery of generations are ground, and which are shaping a new creation, still evades us. But we already know that nothing that happens in social economy has a copy in nature; we are forced to constantly invent special names, to create a new language, for facts without analogues. It is a transcendent world, whose principles are superior to geometry and algebra, whose powers derive neither from attraction nor from any physical force, but which use geometry and algebra as subordinate instruments, and takes as material the very powers of nature; a world finally freed from the categories of time, space, generation, life and death, where everything seems both eternal and phenomenal, simultaneous and successive, limited and unlimited, ponderable and imponderable… What more can I say? It is even creation, caught, so to speak, in the act!

And this world, which appears to us as a fable, which inverts our judicial habits, and never ceases to deny our reason; this world which envelops us, penetrates us, agitates us, without us even seeing it in any other way than the mind’s eye, touching it only by signs, this strange world is society, it is us!

Who has seen monopoly and competition, except by their effects, that is, by their signs? Who has felt credit and property? What is collective force, division of labour and value? And yet, what is stronger, more certain, more intelligible, more real than all that? Look in the distance at this carriage drawn by eight horses on a beaten field, and driven by a man dressed in a old smock: it is only a mass of matter, moved on four wheels by an animal form. You discover there, in appearance, only a phenomenon of mechanics, determined by a phenomenon of physiology, beyond which you perceive nothing more. Penetrate further: ask this man what he does, where he goes; by what thought, what title, he drives this vehicle. And presently he will show you a letter, his authority, his providence, as he himself is the providence of his equipment. You will read in this letter that he is a carter, that it is in this capacity that he carries out the transportation of a certain quantity of merchandise, so much according upon the weight and distance; that he must carry out his journey by such a route and within such a time, barely covering the cost of his service; that this service implies on the part of the carter the responsibility for the losses and damages that result from other causes than force majeure and an inherent defect of the objects; that the price of the vehicle includes or not includes insurance against unforeseen accidents, and a thousand other details which are the hazard of the law and the torment of jurists. This man, I say, in a piece of paper as big as the hand, will reveal to you an infinite order, an inconceivable mixture of empiricism and pure reason, and that all the genius of man, assisted by the experience of the universe, would have been powerless to discover, if man has not left individual existence to enter collective life.

Indeed, these ideas of work, value, exchange, traffic, responsibility, property, solidarity, association, etc., where are the architypes? who provided the exemplars? what is this world half material, half intelligible; half necessity, half fiction? What is this force, called work, which carries us along with ever greater certainty that we believe we are more free? Which of our joys and torments does this collective life, which burns us with an inextinguishable flame, cause? As long as we live, we are, without our being aware of it, and according to the extent of our faculties and the speciality of our industry, the thinking springs, thinking wheels, thinking gears, thinking weights, etc., of an immense machine that thinks and goes by itself. Science, we said, is based on the accord of reason and experience; but it creates neither one nor the other. And here, on the contrary, a science appears to us, in which nothing is given to us, a priori, neither by experience nor by reason; a science in which humanity draws everything from itself, noumenon[52] and phenomena, universals and categories, facts and ideas; a science, finally, which instead of simply consisting, like any other science, of a reasoned description of reality, is the very creation of reality and reason!

Thus the author of economic reason is man; the creator of economic matter is man; the architect of the economic system is again man. After having produced reason and social experience, humanity proceeds to the construction of social science in the same way as for the construction of the natural sciences; it brings together in agreement the reason and the experience it has given itself, and by the most inconceivable marvel, when everything in it takes after utopia, principles and actions, it only comes to know itself by excluding utopia.

Socialism is right in protesting against political economy and saying to it: You are nothing but a routine that does not understand itself. And political economy is right to say to socialism: you are only a utopia without reality or possible application. But both denying in turn, socialism the experience of humanity, political economy the reason of humanity, both lack the essential conditions of human truth.

Social science is the agreement of reason and social practice. Now, this science, of which our masters have only seen rare sparks, will be given to our century to contemplate it in its sublime splendour and harmony!

But what am I doing? Alas! It is a question, at this moment when quackery and prejudice share the world, of raising our hopes. It is not incredulity that we have to fight, it is presumption. Let us start by noting that social science is not finished, that it is still in a state of vague premonition.

“Malthus,” says his excellent biographer, M. Charles Comte, “had the profound conviction that there exists in political economy principles which are true only insofar as they are contained within certain limits; he saw the main difficulties of the science in the frequent combination of complicated causes, in the action and reaction of effects and causes with each other, and in the necessity of setting limits or making exception for many important proposals.”

This is what Malthus thought of political economy, and the work we have published at this moment is only a demonstration of his idea. To this testimony we add another just as worthy of belief. In one of the final sessions of the Academy of Moral Sciences, M. Dunoyer, as a truly superior man, who does not allow himself to be dazzled either by the interest of a clique, nor by the disdain that inspires ignorant opponents, made the same confession with as much candour and nobility as Malthus.

“Political economy, which has a number of certain principles, which rests on a considerable mass of exact facts and well deduced observations, nevertheless seems far from being a set science. There is no complete agreement on the extent of the field in which its research should be extended, nor on the fundamental object which it must suggest. It is not suitable for all the work it embraces, nor the means to which the power of its work is linked, nor the precise meaning to be attached to most of the words that form its vocabulary. The science, rich in truths of detail, leaves a great deal to be desired as a whole, and as a science it still seems far from being constituted.”

M. Rossi goes further than M. Dunoyer: he formulated his judgement in the form of a reprimand addressed to the modern representatives of the science.

“Every thought of method now seemed abandoned in economics,” he cries, “and yet there is no science without method.” (Compte-rendu par M. Rossi du cours de M. Whateley [Report by M. Rossi of M. Whateley’s course])

Messrs. Blanqui, Wolowski, Chevalier, everyone who has glanced every so briefly on the economy of societies speaks the same. And the writer who best appreciates the value of modern utopias, Pierre Leroux, writes on every page of the Revue sociale [Social Review]: “let us seek the solution of the problem of the proletariat; let us keep looking for it until we find it. It is the entire work of our epoch!...” Now, the problem of the proletariat is the constitution of social science. There are only short-sighed economists and fanatical socialists, for whom the science is summed up entirely in a formula, Laissez faire, laisses passer, or else, To each according to his needs as far as social resources allow, who boast of possessing economic science.

What then causes this delay of social truth, which alone maintains the disappointment of the economist and gives credit to the operations of the alleged reformers? The cause, in our opinion, is the separation, already very old, of philosophy and political economy.

Philosophy, that is to say metaphysics, or if it is preferred, logic, is the algebra of society; political economy is the realisation of this algebra. This was not noticed by J.B. Say, nor Bentham, no anyone else who, under the names of economists and utilitarians, created a split in morals and rose against almost at the same time politics and philosophy. And yet, what more secure control can philosophy, the theory of reason, wish for than work, that is, the practice of reason? And conversely, what more certain control could economic science wish than the formulas of philosophy? It is my dearest hope, that the time is not far when the masters in the moral and political sciences will be in the workshops and [behind] counters, as today our most skilful builders are all men formed by a long and arduous apprenticeship…

But on what condition can there be a science?

On the condition of recognising its field of observation and its limits, to determine its object, to organise its method. On this point the economist expresses himself as the philosopher: the words of M. Dunoyer, recounted earlier, seem literally taken from the preface of Jouffroy to the translation of Reid.

The field of observation of philosophy is the self [le moi]; the field of observation of economics is society, that is to say again the self. Do you want to know man, study society; do you want to know society, study man. Man and society reciprocally serve each other as subjects and objects; the parallelism, the synonymy of the two sciences is complete.

But what is this collective and individual self? What is this field of observation, where strange phenomena are going on? To find out, let us look at the analogues.

All the things we think seem to exist, to succeed one another or to be in three transcendent CAPABILITIES, outside of which we can only imagine and conceive absolutely nothing: these are space, time and intelligence.

Just as every material object is conceived by us necessarily in space; just as phenomena, connected with each other by a relationship of causality, seem to follow each other in time; thus our purely abstract representations are recorded by us to a particular receptacle, which we call intellect or intelligence.

Intelligence is in its species an infinite capacity, like space and eternity. There are restless worlds, of numberless organisms with complicated laws, with varied and unexpected effects; equal, for magnificence and harmony, to the worlds sown by the creator through space, to the organisms that shine and die out over time. Politics and political economy, jurisprudence, philosophy, theology, poetry, languages, customs, literature, fine arts: the field of observation of the self is more vast, more fecund, more rich in itself than the double field of observation of nature, space and time.

The self, as well as time and space, is infinite. Man, and what is the product of man, together with the beings thrown through space and the phenomena that follow one another in time, constitutes the triple manifestation of God. These three infinites, indefinite expressions of infinity, penetrate each other and support one another, inseparable and irreducible: space or scale not being conceived without movement, which implies the idea of force, this is to say a spontaneity, a self.

The ideas of things which are presented to us in space form for our imagination tableaus; the ideas which we place objects in time unfold in histories; finally, ideas or relations which do not fall under the category of time or space, and which belong to the intellect, are co-ordinated in systems.

Tableau, history, system, are thus three analogous expressions, or rather equivalents, by which we make known that a certain number of ideas appear to our mind as a symmetrical and perfect whole. That is why these expressions may, in certain cases, be taken for each other, as we have pursued from the beginning of this work, when we presented it as a history of political economy, no longer according to the date of the discoveries, but according to the order of the theories.

We conceive then, and we cannot not conceive of a capacity for things of pure thought, or, as Kant says, for noumena, in the same way that we conceive two others for sense things, for phenomena.

But space and time are nothing real; they are two forms imprinted on the self by external perception. Similarly intelligence is also nothing real: it is a form that the self imposes on itself, by analogy, in the context of the ideas that experience suggests to it.

As for the order of acquisition of ideas, intuitions or images, it seems to us that we start with those whose types or realities are included in space; that we continue by stopping, so to speak, the flight of ideas that time carries, and that we finally discover, with the help of sense perceptions, the ideas or concepts, without external model, which appear to us in this ghost capacity we call our intelligence. Such is the progress of our knowledge: we start from the sense to rise to the abstract; the ladder of our reason has its foot on the earth, crosses the sky and is lost in the depths of the mind.

Let us now reverse this series, and we envision creation as a descent of ideas from the higher sphere of intelligence into the lower spheres of time and space, a fall during which the ideas, originally pure, have taken a body of substratum that realises them and expresses them. From this point of view all created things, the phenomena of nature and the manifestations of humanity, will appear to us as a projection of the mind, immaterial and immutable, on a plane sometimes fixed and straight, space, sometimes inclined and moving, time.

It follows from this that ideas, equal to each other, contemporaneous and co-ordinated in the mind, seem thrown haphazardly, scattered, localised, subordinate and consecutive in humanity and in nature, forming tableaus and histories without resemblance to the original design [dessin primitif]; and all human science consists in finding this conception the abstract system of eternal thought. It is by a restoration of this kind that naturalists have found systems of organised and unorganised beings; it is by the same process that we have tried to re-establish the series of phases of social economy, which society makes us see isolated, incoherent, anarchic. The subject we have untaken is really the natural history of work, according to the fragments collected by the economists; and the system which has resulted from our analysis is true in the same way as the systems of plants discovered by Linné and Jussieu, and the system of animals by Cuvier.

The human self manifested by work is thus the field for the exploration of political economy, a concrete form of philosophy. The identity of these two sciences, or rather these two scepticisms, has been revealed to us throughout the course of this book. Thus the formation of ideas appeared to us in the division of labour as a division of elementary categories; then, we have seen freedom being born from the action of man upon nature, and, following freedom, arise all the relations of man with society and with himself. As a result, economics has been for us at the same time an ontology, a logic, a psychology, a theology, a politics, an aesthetics, a symbolism and a morality…

The field of science recognised, and its operation delimited, we had to recognise its method. Now, the method of economic science is still the same as that of philosophy: the organisation of work, we believe, is nothing but the organisation of common sense…

Among the laws that make up this organisation we have noticed the antinomy.

All true thought, as we have observed, arises in one time and two moments. Each of these moments being the negation of the other, and both of which must disappear only within a superior idea, it follows that antinomy is the very law of life and progress, the principle of perpetual motion. Indeed, if a thing, by virtue of the power of evolution which is in it, is repaired precisely of all that it loses, it follows that this thing is indestructible, and that movement supports it forever. In social economy, what competition is constantly occupied making, monopoly is constantly occupied unmaking; what labour produces, consumption devours; what property appropriates to itself, society gets a hold of: and from this results continuous movement, the unwavering life of humanity. If one of the two antagonistic forces is hindered, [so] that individual activity, for example, succumbs to social authority, organisation degenerates into communism and ends in nothingness. If, on the contrary, individual initiative lacks a counterweight, the collective organism is corrupted, and civilisation crawls under a regime of castes, iniquity and misery.

Antinomy is the principle of attraction and of movement, the reason for equilibrium: it is that which produces passion, and which breaks down all harmony and all accord…

Then comes the law of progression and series, the melody of beings, the law of the beautiful and the sublime. Remove the antinomy, the progress of beings is inexplicable: for where is the force that would produce this progress? Remove the series, the world is no more than a melee of sterile oppositions, a universal turmoil, without purpose and without an idea…

Even if these speculations, for us pure truth, appear doubtful, the application we have made of them would still be of immense utility. Let us think about it: there is not a single moment in life where the same man does not affirm and deny the same principles and theories at the same time, with more or less good faith, no doubt, but also always with plausible reasons, which, without soothing the conscience, suffice to make passion triumph and spread doubt in the mind. Let us leave, if you want, logic: but is it nothing to have illuminated the double face of things, to have learned to be wary of reasoning, of knowing how, the more a man has fairness in ideas and righteousness in the heart, the more he runs the risk of being a dupe and absurd? All our political, religious, economic, etc. misunderstandings come from the inherent contradiction of things; and this is even the source from which flow the corruption of principles, the venality of consciences, the charlatanism of professions of faith, the hypocrisy of opinions…

What is, at present, the object of economics?

The method itself tell us. Antinomy is the principle of attraction and balance in nature; antinomy is therefore the principle of progress and equilibrium in humanity, and the object of economic science is JUSTICE.

Considered in its purely objective relations, the only ones which social economy deals with, justice is expressed in value. Now, what is value? It is the labour performed.

“The real price of everything,” says Mr Smith, “what everything really costs to the man who wants to acquire it, is the toil and trouble of acquiring it… What is bought with money or with goods is purchased by labour as much as what we acquire by the toil of our own body. That money or those goods indeed save us this toil. They contain the value of a certain quantity of labour which we exchange for what is supposed at the time to contain the value of an equal quantity. Labour was the first price, the original purchase-money that was paid for all things. It was not by gold or by silver, but by labour, that all the wealth of the world was originally purchased; and its value, to those who possess it, and who want to exchange it for some new productions, is precisely equal to the quantity of labour which it can enable them to purchase or command.”[53]

But if value is the embodiment of labour, it is at the same time the principle of the comparison of products with one another: hence the theory of proportionality which dominates all economic science, and to which A. Smith would have raised, if it had been in the spirit of his time to pursue, with the aid of logic, a system of experiments.

But how is justice manifested in society, in other words, how is proportionality of values established? Say said it: by an oscillatory movement between value in utility and value in exchange.

Here appears in political economy, with regard to work, its master and all too often its executioner, the arbitral principle.

At the outset of the science, work, devoid of method, without understanding of value, barely stammering its first attempts, appeals to free will to build wealth and set the price of things. From this moment two powers enter into struggle, and the great work of social organisation is inaugurated. For work and free will is what we will later call labour and capital, wage-labour and privilege, competition and monopoly, community and property, plebe and nobility, state and citizen, association and individualism. For anyone who has obtained the first notions of logic, it is obvious that all these oppositions, eternally reborn, must be eternally resolved: now, that is what the economists do not want to hear, to whom the arbitral principle inherent in value seems resistant to all determination; and it is, with the horror of philosophy, what causes the retardation, so fatal to society, of economic science.

“It would be as absurd,” says [John Ramsay] McCulloch, “to speak of absolute height and depth as of absolute value.”

Economists all say the same thing, and we can judge by this example how far they are from each other, and on the nature of value, and on the meaning of the words they use. The absolute expression carries with it the idea of wholeness, perfection, or plenitude, on the basis of precision and accuracy. An absolute majority is a true majority (half plus one), it is not an indefinite majority. In the same way absolute value is the precise value, deduced from the exact comparison of products together: there is nothing in the world so simple. But the consequence of this critical effect is that since values measure one another, they must not oscillate at random: such is the supreme wish of society, such is the significance of political economy itself, which is nothing else, in its totality, but the picture of the contradictions whose synthesis infallibly produces true value.

Thus society is gradually established by a sort of swinging between necessity and arbitrariness, and justice is constituted by theft. Equality does not occur within society as an inflexible standard; it is, like all the great laws of nature, an abstract point, which oscillates continually above and below, through arcs more of less large, more or less regular. Equality is the supreme law of society; but it is not a fixed form, it is the average of an infinity of equations. That is how equality appeared to us from the first epoch of economic evolution, the division of labour; and such has been constantly manifested from the legislation of Providence.

Adam Smith, who had a kind of intuition on almost all the great problems of social economy, after having recognised labour as the principle of value and described the magical effects of the law of division, observes that, notwithstanding the increase of the produce resulting from this division, the wages of the worker do not increase; that often, on the contrary, they diminish, the gains of collective force not going to the worker, but to the master.

“The profits of stock, it may perhaps be thought are only a different name for the wages of a particular sort of labour, the labour of inspection and direction. They are, however, altogether different, are regulated by quite different principles, and bear no proportion to the quantity, the hardship, or the ingenuity of this supposed labour of inspection and direction. They are regulated altogether by the value of the stock employed, and are greater or smaller in proportion to the extent of this stock... In this state of things, the whole produce of labour does not always belong to the labourer. He must in most cases share it with the owner.”[54]

That, A. Smith tells us coldly, is how things happen: everything for the master, nothing for the worker. Whether we call it injustice, plunder, theft, the economist is not moved. The robber proprietor seems to him in all this as an automaton as the worker is robbed. And the proof that they deserve neither envy nor pity is that the workers only demand when they are dying of hunger; it is that no capitalist, entrepreneur or proprietor, neither during life nor at the moment of death, has felt the slightest remorse. They accuse ignorant and distorted public consciousness; they may be right, they may be wrong. A. Smith limits himself to reporting the facts, which is much better for us that declamations.

So by designating amongst workers a select [privilégié], nazarœum inter fratres tuos, social reason personified collective force. Society proceeds by myths and allegories. The history of civilisation is a vast symbolism. Homer summarises heroic Greece; Jesus Christ is suffering humanity, striving with effort, in a long and painful agony, to freedom, to justice, to virtue. Charlemagne is the feudal type; Roland, chivalry; Peter the Hermit, the crusades; Gregory VII, the papacy; Napoleon, the French Revolution. In the same way the industrial entrepreneur, who exploits a capital by a group of workers, is the personification of the collective force whose profit he absorbs, as the flywheel of a machine stores force. This is really the heroic man, the king of work. Political economy is a whole symbolism, property is a religion.

Let is follow A. Smith, whose luminous ideas, scattered in an obscure clutter, seem a repetition [deutérose] of primitive revelation.

“As soon as the land of any country has all become private property, the landlords, like all other men, love to reap where they never sowed, and demand a rent even for its natural produce. The wood of the forest, the grass of the field, and all the natural fruits of the earth, which, when land was in common, cost the labourer only the trouble of gathering them, come, even to him, to have an additional price fixed upon them. He must then pay for the licence to gather them; and must give up to the landlord a portion of what his labour either collects or produces [without him].”[55]

Here is monopoly, here is interest on capital, here is [economic] rent! A. Smith, like all the enlightened, sees and does not understand; he recounts and has not the intelligence. He speaks under the inspiration of God without surprise and without pity; and the meaning of his words remain for him a closed letter. With what calm he recounts proprietor usurpation! As long as the land seems good for nothing, as long as labour has not loosened, fertilised, utilised, created VALUE [mise en VALEUR], property gives it no thought. The hornet does not alight on the flowers, it falls upon the hives. What the worker produces is immediately taken; the worker is like a hunting dog in the master’s hand.

A slave, exhausted from work, invents the plough. With a hardened wooden hook dragged by a horse, he opens the ground, rendering him capable of making ten times, a hundred times more. The master, at a glance, grasps the importance of the discovery: he seizes the land, he appropriates the revenue, he attributes the idea to himself, and makes himself adored by the mortals for this magnificent gift. He walks the equal of the gods: his wife is a nymph, Ceres; and he is Triptolemus. Poverty invents, and property reaps. For genius must remain poor: abundance would smother it. The greatest service that property has rendered to the world is this perpetual affliction of labour and genius.

But what to do with these heaps of grain? What a poor wealth [is] that which the boss shares with his horses, his oxen and his slaves! It is well worth being rich, if all the advantage consists of being able to gnaw a few more handfuls of rice and barley!...

An old woman, having pounded grain for her toothless mouth, realises that the dough soured, fermented, and cooked under the ashes, gives a food incomparably better than raw or grilled wheat. Miracle! The daily bread is discovered. – Another, having pressing into a jar a mass of dropped grapes, intends to boil the mash on the flame; the liquor spews out its impurities; it gleams, ruddy, bountiful, immortal. Evoe! it is the young Bacchus, the darling son of the proprietor, a child beloved of the gods, who has found it. What the master could not have devoured in a few weeks, a year will suffice for him to drink. The vine, like the harvest, like the earth, is appropriated.

What is to be done with these countless fleeces that each year provides such a large tribute? When the proprietor would raise his bed to be worthy of his pavilion, when he would duplicate thirty times his sumptuous tent, this useless luxury would do nothing but attest his impotence. He abounds in goods and he cannot enjoy; what a mockery!

A shepherdess, left naked by the avarice of the master, collects from the bushes some wool fibres. She twisted this wool, stretching it into equal and fine threads, gathering them on a spear, crisscrossing them, and making herself a soft and light dress, a thousand times more elegant than the patched skins that cover his scornful mistress. It is Arachne, the weaver, who created this marvel! Immediately the master begins to shear the hair of his sheep, his camels and his goats; he gives his wife a troop of slaves, who spin and weave under his orders. It is no longer Arachne, the humble servant; it is Pallas, the daughter of the proprietor, whom the gods have inspired, and whose jealously avenges itself on Arachne by causing her to die of hunger.

What a sight this incessant struggle of labour and privilege, the first created everything out of nothing; the other always arriving to devour what it has not produced! – It is because the destiny of man is a continuous march. It is necessary that he work, that he create, multiply, perfect forever and forever. Let the worker enjoy his discovery; he falls asleep on his idea: his intelligence no longer advances. This is the secret of this iniquity which struck A. Smith, and against which, however, the unemotional historian did not find a word of reprobation. He felt, although he could not realise it, that the touch of God was there; that until the day when labour fills the earth, civilisation is driven by unproductive consumption, and that it is by rapine that fraternity is gradually established between men.

Man must work! That is why at the advice of Providence, theft was instituted, organised, sanctified! If the proprietor had tired of taking it, the proletarian would have soon be tired of producing, and savagery, hideous misery, was at the door. The Polynesian, amongst whom property has been aborted, and who enjoys in an entire community of property and love, why would he work? The earth and beauty are for everyone, children to anyone: what do you say to him about morals, dignity, personality, philosophy, progress? And without going so far, the Corsican, who is found for six months living and residing under his chestnut tree, why do you want him to work? What does he care for your conscription, your railways, your tribune, your press? What else does he need but to sleep when he has eaten his chestnuts? A prefect of Corsica said that to civilise this island it was necessary to chop down the chestnut trees. A more certain way is to appropriate them.

But already the proprietor is no longer strong enough to devour the substance of the worker: he calls his favourites, his jesters, his lieutenants, his accomplices. It is again Smith who reveals this wonderful conspiracy.

“In the progress of the manufacture, not only the number of profits increase, but every subsequent profit is greater than the foregoing; because the capital from which it is derived must always be greater. In raising the price of commodities the rise of wages operates in the same manner as simple interest does in the accumulation of debt. The rise of profit operates like compound interest. If in the linen manufacture, for example, the wages of the different working people, the flax-dressers, the spinners, the weavers, etc., should, all of them, be advanced two-pence a day; it would be necessary to heighten the price of a piece of linen only by a number of two-pences equal to the number of people that had been employed about it, multiplied by the number of days during which they had been so employed. That part of the price of the commodity which resolved itself into wages would, through all the different stages of the manufacture, rise only in arithmetical proportion to this rise of wages. But if the profits of all the different employers of those working people should be raised five per cent, that part of the price of the commodity which resolved itself into profit would, through all the different stages of the manufacture, rise in geometrical proportion to this rise of profit. The employer of the flaxdressers would in selling his flax require an additional five per cent upon the whole value of the materials and wages which he advanced to his workmen. The employer of the spinners would require an additional five per cent both upon the advanced price of the flax and upon the wages of the spinners. And the employer of the weavers would require a like five per cent both upon the advanced price of the linen yarn and upon the wages of the weavers.”[56]

This vivid description of the economic hierarchy, starting with the Jupiter-proprietor, and ending with the slave. From labour, its division, the distinction of the master and the wage-worker, the monopoly of capital, arises a caste of landlords, financiers, entrepreneurs, bourgeois, masters and supervisors, labouring to consume rents, to collect usury, to squeeze the worker, and above all to exercise policing [d’exercer la police[57]], the most terrible form of exploitation and misery. The invention of politics and laws is exclusively due to property: Numa and Egeria, Tarquin and Tanaquil, as well as Napoleon and Charlemagne, were noble. Regum tirnendorum in proprios greges, regel in ipsos irnperium est lavis, says Horace. One would say a legion of infernal spirits, rushing from every corner of hell to torment a poor soul. Pull him by his chain, take away his sleep and food; beat, burn, torture, without rest, without pity! For if the worker were spared, if we did him justice, nothing would remain for us, and we would perish.

O God! what crime has this unfortunate man committed, that you abandon him to the guards who distribute blows to him with such a liberal hand, and subsistence with a hand so miserly? … And you, proprietors, Providence’s chosen rulers, do not go beyond the prescribed measure, because rage is rising in the heart of your servant, and his eyes are red with blood.

A revolt of the workers wrings a concession from the pitiless masters. Happy day, deep joy! Work is free. But what freedom, for heaven’s sake! Freedom for the proletarian is the ability to work, that is, of being robbed again; or not to work, that is to say to die to hunger! Freedom only benefits strength: by competition, capital crushes labour everywhere and converts industry into a vast coalition of monopolies. For the second time, the plebeian worker is on her knees before the aristocracy; she has neither the possibility, nor even the right to discuss her salary.

“Masters,” says the oracle, “are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform league, not to raise wages above their existing rate. To violate this rule is an act of a false-friend. And by abhorrent legislation, this league is tolerated, while the coalitions of workers are severely punished.”[58]

And why this new iniquity, which the unalterable serenity of Smith could not help declaring abhorrent? Would such a crying injustice have been even necessary and that, without this favouritism [acception de personnes], fate would have been in error and Providence thwarted? Will we find means of justifying, with monopoly, this partial policing of the human race?

Why not, if we want to rise above societal sentimentalism, and consider higher facts, the force of things, the intimate law of civilisation?

What is labour? What is privilege?

Labour, analogous to creative activity, without awareness of itself, indeterminate, barren, as long as the idea, the law does not penetrate, labour is the crucible where value is elaborated, the great matrix of civilisation, the passive or female principle of society. – Privilege, emanating from free will, is the electric spark that determines individualisation, the freedom that realises, the authority that commands, the mind that deliberates, the self that governs.

The relation of labour and privilege is thus a relation of the female to the male, of the wife to the husband. Amongst all peoples, the adultery of the woman has always seemed more reprehensible than that of the man; it was consequently subjected to more rigorous penalties. Those who, stopping at the atrocity of forms, forget the principle and see only the barbarism exercised towards the sex, are politicisers of romances worthy of appearing in the stories of the author of Lélia. Any indiscipline of workers is comparable to adultery committed by woman. Is it not obvious then that, if the same favour on the part of the courts were to accept the complaint of the worker and that of the master, the hierarchical link, outside which humanity cannot live, would be broken, and the entire economy of society ruined?

Judge moreover by the facts. Compare the physiognomy of a workers’ strike with the march of a coalition of entrepreneurs. There, distrust of the proper law, agitation, turbulence, outside screaming and trembling, inside terror, spirit of submission and desire for peace. Here, on the contrary, calculated resolution, feeling of strength, certainty of success, calmness in execution. Where, in your opinion, is power? where is the organic principle? where is life? Without doubt society owes assistance and protection to all: I do not plead here the cause of the oppressors of humanity; may the vengeance of heaven crush them! But the education of the proletarian must be accomplished. The proletarian is Hercules arriving at immortality through work and virtue: but what would Hercules do without the persecution of Eurystheus?

Who are you? asked Pope Saint Leo of Attila, when this destroyer of nations came to set his camp before Rome.

“I am the scourge of God,” replied the barbarian. “We receive with gratitude,” continued the pope, “all that comes from God: but you, take care not to do anything that is not commanded of you!”

Proprietors, who are you?...

Weirdest thing, property, attacked on all sides in the name of charity, of justice, of social economy, has never known how to respond for its justification other than these words: I am because I am. I am the negation of society, the plundering of the worker, the right of the unproductive, the right of the strongest [la raison du plus fort], and none can live if I do not devour him.

This appalling enigma has made the most sagacious intelligences despair.

“In that original state of things, which precedes both the appropriation of land and the accumulation of stock, the whole produce of labour belongs to the labourer. He has neither landlord nor master to share with him. Had this state continued, the wages of labour would have augmented with all those improvements in its productive powers, to which the division of labour gives occasion. [...] They would have been produced by a smaller quantity of labour [...] they would have been purchased likewise with the produce of a smaller quantity.”[59]

So says A. Smith. And his commentator adds:

“I can well understand how the right of appropriating, under the name of interest, profit or rent, the product of other individuals becomes nourishment for greed; but I cannot imagine that by diminishing the reward of the worker to add to the opulence of the idle man, we can increase industry or accelerate the progress of society in wealth.”[60]

The reason for this deduction, which neither Smith nor his commentator has seen, we will repeat, so that the inexorable law that governs human society is again and for the last time brought to light.

To divide labour is to make only a production of pieces: for there to be value, a composition is needed. Before the institution of property, each is a master to take from the ocean the water from which he draws salt for his food, to gather the olive from which he will extract his oil, to collect the ore which contains iron and gold. Each is free to exchange some of what he has collected against an equivalent quantity of provisions made by another: so far, we do not go beyond the sacred right of work and the community of the earth. Now, if I have the right to use, either by my personal labour or by exchange, all the products of nature; and if the possession thus obtained is entirely legitimate, I have the same right to combine, from the various elements which I obtain by labour and exchange, a new product, which is my property, and which I have the right to enjoy exclusively of any other. I can, for example, by means of the salt from which I extract soda, and the oil I draw from the olive and sesame, to make a specific composition to clean linen, and which will be for me, from the point of view of cleanliness and hygiene, a precious utility. I can even reserve for myself the secret of this composition, and consequently take, by means of exchange, a legitimate profit.

Now, what is the difference, under relation of right, between the manufacture of an ounce of soap and that of a million kilograms? Does the greater or lesser quantity change anything of the morality of the operation? So property, as well as commerce, as well as labour, is a natural right, of whose exercise nothing in the world can steal from me.

But, by the very fact that I compose a product which is my exclusive property, as well as the materials that constitute it, it follows that a workshop, an exploitation of men is organised by me; that profits accumulate in my hands to the detriment of all who enter into business relations with me; and that if you wish to substitute yourself for me in my enterprise, quite naturally I will stipulate for myself a rent. You will possess my secret, you will manufacture in my place, you will turn my mill, you will reap my field, you will pick my vine, but at a quarter, a third, or half share.

All this is a necessary and indissoluble chain; there is no serpent or devil here; it is the very law of the thing, the dictum of common sense. In commerce, plundering is identical to exchange; and what is really surprising is that a regime like this one does not excuse itself only by the good faith of the parties, it is commanded by justice.

A man buys from his neighbour the collier a sack of coal, from the grocer a quantity of sulphur from Etna. He makes a mixture to which he adds a portion of saltpetre, sold by the druggist. From all this results an explosive powder, of which a hundred pounds would suffice to wreck a citadel. Now, I ask, the woodcutter who charred the wood, the Sicilian shepherd who picked up the sulphur, the sailor who transported it, the commission agent from Marseilles who reshipped it, the merchant who sold it, are they complicit in the disaster? Is there any interdependence [solidarité] between them, I’m not saying in its use, but in the manufacture of this powder?

Now, if it is impossible to discover the least connection of action between the various individuals who, each without his knowledge, have co-operated in the production of the powder, it is clear, for the same reason, that there is no more connection and interdependence [solidarité] between them as to the profits of the sale, and that the gain which may result from its use also belongs exclusively to the inventor, that the punishment, to which he might become liable for as a result of crime or imprudence, is personal to him. Property is identical to responsibility: we cannot affirm the one, without granting at the same time the other.

But admire the unreason of reason! The same property, legitimate, irreproachable in its origin, constitutes in its use a flagrant iniquity; and this, without adding any element which modifies it, but by the mere development of the principle.

Let us take as a whole the products that industry and agriculture bring to the market. These products, such as powder and soap, are all, to some degree, the result of a combination of materials which were drawn from the general store. The price of these products invariably consists, firstly of the wages paid to the different categories of workers, secondly, of the profits demanded by the entrepreneurs and capitalists. So that society is divided into two classes of people: 1) entrepreneurs, capitalists and proprietors, who have the monopoly of all objects of consumption; 2) employees or workers, who can offer only half of what these are worth, which makes their consumption, circulation and reproduction impossible.

Adam Smith tells us in vain:

“It is but equity, besides, that they who feed, clothe, and lodge the whole body of the people, should have such a share of the produce of their own labour as to be themselves tolerably well fed, clothed, and lodged.”[61]

How could this be achieved, except with the dispossession of the monopolists? And how can monopoly be prevented if it is a necessary effect of the free exercise of the industrial faculty? The justice that Adam Smith wants to establish is impractical in the regime of property. Now, if justice is impractical, if it becomes actual injustice, and if this contradiction is internal to the nature of things [intime à la nature des choses], what is the use of even speaking of equity and humanity? Does Providence know equity, or whether fate is philanthropic? It is not to destroy monopoly, any more than labour, which we must reach; it is, by a synthesis which the contradiction of monopoly renders inevitable, to make it produce in the interests of all the goods which it [currently] reserves for some. Outwith of this solution Providence remains insensitive to our tears; fate inflexibly follows its path; and while we, gravely seated, argue over the just and the unjust, God who has made us contradictory like himself in our thoughts, contradictory in our actions, answers us with a burst of laughter.

It is this essential contradiction of our ideas that, being realised by labour and expressing itself in society with a gigantic power, makes everything happen in the inverse direction of what it must be, and gives society the appearance of a tapestry seen in reverse or an inverted animal. Man, by the division of labour and by machinery, was to gradually rise to science and to liberty; and by division, by the machine he stupefies himself and becomes a slave. Tax, says the theory, must be as a result of wealth; and quite the contrary tax is because of poverty. The unproductive must obey, and by a bitter mockery the unproductive command. Credit, according to the etymology of its name, and according to its theoretical definition, is the provider of labour; in practice, it squeezes and kills it. Property, in the spirit of its most beautiful prerogative, is the extension of land; and in the exercise of this same prerogative, property is the prohibition of land. In all its categories political economy reproduces the contradiction and the religious idea. The life of man, affirms philosophy, is a perpetual emancipation from animality and nature, a struggle against God. In religious practice, life is the struggle of man against himself, the absolute submission of society to a superior Being. Love God with all your heart, the Gospel tells us, and hate your spirit [âme] for eternal life: precisely the opposite of what reason commands…

I will not push this summary further. Having reached the end of my journey, my ideas are pressing in such a multitude and vehemence, that already I would need a new book to recount what I have discovered, and that, in spite of the oratorical expedience, I see no other means of finishing than to stop abruptly. If I am not mistaken, the reader ought to be convinced at least of one thing, that social truth cannot be found either in utopia or in routine: that political economy is not the science of society, but contains, in itself, the materials of that science, in the same way that chaos before the creation contained the elements of the universe. The fact is that, to arrive at a definite organisation, which appears to be the destiny of the race on this planet, there is nothing left but to make a general equation of our contradictions.

But what will be the formula of this equation?

We already foresee that there should be a law of exchange, a theory of MUTUALITY, a system of guaranties which determines the old forms of our civil and commercial societies, and gives satisfaction to all the conditions of efficiency, progress and justice which the critics have pointed out; a society no longer merely conventional, but real, which makes of the subdivision of real estate a scientific instrument; that will abolish the servitude of the machines, and may prevent the coming of crises; that makes of competition a benefit, and of monopoly a pledge of security for all; which by the strength of its principles, instead of making credit of capital and protection of the State, puts capital and the State to work; which by the sincerity of exchange, creates a real solidarity among the nations; which without forbidding individual initiative, without prohibiting domestic economy, continuously restores to society the wealth which is diverted by appropriation; which by the ebb and flow of capital, assures political and industrial equality of the citizenry, and, through a vast system of public education, secures the equality of functions and the equivalence of aptitudes, by continuously raising their level; which through justice, well being and virtue, revives the human conscience, assures the harmony and the equality of the people; a society, in a word, which, being at the same time organisation and transition, escapes what has taken place, guarantees everything and compels nothing…

The theory of mutuality, or of mutuum, that is to say, the natural form of exchange, of which the most simple form is loan for consumption, is, from the point of view of the collective existence, the synthesis of the two ideas of property and of communism [communauté], a synthesis as old as the elements of which it is constituted, since it is nothing more than the return of society to its primitive custom, through the maze of inventions and of systems, the result of a meditation of six thousand years on the fundamental proposition that A equals A.

Everything today is making ready for this solemn restoration; everything proclaims that the reign of fiction has passed, and that society will return to the sincerity of its nature. Monopoly is inflated to world-wide proportions, but a monopoly which encompasses the world cannot remain exclusive; it must republicanise itself or be destroyed. Hypocrisy, venality, prostitution, theft, form the foundation of the public conscience; but, unless humanity learns to live upon what kills it, we must believe that justice and expiation approach....

Already socialism, feeling the error in its utopias, turns to realities and to facts, it laughs at itself in Paris, it discusses in Berlin, in Cologne, in Leipzig, in Breslau; it murmurs in England, it thunders on the other side of the ocean; it commits suicide in Poland, it tries to govern in Berne and in Lausanne. Socialism, in pervading the masses, has become entirely different: the people will not bother about the honour of schools; they ask for work, education, well being, equality; the system does not matter so much, provided that the result is obtained. But when the people want something and it is only a question of finding out how to obtain it, the discovery does not wait; prepare yourself to see the coming of the grand masquerade.

Let the priest finally get it his head that poverty is a sin, and that true virtue, that renders us worthy of eternal life, is to fight against religion and against God; – that the philosopher, lowering his pride, supercilium philosophicum, learns on his part that reason is society, and that to philosophise is to work with his hands; – that the artist may remember that he once descended from Olympus into Christ’s stable, and that from this stable, he rose suddenly to unknown splendours; that as well as Christianity, labour must regenerate it; – that the capitalist thinks that silver and gold are not true values; that by the sincerity of exchange all products amount to the same dignity, each producer will have in his house a mint [un hôtel des monnaies], and, as the fiction of the productivity of capital has plundered the worker, so organised labour will absorb capital; – that the proprietor knows that he is only the collector of society’s [economic] rents, and that if he could once, under the guise of war, put a prohibition on the soil, the proletarian can in his turn, by association, put a prohibition on harvesting, and make property expire in the void; – that the prince and his proud cortege, his soldiers, his judges, his councillors, his peers, and all the army of the unproductive, hasten to cry Thanks! to the agricultural and industrial worker [au laboureur et à l'industriel], because the organisation of labour is synonymous with the subordination of power, that it depends on the worker abandoning the unproductive to his indigence, and to destroy power in shame and hunger.

All these things will happen, not as unforeseen, unhoped novelties, a sudden effect of the passions of the people, or of the skill of a few men, but by the spontaneous return of society to an immemorial practice, momentarily abandoned, and rightly so…

Humanity, in its oscillatory march, turns incessantly upon itself: its progress is only the rejuvenation of its traditions; its systems, so opposite in appearance, always exhibit the same basis [fond], seen from different sides. Truth, in the movement of civilisation, always remains the same, always old and always new: religion, philosophy, science merely translate. And this is precisely what constitutes Providence and the infallibility of human reason; which ensures, in the very heart of progress, the immutability of our being; which renders society at once unalterable in its essence and irresistible in its revolutions; and which, continually extending perspective, always showing from afar the latest solution, establishes the authority of our mysterious premonitions.

Reflecting on these battles of humanity, I involuntarily recall that, in Christian symbolism, the militant Church must succeed on the final day a triumphant Church, and the system of social contradictions appears to me like a magic bridge, thrown over the river of oblivion.

[throwaway-yandere]

🌿 what was your first team besides Traveler, Kaeya, Lisa, and Amber?

🦢 what’s your favorite region?

🪴 what’s your favorite quest?

🌿 what was your first team besides Traveler, Kaeya, Lisa, and Amber?

Kaeya didn't leave my team for a long time so Razor-Kaeya-Kazuha and whoever was the sad fool who had to deal with me lmao (Lumine/Barbara). This team pretty much had me fully decided that I'll collect all the white-reddish eyes the game has to offer and make them my children.

W/o Kaeya, I think it's Razor-Kazuha-Qiqi-Sucrose???. I absolutely forgot. Hard to remember what was my first team if I exclude Kaeya. Uncle Kaeya took Razor to AR 54. Uncle Kaeya nice. Uncle Kaeya fall often. Uncle Kaeya handle cold, no. Uncle Kaeya can't handle. Uncle Kaeya froze in Dragonspine /j

🦢 what’s your favorite region?

... call me crazy but I think you chose this for the swan emoji.

Mondstadt is everyone's home but my fave region/s is Sumeru & Fontaine. I was hyped abt these regions since the patch I started the game (which was Kazuha's first run) and both locations did not disappoint. Sumeru's cast is just so lovely, I don't think there was a single miss. Idk why, but Sumeru people just give me vibes that they're the type of people I'd meet irl. There's just something so "yeah I know people like them" when I see Dehya, Candace, Nilou, Kaveh, Faruzan, etc. If Mondstadt feels like home, Sumeru's people feels like the people you share a meal with inside said home. I think the only thing I was disappointed about was how the dendro archon isn't a male. I was so hyped about playable!Su from Honkai and when we got Alhaitham my dreams were CRUSHED

Haven't explored most of Fontaine yet but the roster already has some of my fave Eng VAs so... 👉👈. I mean, c'mon. Ray Chase? JOE ZIEJA??? Y'all are killing me here. And Furina's VA is sooooo good too. Ngl, I thought a huge chunk of Fontaine would have a heavy dystopian steampunk but the "poverty" side feels a little more brighter than expected but that's acceptable since Navia exists <333 fontaine is so beautiful, I wanna see how Snezhnaya would do their aesthetics too.

🪴 what’s your favorite quest?

Any👏quest👏with👏DAINSLEIF👏

The Caribert quest was absolutely so GOOD!!! The voice acting— omg bro made me wish I was Caribert's mom for a hot second but Dain snapped me back to reality /j.

All Dain-quests are top tier and no you will not persuade me otherwise. Remember how fun it was hearing him trash-talk the Archons "politely" in his quest? Remember how exciting it was to see your sibling again in We Will Be Reunited? Remember how fricking chilling it was when he talked about how he understands that the hilichurls are telling him to "run" in the Requiem of the Echoing Depths quest? Remember how "Eide" is losing it?? Remember how EIDE IS LOSING I—

Sorry, hmm. I think my favorite character might be Dainsleif I'm not sure.

[ac-liveblogs]

Posting some notes here re; the Cataclysm so I don't lose them

Each region's plot should relate back to the Cataclysm in some major way. The Cataclysm is the impetus for the creation of the Fatui and the Abyss Order, and is the primary mystery the Traveler wants to solve, so it should be a recurring major plot thread.

Genshin has a lot of plates spinning too, and not all of the information a player needs to understand what's happening is actually in the main story.

Mondstadt - Dvalin, + meeting Dainsleif. Mash up the first two We Will Be Reunited chapters, but save the reunion with the sibling for later.

Diluc and Kaeya should be aware of Dainsleif; Diluc might ask Lumine to keep an eye on him. Leave unexplained for now.

Liyue - The Chasm; Rex Lapis sealed Abyssal Forces beneath the Seven Star Array and the Abyss Order seeks to break the seal and free them + Traveler's reunion with their sibling moved here.

Inazuma - Ei's trauma regarding what happened during the Cataclysm/disdain of Celestia; she plans to totally isolate Inazuma from the outside world + the eyes of Celestia by increasing the power and range of the Storm Wall to preserve Inazuma as it is forever. Shift the Sacred Sakura Cleansing Ritual into the main plot.

Sumeru - Eleazor/the Withering + introduction of Forbidden Knowledge, Irminsul. If Forbidden Knowledge infects Irminsul, it should have a negative impact on reality in some form. Rather than make the Samsara a repetitive loop, this could leak into the Akasha Terminal first and result in the Samsara turning into a nightmare that the Sages can't shut off. (If everything is connected via the Akasha Terminals/Dendro Gnosis, this might be a more organic way to see what's going on with Scaramouche as a god rather than inexplicable forest hallucinations)

Fontaine - Change Elynas into one of Rhinedottir's creations, focus on the Abyssal corruption bleeding from its body out into the waters of Fontaine (most pure Oceanids fled Fontaine, but the Oceanids-turned-citizens have been exposed to the corrupted waters). Instead of a physical illness, long-term deterioration of the citizens' mental states by Abyssal Corruption (the dramatization of the trials etc) (related to Venti's storyline later down the line) + the Seven Dragon Sovereigns and their stolen Authority (Neuvillette judging Archons - not just Focalors, but Barbatos as well.)

This is a good point to bring up Childe's Abyss connections, but have Lumine and Childe arrested together and Lumine witness his nightmares while they're in Meropide.

I have no idea what to do with Skirk yet. Boot her from the main Fontaine storyline and save her for a later point.

Abyssal corruption may exacerbate erosion.

Abyss Order activities should result in an uptick in attacks from Abyssal creatures.

Some minibosses around Teyvat should be Rhinedottir's creations or other Abyssal creatures.

5 Sinners of Khaenri'ah and the Hexenzirkel should be introduced as concepts sooner.

[high-school-lit-tournament]

High School Lit Tournament Side D

Sagarana [study guide (in Brazilian Portuguese) linked, as Goodreads had only the Spanish version]: Sagarana is a book by João Guimarães Rosa containing a series of short stories, published in 1946, all set in the rural landscape of Minas Gerais, where the author is from. The stories discuss of myriad of complex themes through odd characters, experiences and situations both private and universal, exploring reality through magical tales, and being inspired by real events lived by people from this region. The book also shines a light on superstitions and folklore, putting the popular myths and folk practices of the common man on the center stage of high literature. Despite the regional aspect not being as important as in later works by Guimarães Rosa, the book also features intricate and detailed descriptions of the landscape of Minas Gerais and the animals that inhabit it, adding to the immersion of the stories (found, paraphrased, and translated by @dhiibvulk - various sources, primarily the site linked above).

The House of the Spirits (La casa de los espíritus): In one of the most important and beloved Latin American works of the twentieth century, Isabel Allende weaves a luminous tapestry of three generations of the Trueba family, revealing both triumphs and tragedies. Here is patriarch Esteban, whose wild desires and political machinations are tempered only by his love for his ethereal wife, Clara, a woman touched by an otherworldly hand. Their daughter, Blanca, whose forbidden love for a man Esteban has deemed unworthy infuriates her father, yet will produce his greatest joy: his granddaughter Alba, a beautiful, ambitious girl who will lead the family and their country into a revolutionary future.

The House of the Spirits is an enthralling saga that spans decades and lives, twining the personal and the political into an epic novel of love, magic, and fate.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (9)

Will emerged from the depths of a void. It felt as though the world had collapsed in on itself, a clue in itself. He had fallen into a wordless silence, a manifestation of the strain that often overcame him when life's pressures grew too immense. And at this moment, the weight upon his shoulders was overwhelming.

He found himself in unfamiliar terrain, an uncharted expanse. Like his mind. Abandoned. Being marooned on an island, a place with no escape save for a fragile and tenuous connection to the outside world—a sensation he had known all too well.

This was the sensation he often wrestled with, and it was precisely why he harbored a penchant for building boats. Boats were his means of escape from those desolate islands.

He narrowed his eyes in contemplation.

For too long, he had wriggled and writhed, avoiding the label, fearing that it would confine him to a narrow box. But he couldn't deny it any longer—being autistic was an integral part of who he was, no matter how fervently he had tried to cast it aside and affix that mask to his face.

He was a chameleon, assuming the guise of others, but how much longer could he maintain this masquerade before his genuine form inevitably caught up to him? And just how nightmarish was this true self, the one he had always striven to repress?

Now that the alternate reality had dissipated, he found himself confronting the one he didn't recognize, the one that felt alien. His inner world stood in stark contrast to the exterior, a realm only he could truly fathom. What others beheld was merely a facade, shaped by their own unique perspective and the angle of their reality.

Perspectives. Angles.

The universe, at its core, bore the signature of mathematics, a cosmic symphony where countless entities pulsed in harmonic rhythms, much like our radiant stars. The flickering we perceived held the potential for a translation—those fleeting luminous moments might, in truth, be akin to primal screams. It hinted at the possibility that the universe itself was nothing but an immense vocal tract, engaged in a colossal song, and perhaps, we were the ethereal notes in perpetual motion. Similar brain regions served as the fertile ground for processing linguistics, mathematics, and music, their connections intricate and profound. While the world often anticipated the manifestation of autistic aptitude within the realm of mathematics, it didn't always unfold there. At times, it blossomed within the realm of music, at other times in the intricate web of linguistics. And, on occasion, it manifested as a singular and profound philosophical understanding of the world, painted in the vivid hues of beautifully intricate metaphors. The contours of hyper-empathy formed a bewildering shape—an understanding of the world that, in its own right, bordered on sheer madness. It came in various shapes and flavors, each one distinct from the other, with no two ever being entirely alike.

His inner compass made yet another subtle mental recalibration, propelling him forward to the next thought. His unconscious mind embarked on leaps, and he observed its journey with intrigue.

The world around him resembled a celestial archipelago, islands suspended in the heavens. While others constructed bridges to span the chasms between them, step by deliberate step, his reality diverged.

To convey a fitting analogy, one might liken it to a frog navigating lily pads. However, these pads floated high above the earth, and any misjudgment in his leaps would plunge him into an abyss, symbolic of his aversion to failure and the unknown. He possessed no safety nets, and no bridges to traverse. He was compelled to leap. His thoughts were fiercely competitive, akin to a frenetic race where numerous frogs vied for supremacy, cannibalizing one another for the position of dominance.

With time, some frogs grew familiar with the racecourse, etching the locations of those pads into memory. Consequently, he commenced making leaps that defied explanation, appearing as if he vaulted into the void, for others couldn't perceive the pads shrouded within the clouds. Yet, he needed no visual confirmation; an intuitive understanding guided him. After traversing the track extensively, he developed an innate awareness of the pad's concealed positions and began to devise shortcuts, navigating his surreal world with unmatched proficiency. His psyche adapted to the frenzied pace of this high-speed race, becoming inured to its relentless stakes.

Consequently, when these two worlds converged and the frogs found themselves upon the drifting islands, which moved at a considerably more languid tempo than their nimble lily pads, he retained the ability to make his leaps. Meanwhile, others stood puzzled, their brows furrowed as they grappled with the perplexing task of constructing the bridges.

Neither approach was inherently flawed; both modes of traversing these islands were effective, yet fundamentally divergent. Bridging the gap between these two worlds, explaining one to the other, became a linguistic tightrope suspended between the realms of comprehension.

This difference rendered him not only an alien in foreign realms but also an outsider to their inhabitants.

Hence, socializing proved utterly draining. The endeavor to collaborate with individuals who communicated through a divergent lens, grasping the world with a grounded and leisurely perspective diametrically opposed to his high-speed, anxiety-fueled existence, felt profoundly exhausting.

This only compounded his anxiety, for he frequently found himself shouldering the consequences of any mutual communication mishaps. Being the autistic one, juxtaposed with the perceived 'normality' of others, seemed to invariably cast him in the role of the scapegoat. Even when it wasn't his doing, he bore the brunt of it.

His understanding of things leaned toward the literal. For instance, when it came to rolling his eyes, he truly  rolled  them. Apparently, neurotypicals merely glanced  upward  to 'roll their eyes,' rather than executing the full, actual eye-roll as he did. The punishments he had found himself in for looking upward while lost in thought left him utterly perplexed as a child. He did not understand. Until many years later.

The same puzzlement applied to the matter of eye contact. To him, eye contact, in the truest sense, meant individuals locking gazes, peering directly into each other's eyes. Yet, apparently, it encompassed a broader spectrum, a comprehensive scrutiny of the entire face in a way he struggled to articulate, whereas he had simply been earnestly staring into people's eyes. This realization shed light on why such interactions had been overwhelmingly intense for him. Why was it termed ‘eye contact’ when, in reality, it should be called ‘face contact’? Or perhaps it was the eye making contact with the other person's face? And why was it that staring at someone was not only expected but also made it nearly impossible to concentrate on what was being said? Did they desire to be heard, or were they seeking to be scrutinized? He could only engage in one of these actions at a time. Eye contact was one of his earliest tells. He shied away from looking into others' eyes, fearing what he might discover there.

For an individual who had spent a lifetime honing the craft of observation, all in the pursuit of understanding the human expression, someone like him possessed eyes that transcended the mere surface of words, a skill born of necessity to integrate into their world without the threat of discovery, prompting him to scrutinize every word ever spoken to his face. Unfortunately, the truth remained that most people were utterly  inept   at the art of deception. When a person's visage narrated a story divergent from the one their lips uttered, he felt a disconcerting twist in his stomach—the telltale sensation that eroded hope from his soul. It was a form of betrayal he chose to shield himself from, for when his gaze detected it, it carried away not only the illusion but also any remnants of trust.

People lied incessantly, driven by various motivations, sometimes even with noble intentions, he comprehended that much, but it remained a painful experience. Especially with someone so deeply scarred and predisposed to rejection, it was a feeling he dreaded .

When words and facial expressions diverged, it left him torn between two paths, uncertain which signal to heed: the spoken language or the emotions he had glimpsed behind the words.

It was an incredibly taxing ordeal. Some might argue that he could 'simply' switch it off or disregard it, but how does one accomplish that with a mind that refuses to cease its operation? A mind that instinctively hones in on such intricacies without conscious intent. A mind meticulously trained to scrutinize every syllable, every subtle furrow, every shift in pitch and tone, all in an effort to decipher the telltale  click   beneath his very feet?

His body, well-practiced in concealing its torment, engaged in subtle self-soothing gestures—his hands gently stroking his thighs, his upper arms receiving loving caresses—as if his body sought to empathize with his overwhelmed mind, for no one else would. In those understated acts of self-comfort, a keen observer could discern his disquiet, yet the world remained oblivious to his silent turmoil.

He exerted himself tirelessly, yet it seemed that every endeavor to truly connect with others was fated to end in failure.

Essentially, this meant he had to navigate two distinct linguistic terrains. He could fluently converse in the language of his own mind, yet when it came to speaking the language of others, he bore a discernible accent. It was akin to immersing himself in a metaphorical foreign culture and attempting to pass as a native.

While his mind grappled with things in a direct and unadorned fashion, other minds appeared to subtly skew the significance of their words, not quite veering into outright deceit, but rather employing language that danced with a deliberate obliqueness, diverging from their literal intent.

To them, this rendered him strikingly blunt and forthright, while they, in turn, came across as enigmatic and cryptic in his eyes. Navigating this facet of social interactions was akin to traversing a treacherous minefield. His knowledge of its hazardous nature offered little solace, for he remained clueless about the mines' concealed locations. Only the ominous, silent  click  would signal that it had become too late—a damning reaction before his impending doom.

These others, they possessed the ability to dance around the mines, as if they could discern their hidden presence, a skill that eluded him entirely. Thus, all he could do was mimic their dances, without knowing what they meant, and tread in their carefully chosen paths, hoping that through imitation, he might glean the elusive knowledge needed to survive this perilous terrain.

Picture a blind man waltzing across a minefield—what do you imagine the outcome would be?

Occasionally, he stumbled upon a hidden mine, and in those moments, chaos erupted. And he found himself grappling to comprehend the misstep that had led to such disarray.

Yet, no one took the time to teach him the proper steps, nor did they share in the dance. Instead, they regarded him with such abject horror that it cut him to the core.

This constant scrutiny left him perpetually on edge. Every word he uttered, every step he ventured, carried the weight of potentially being slightly off-beat—a fear that gnawed at him, threatening to unravel him with each breath. What heightened the pain was the inherent malice others ascribed to his actions, as though he intentionally conducted them to taunt and amuse himself at their expense. Did he appear so malicious? Was the underlying, well-intentioned motive of his actions of no consequence?

There always seemed to be a distortion between him and others, as if they gazed at him through frosted glass, perceiving not a fellow human being but a ghastly silhouette.

It was a chilling sensation, gradually nipping at his soul.

Falsehoods or fabrications held no intrinsic value to him unless they served the purpose of self-preservation or a greater cause. This was why he made no effort to conceal his disdain for the things he despised, just as he openly expressed his admiration for the things he held dear. He saw no reason to don a mask and pretend to be something he wasn't. 

Or, at least, that's how it had been in the past. Over time, through trial and error, he acquired the skill of speaking as sparingly as possible, withholding his passionate convictions from the world. He delivered only the most succinct and necessary information, maintaining an almost motionless demeanor. He keenly observed others to discern the precise comportment required to evade their anger and retribution. Through this astute observation, he fashioned a mask, a carefully tailored performance designed to align with their expectations, preventing outright rejection if he mastered the act well enough. He had diminished himself, carving away fragments of his being, until he had all but lost sight of his original form.

It was a prevailing theme in his surroundings, where people constantly strove to shine brighter than their neighbor, engaging in a ceaseless competition of masquerades instead of embracing their innate beauty. Money, undoubtedly, held its importance, but he understood that there existed a point where one could accumulate so much wealth that it ceased to hold allure. The abundance itself became monotonous, a fleeting burst of excitement after a lifetime of pursuit. It seemed as if this relentless quest for wealth was humanity's singular purpose—a climb towards the pinnacle of the hierarchy, almost a desperate reach for the divine.

However, as he observed this recurring pattern, he couldn't help but notice that those who had indeed reached the zenith often appeared profoundly desolate and isolated. Furthermore, paranoia set in, for as they had achieved this newfound clarity at the steep cost of their souls, others had not followed the same path. These hungry souls still coveted the mound of golden coins, poised to snatch away the final vestiges of what had been the culmination of a lifetime's toil. Trust was a rare commodity, for no one could be relied upon to remain authentic once that pinnacle had been scaled. It was often the cost of getting there, after all. They felt compelled to either appease others or engage in constant battles, twisting their very essence until it became unrecognizable even to themselves. It was an undeniably exasperating ordeal. So much energy funneled into maintaining a fragile facade, while the inner self withered, neglected. He wondered if others, too, experienced a similar sense of isolation, albeit through different means.

The world appeared to be an exceedingly lonely realm, irrespective of the masks we adorned, for humanity had forsaken the art of kindling warmth among themselves, opting instead to incinerate one another. Is it not more exquisite to share warmth than to wrest it from others?

Nourishing the soul demanded more than a mere pile of golden coins. It entailed the ultimate act of bravery—a journey inward to discover one's true self, to discern the flavors that truly satisfied the appetite of the roaring beast within us. So many squandered their precious time on the ascent, failing to appreciate the breathtaking panorama all around them.

But his dream was far simpler. He didn’t want to climb mountains. It was a life of tranquility and contentment—a home, a family, a boat, and a couple of loyal dogs. These were the essentials for his happiness, where solitude and cherished moments held more allure than any riches. To him, nothing felt more heavenly than an authentic connection.

Nevertheless, people regarded him as though he were deranged for harboring such dreams.

Societal norms demanded that he abandon his authentic self to conform, much like everyone else did. However, that was their blueprint, not his. He had no desire to scale the mountains; he found contentment on solid ground. Bending and stifling his true self, it may have worked for a brief period, but when solitude embraced him, he would liberate himself from the suffocating mask, allowing his soul to breathe once more. Within that secluded realm, an oasis of his own making, impervious to intrusion, he discovered genuine solace.

In his modest house, which, during nocturnal strolls through the fields, appeared as though it were adrift upon a tranquil lake. In his little garage, where he diligently constructed a boat, driven by an insatiable curiosity to explore the unknown beyond.

To explore the unknown beyond. That's precisely why he embarked on its construction. His gaze flickered upward, brows furrowing in contemplation.

In his mind, that boat had not yet taken form .

The only void he felt was the absence of his faithful dogs, left behind in his quest for Hannibal. Abandoned, much like the fear of abandonment that had haunted him.

This elucidated why he found himself in complete solitude here.

As he distanced himself from his physical form and allowed his thoughts to expand, he began to vividly visualize the process.

The next mental landing point emerged on the horizon, and his thoughts, unhesitatingly, aligned themselves for a graceful descent to claim it.

Initially, he had perceived Hannibal as a grotesque, stag-like creature, akin to a Wendigo. Gradually, the distorted image gave way to a clearer view, allowing him to see Hannibal for what he truly was.

His lungs weighed down as if each breath became a laborious endeavor. See? His jaw moved with a subtle twitch, as though it sought to elude an uncomfortable mental connection that loomed in the shadows. Nevertheless, he remained resolute. Yes. He saw. In an instant, he found himself steady, assured, and firmly in command. He had embraced a fragment of himself without rejection, and in response, reality refrained from warping; it steadied, and the tempo of his thoughts quickened. He breathed in the rhythm, eyes closed, body swaying to its pulse, a complete surrender to his thoughts, their wings extending farther than any boat ever could.

It was in this very realm that he sought his authentic perspective—a viewpoint uniquely his own, one that resonated with a sensation akin to a cascade of electric currents running down his spine. It was in those moments that he truly felt his mind come alive, the lifeblood of his consciousness coursing through rapid thoughts like a bustling data highway. These thoughts left behind beautiful, azure streaks of contemplation that unfurled behind his inner eyes, reminiscent of the rhythmic ebb and flow of tides. The very tides he observed with near-hypnotic fascination when he stood outside.

The things we often encountered, he realized, were but curious wavelengths. Sound waves intertwined with light waves, each capable of transmutation into the other.

Will embraced the richness of his finely attuned senses, unfettered by judgment, free from the burden of performance, and released from the relentless expectations that perpetually shadowed him. No matter how often he demonstrated his brilliance, it was as if people were insatiable, always demanding more than he could possibly provide.

He recklessly consumed his own flame to provide warmth for others. His gift manifested in sporadic bursts, resembling a peculiar ailment, or so he sometimes mused. These episodes arrived in intervals, like a rhythmic cadence. Yet, once he found himself immersed in that unique rhythm, he sensed his true self emerging—neither an affliction nor a malady, but a distinct entity that defied the world's limited attempts at labeling him. Revealing his autistic nature often elicited binary reactions—either people recoiled with disdain or regarded him with twisted awe. Some would approach cautiously, observing him like a lab specimen, a bit akin to Alana. Others would draw comparisons to their own 5-year-old autistic nephew, branding him as merely quirky, or using more derogatory labels. The most cruel category of individuals regarded him as a living affliction, a malady in need of remedy. However, such a ‘cure’ would necessitate his demise, for his very brain was inherently distinct, and not even a drastic lobotomy could transmute a dog into a cat. On the opposite end were individuals like Jack, who sought miracles, oblivious to the toll it took on him to continuously maintain that lofty performance. After all, he wasn't a manifestation of ‘Rain Man.’ The media had sculpted a distorted external image of autism, elevating it to heavenly heights or plunging it into the depths of hell. People remained ensnared by these antiquated misconceptions. They anticipated a living miracle or something otherworldly, but seldom did they anticipate encountering a fellow human being.

He saw himself as someone who simply disliked intrusive eye contact and found social interactions disconcerting. And he harbored a preference for the company of animals, where he didn't have to perpetually engage in guessing games about their intentions.

Strangely, this proved to be an exceedingly challenging concept for some individuals to grasp. It served as a compelling justification for his steadfast refusal to divulge the inner workings of his mind through any form of publication. ‘Madness’ was the succinct reply he offered, as everyone seemed poised to dissect his thoughts as though they possessed an inherent entitlement to do so. Chilton. Lounds. He harbored a bitter resentment for the way they perceived him. He refused to be reduced to the status of a monstrous specimen, laid upon their examination table to be dissected at will. That’s not how he treated others. And he saw no reason why he should accept such dehumanizing treatment.

Alana had made an effort to steer clear of delving too deeply into his mind, a gesture he appreciated. It was conceived with the best of intentions. However, paradoxically, this very restraint had created a sense of distance between them. He could sense the subtle withdrawal, a quiet form of rejection, as if she had abandoned him even before he had the opportunity to demonstrate his humanity.

Jack regarded him as nothing more than a tool, a mindless scalpel wielded to excise the sickness from the world. Oddly enough, that was perhaps the least inhumane treatment among the various iterations he had encountered. Though Jack didn't quite view him as fully human, he refrained from outright rejection. He acknowledged what he was and saw utility in precisely that capacity. In a peculiar twist, Crawford had inadvertently nudged him closer to the truth all along, drawing him into proximity with Hannibal. Will served as the lure, Hannibal the catch, and Jack wielded the rod.

The image grew sharper and more distinct.

Du Maurier occupied a peculiar role, acting as a bridge between them, akin to a marker or interpreter, illuminating essential fragments of information that bound Will and Hannibal. In her own way, she often beheld a more comprehensive view of the entire picture, a broader perspective, and astutely unveiled her insights to those around her. Or, at the very least, she possessed the decency to lay it out plainly for him. In a strange, contradictory way, he both held contempt for and admired her. While she held him in disdain and fear, she also viewed him with fascination, considering him a worthy adversary. In her spite, Bedelia was brutally honest with him, more honest than most people had ever been in his life. That's why being honest with her came naturally.

‘Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?’ As her words reached him, a sensation of lightness filled his chest, so profound that tears threatened to well up in his eyes. He had always felt a deeper connection to Hannibal than he had with anyone else—an inexplicable warmth and tranquility whenever they were in close proximity, coupled with moments of electric tension that bordered on the unbearable. Yet, he struggled to translate these sensations into distinct emotions. He possessed only partial comprehension, aware that assumptions were precarious ground to tread upon, far less dependable than the certainty he craved. He had long forsaken his trust in the reliability of his own judgment, given that the world seemed perpetually primed to admonish his actions right from the start. Consequently, he matured with a pervasive self-doubt. Therefore, unless something was unequivocally confirmed, he refrained from acting on his perceptions of others, unless those perceptions directly posed a threat to him. His mind had always craved a thorough understanding of every facet of a concept, necessitating the complete consumption of it. This way, what took shape within his mind was a creation he could be confident in, having been meticulously scrutinized and fashioned with his most genuine intentions. Anything less would leave him dissatisfied, for it would not have received his full commitment. And perhaps, because a piece remained absent, he found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty even now.

Will’s skin tingled, ablaze with goosebumps. His inner eye had fixed upon a target, plunging headlong in pursuit. It was Bedelia Du Maurier who had finally decoded the elusive piece of information that had lingered just beyond his grasp. Hannibal was in love with him. Utterly. Obsessively. In love with him.

He would never forsake him.

Despite his successful escape to Italy, the creation of an entirely new persona, and the forging of a different life and identity, he had willingly abandoned it all just so that Will would be aware of his whereabouts and have the opportunity to reunite with him. That's how Will had ensnared him. He had seized upon that partial assumption and taken a calculated risk.

Hannibal had endured three long years of yearning, patiently awaiting the chance to feel his touch once more, all for this precious moment. It left him pondering: had there been more that he should have been aware of? Was this his method to examine Hannibal's commitment, akin to God testing Job by stripping away all his lavish gifts to ascertain if his faith would endure?

Will's vision suddenly blurred, and he felt the cold touch of tears tracing down his cheeks, his breath nearly reduced to a whisper.

Hannibal would never leave him.

The absence of Hannibal in this realm was a reflection of the sense of abandonment Will had experienced.

But Hannibal enveloped him completely, manifesting in every thought, every brushstroke of his mental canvas, and every breath he took.

His eyes shifted, chasing another thought. He was beginning to fathom the expanse of his own mind, a realm far vaster than he had ever perceived. Rising to his feet to step outdoors, Will surveyed the island before him. It wasn't just an island; it served as his current point of entrapment. This entire domain, encompassing not only the land but also the boundless sea, was, in essence, an extension of his own mind.

His thoughts had been molded by the teachings of others.

He wasn't operating in alignment with his innate nature. This explained his complete lack of control over this domain. And why it persistently spurned him.

For behaving as his true self had always been met with reprimand.

His worth was conditional, predicated on his ability to conform to the expectations of humanity, as dictated by the labels of others.

There had never been a space for his wings to unfurl. Instead, they withered and became deformed, casualties of his relentless efforts to bend and twist himself into the mold that others had imposed upon him.

Hannibal himself might not possess a full understanding of what lay within Will, not to the extent that Will himself seemed to be discovering. Yet Hannibal loved him unconditionally, cherishing him for exactly who he was, for every peculiar and intricate mosaic piece that constituted his mind. He saw him as was. He didn't view him through the lens of a diagnosis, nor did he see him solely as a human or a vulnerable child. To Hannibal, Will was something entirely distinct—an entity of singular beauty and authenticity.

Will didn't need to conceal any facet of himself, regardless of how disconcerting it might be. He could freely unlock the depths of his being, peeling away layer after layer of the meticulously constructed mask, in the hope of uncovering his true self buried beneath it all.

Yet, what if beneath that mask lay something horrifying, something distorted and unrecognizably human? If Hannibal could love that aspect of him, then so could Will, and he cared not for the judgment of the rest of the world.

The pieces started to rearrange themselves, and his gaze became fixed upon the grass as he further retreated into the shadows of his own mind. All along, he had been searching for an escape route to the outside, but he had neglected to search for an entrance within.

Into himself.

To liberate himself from this reality, he needed to disconnect, much like pulling the plug on a phone line. Will had always hesitated beyond that critical ‘click,’ restrained by his fear from daring to forge ahead. There lay a tempestuous reckoning if he were to cease his dance and advance at his own rhythm, sprinting ahead while the world crumbled around him. It didn't matter how unconventional such a choice might appear; he hungered for it nonetheless.

He yearned to gnaw through his own leash and bolt, like a stray seeking freedom.

An unsettling familiarity tinged the logic and setting, something, again, just beyond his grasp. It was as if the force holding him captive here resisted his complete comprehension, aware that any such revelation could serve as a clue to extricate himself from this harrowing madness.

Will grappled with his thoughts. His gaze shifted toward the cliffs, and as he drew nearer, he couldn't help but notice the unsettling resemblance they bore to the ones he had once plunged from with Hannibal.

A compelling urge surged within him—a longing to propel himself forward and leap.

But which facet of his mind was steering him? The rational one, or the irrational?

Was this a literal or metaphorical descent?

He inched closer to the cliffs, peering down into the churning sea below.

[santmat]

There is Divine Light and Sound Within You, Within Everyone - Spiritual Awakening Radio Podcast

The great Masters teach that the Sound of God is within everyone -- this Holy Stream of Sound is within every living thing. This is why those given to exploring Inner Space through a contemplative meditation practice, be they from the East or the West, have discovered this Reality playing within themselves.

This Sant Mat Satsang Podcast is a spiritual gathering, a satsang without walls, dedicated to exploring this ancient school of spirituality, the Path of the Masters, Mystics, Gnostics, and Saints, today focused upon the spiritual practices of inner seeing and hearing, finding the inner Light and Sound of God present within the soul. The form of meditation making it possible to access the mystic Light and Sound is freely taught and communicated via the guidance of a competent Living One, a Living Master who is fluent in the spiritual experience of not only transcendental seeing and hearing, but also of traversing Inner Space, the Kingdom of the Heavens within, the inner regions, heavens, realms of consciousness beyond the physical-material confines that hold captive the attention of most people. The Sufi mystic and philosopher Ibn Arabi once wrote in his Bezels of Wisdom: "He [the Supreme Being] brought the Cosmos into being as constituting an Unseen Realm and a Sensory Realm, so that we might perceive the Inner though our Unseen [facility] and the Outer through our sensory aspect." We are children of both worlds. We human beings are a Tree of Life with roots in the earth and branches rising into a Mystic Sky! "The planes of heaven are about us everywhere. One has only to know this simple truth consciously, and then we will be free." (George Arnsby Jones, disciple of Kirpal Singh)

There is Divine Light and Sound Within You, Within Everyone - Spiritual Awakening Radio Podcast @ YouTube:

@ the Podcast Website with Show Notes:

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& @ Wherever You Subscribe and Follow Podcasts (Apple, Spotify, Google Podcasts, Amazon, Audible, PodBean, Overcast, Pandora, iHeart Radio, Podcast Addict, Gaana, CastBox, etc...):

"We are seekers after Truth and for that purpose we have joined various religions, which are our schools of thought. Truth is not the exclusive right of any particular creed, or place, or age. It is man's [humanity's] birthright. Just as everyone has the right to breathe the air, and absorb the rays of the sun, we are all privileged to draw from the Unseen Source of Life, Strength, and Wisdom, which is within each of us. That Infinite Supply cannot be exhausted. Anyone belonging to any religion can delve it out from within with the help of somebody who is competent -- call him by any name you like. Take all that you can. Not only will it suffice for you, but through it you will become instrumental in helping your fellows. Your smile will inspire another to smile. Your strength will impel another to be strong. A noble soul always draws forth the noble quality in others." (Kirpal Singh)

As with the Gnostic Universe, the cosmos and multiverse of the Surat Shabd Yoga Tradition of Inner Light and Sound Meditation has the lowest or outermost plane being the realm of matter and dark matter, followed by progressively more subtle and luminous astral and akashic or causal regions, also a Universal Mind or Demiurgical (pronounced "Demi-urge-ah-KAL") plane. Above these lower and middle regions of mind and matter are levels of pure spirit, eternal, above time and space, and these are considered to be the True Home or Paradise of the soul, where we prodigal souls came from before the beginning and, full-circle, where we will return to again, as we awaken from the soul-slumber of the ages. "We have come from the Light and will return there again." (Gospel of Thomas and Mandaean Ginza Rabba paraphrase) As Kabir once said, "For millions of years you have slept. This morning, will you not wake?"

Today, readings from the mystic divine love poetry of Bhai Nand Lal Ji, disciple of Guru Gobind Singh, The Acts of John (New Testament apocryphal writing), the Sikh scriptures (Adi Granth, Gurbani), Naam Or Word authored by Kirpal Singh, Baba Ram Singh from a January, 2023 collection of satsang discourses on Naam: Sant Mat Meditation of the Inner Light and the Sound Current, the Sufi poets Rumi and Shah Niaz, Ajahn Sumedho on "The Sound of Silence" (from the Buddhist world), also from Anmol Vachan, a rare book of Q and A by Sant Garib Das of the Radhasoami Faith (another spiritual successor of Swamiji Maharaj), Shiv Brat Lal's Radhaswami spiritual classic Light on Ananda Yoga, Kirpal Singh's Spiritual Elixir, and... the mystic poetry of Edmond Bordeaux Szekely.

In Divine Love (Bhakti), Light, and Sound, At the Feet of the Masters, Radhasoami,

James Bean

Spiritual Awakening Radio Podcasts

Sant Mat Satsang Podcasts

Sant Mat Radhasoami

A Satsang Without Walls

[lamentingocean]

KAVEH X READER FOR A ONLINE SUGGESTION♡

it was midnight in sumeru, Y/N getting done helping out nahida in terms of the power of wisdom, kaveh studied the world and under the books of the world of teyvat, at the same time. you knew a lot about nahida for spending them in the hot desert of sumeru for a few weeks until the medieval aesthetic of mondstadt get slapped in the face, the beauty of this world struck your mind as a continuous thinking process.

it was the night sky, and the powder of wisdom perfumed the air. after everything happened in the world of Celestia, home to the unknown goddess as well as multiple gods and spirits holding it into the caverns of their powerful hands. you've met lumine before.

The desperation in her eyes to find her missing brother away from the reality in her eyes, you felt bad but couldn't help. the only people you knew that can help that poor adventurer is Mona and venti,

a small voice cleared out all the imaginative thought bubbles in the head. it was nahida checking to see if you're alright. after all. she finds you to be quite an interesting and trustworthy ally to her, even after giving you information about the fatui, even after seeing the battle between Gods, it was nahida vs scarmouche. and it took you to surprise how much lumine is fighting regions after God and after region to find her brother even if it means challenging the son of an archon.

"Hey are you ok?"

"?..oh yeah I'm ok♡ thanks."

"You know. I will have to thank lumine and you for helping me."

a sad look look over the adorable face of the archon, her baby hand reached to the far lake, it was a bridge that you and her were on.

"at least. now I'm able to become a worthy archon to the gods of this world."

"Nahida. you are already worthy to be a fine god."

those words shot her into a state of shock, so many people had opinions about nahida and if she's even worthy to protect and serve under people and allies. your smirk had her to be a bit emotional.

"W-wait really?"

"...yes-"

kaveh approached the conversation into an interrupted point. He was happy to see you since he thought that nahida had been dragging you down into a work slave.

"I'm sorry, nahida. but you will have to excuse me and my girlfriend here. She currently has her own matters to attend to, and it's me, so I'm going to borrow her."

his arm took you away, your free hand waved to the archon signaling "bye." it was his home in minutes later.

"What do you need kaveh?"

"Oh, sorry. I wanted to spend more time with you since you have been busy all day with the archon.."

his babbling about trying to love you and spend a limited time with you made you chuckle adorably. he had his own jobs to do as well as hate on alhaitham as a side hobby of his. but comes to think of it...he never actually bothered you during work.

"Come on♡ its fine. don't be like that. so... what do you want to do for tonight?"

"Well, we can take a look at some books, eat at an open cafe or restaurant in the place, or make out with you. To be far. I always pay for the food but I want you♡"

"HAHA♡YOU MIXED FOOD INTO GETTING INTIMATE WITH ME?"

his reoccurring blush scrubbed on the face of his beauty.

"WHATS WRONG WITH THAT?'

"N-NO NOTHING IS WRONG BU-"

his lips crashed into your lips like a sticker on a wall until it went to clothes getting taken off, his lips came off, leaving a lavender scent.

"I'm not done yet♡"

[artstar1997]

Trolls Fantribe: The Platinum Trolls

The Platinum Trolls are the ruling or top tribe of the troll kingdom. They are the only main tribe to lack a string because they accept all kinds of music. Their signature color is white and their current leader is Queen Rosetta Goldenvale.

Appearance

The trolls of this tribe look like pop trolls, with a variety of hair, nose, body and eye colors, but some have luminous, chrome, metallic, pastel or vibrant hair and eyes. Their fashion tends to be flashy, stylish and diverse, that they were renowned for their elegant appearance, with elaborate clothing, jewels, and hairstyles being common among the elite.

Habitat

After their old home was destroyed and moved to Trollstopia after their queen returned, the Platinum Tribe currently reside in the Troll Forest alongside the Pop Tribe. Their new home, Diamond City’s architecture has intricate designs and crystalline-like structures to show off their pride as the ruling tribe.

Diamond City saw a constant flow of merchants and goods, thus contributing to the populace's wealth and comparatively luxurious lifestyle. Until now, it still has lots of stores and shops showing up everywhere. It was one of the few places where the tribes would congregate or live together. This, along with its strategic location, gave the Platinum Tribe the most diverse cuisine among all the tribes, as they imported foods and other products from all corners of the Troll Kingdom.

Diamond City has a notable fashion scene and Queen Rose is one of the fashion icons, alongside many of the elite members of her tribe. It has trendy pop-up stores for people to shop at, with a lot of luxury items being produced and sold there.

Diet

Platinum cuisine has access to numerous regional dishes and ingredients but the food is usually savory. They are known to use Spinel Basil, Jeweled Laurel, Glittery Pepper, and Sparkledust to add flavor to their dishes to demonstrate the harmony of all kinds of music in their tribe.

Behavior

Though viewed as flashy, the Platinum Tribe is more inclusive than other tribes, regularly accepting other trolls from other tribes or hinterland trolls within their ranks, and they credited their wealth as the reason why their tribe is the ruling tribe, but in reality, it was Rose's ancestor, Cygnus the Wise who lead the other tribes to fight the pop tribe to steal the strings and escape that gives them the privilege to outrank the other tribes.

Tribal Culture

The Platinum Tribe is considered the most cultured of the trolls and had the highest literacy rates. They are skilled metalworkers, with a taste for both practical and stylistic designs, and they are known for manufacturing luxury items, such as jewelry. These luxuries were in large part thanks to the wealth of the vast natural resources their home afforded them, as well as their proximity to trade routes.

Because of their connection to all kinds of music and the constant flow of merchants, the Platinum Trolls lived a relatively leisurely life which gave them more opportunities to indulge in intellectual pursuits. The Platinum Tribe also boasted a larger number of artisans than others, famous throughout the Troll Kingdom for their metalwork and colored glass products.

[minty-fivestar]

Legendary Pokémon: Arceus

“According to the legends of Sinnoh, this Pokémon emerged from an egg and shaped all there is in this world.” (ORAS Pokédex entry)

“Its luminance guides and protects all Pokémon.” (PLA Pokédex entry)

Though the legends surrounding the Alpha Pokémon, Arceus, are numerous, most are merely that—legends. Humans, in their limited mortal understanding, have attempted for generations to understand and explain Arceus, but the truth is that this Pokémon is difficult, if not impossible, to truly comprehend.

In the beginning, the Divine Source created the universe. And from its infinite emanations, the echoes of the act of creation formed the very first Pokémon—Arceus. Arceus is not THE creator, but the embodiment of creation itself. Likewise, it has the powers of all Pokémon types, and the potential of all Pokémon that were and ever will be. It has been tasked the eternal responsibility of ensuring all existence is maintained according to the Divine Source’s original intent; in other words, it cannot allow anyone or anything to create or destroy, to add or take away from what the Divine Source has already produced. For all intents and purposes, this means that Arceus needs to merely exist. So long as nothing tries to possess or control Arceus, all is well.

Many civilizations feature Arceus in their mythology, with Sinnoh being most reverent; Arceus features as the creator and the prime Pokemon of their Legendary pantheon. This has resulted in Sinnoh and the surrounding regions having a higher-than-average percentage of people who actively worship Arceus, rather than simply honor it as a spirit of nature. It is often associated with Dialga, Palkia, and Giratina, though does not actually feature much in their own mythologies.

It is said that Arceus dwells in a place that no human has ever been able to go, and continuously experiences the cycle of life and death. It hatches from an egg, grows from a baby to a child to an adult, ages and perishes, before returning as an egg to start the cycle anew. Some cultures believe Arceus’s life and death cycle mirrors the passing of the seasons and celebrate these events accordingly, but of course not all climates on the earth reflect such a life cycle.

In general, Arceus is a Pokémon beyond reach, transcending this realm and rarely having an effect on the events that occur here. Its welfare is directly tied to the fabric of reality itself, and while harming or capturing Arceus may not cause creation to literally fall apart, the repercussions of such a hypothetical act would certainly be catastrophic. Hence why Arceus is not known to appear in this world, and probably never will, for doing so would allow the possibility of humans harnessing the very power of creation itself.

Other notes:

I do not consider the Pokémon Legends: Arceus game or Arceus’s anime appearances canon within my Pokémon universe, nor do they play much of a role in how I crafted my mythology. However, as with most things I create within the Pokémon fandom, there is room for many possibilities! (For instance, in my personal headcanon, Pokémon Legends: Arceus takes place in a parallel universe in which the Legendary Pokémon have to intervene far more often and directly to repair damage from outside forces trying to destroy the integrity of their timeline.)

I do not correlate Arceus with the Christian God or religion in any way, shape, or form. (Never personally made sense to me why people do this, other than to impose the only belief system they understand onto a decidedly non-Western-inspired character.) I take a lot more inspiration from my studies into Shinto, Buddhism, Hinduism, and pagan spiritualities. In other words--Arceus is not God. Mew is not Jesus (still don't understand that correlation??). Deal with it. :P

A primary inspiration for my version of Arceus is the Forest Spirit in Princess Mononoke. While obviously not as connected to nature itself, Arceus represents a deity that can live and die, be beautiful and terrifying, and also can create and destroy.

[the-chomsky-hash]

[ON THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY]

1. All the Apollonian properties defined in The Birth of Tragedy limit the

free

luminous

space of philosophical existence as described in later works. [Under such a schema,] all the pre-Socratics:

they belong to the Apollonian sphere

each of them has its home in a region of its light

a. [e.g.,] Thales:

i. in the imagination

ii. also in this feeling that

the figures of reality are only appearance

the world that they compose is not in itself its own figure

– Michel Foucault, Works on Nietzsche: first half of the 1950s, (Greek Thought), from Nietzsche: Cours, conférences et travaux, edited by Bernard E. Harcourt

[xasha777]

In the year 2401, the galaxy whispered of an enigmatic figure who roamed the outer rim, between the bustling trade routes of the Corvus Cluster and the ancient remnants of the Hispania Citerior system. They called her Luminara, the Celestial Warden, protector of the forgotten worlds.

The legend began when the Galactic Council received an encrypted signal from the ruins of Hispania Citerior, a once-thriving star system reduced to cosmic whispers after a cataclysm centuries ago. The message was a plea for help, a voice from the past seeking salvation from an unremembered threat.

Luminara emerged from the veil of starlight, a being more energy than flesh. Her eyes blazed like twin suns, piercing through the dark recesses of space. Her armor hummed with the power of a thousand nebulas, crafted from an unknown alloy that pulsed with a life of its own. She was a vision of cosmic beauty and dread power, a fusion of ancient science and alien magic.

The Galactic Council, once skeptical, dispatched a task force to Hispania Citerior, accompanying Luminara as she led the way. The journey was treacherous; the navigation systems were bewildered by the gravitational echoes of long-dead stars. Only Luminara's light guided them through the maelstrom.

Upon their arrival, they discovered a paradox of time and reality. A wormhole, unstable and violent, thrashed at the heart of the system. It was an ancient gateway, its origins predating human ascendancy to the stars. Luminara explained that the wormhole was a relic of an elder civilization, the original inhabitants of Hispania Citerior, who had tried to reach beyond the known universe and instead found oblivion.

The task force watched in awe as Luminara approached the wormhole. She raised her hands, and a luminous corona burst forth, containing the wormhole's fury. It was a battle of wills between her and the unyielding forces of the cosmos.

She spoke in a language lost to time, her voice the melody of the stars. As she chanted, glyphs of ancient power lit up her armor, casting a celestial net over the wormhole. The space around it began to stabilize, the wormhole's erratic pulses calming under her influence.

Luminara turned to the task force, her eyes dimming to a soft glow. "This wormhole was a path to what lies beyond the stars, a bridge to other galaxies, other possibilities," she intoned. "The ancient ones reached too far, too fast, and paid the price. I will remain here to guard this gate, to ensure it is never opened again."

The task force returned with tales of the Celestial Warden, the guardian of Hispania Citerior, who stood watch over the galaxy's most dangerous secrets. And as centuries passed, Luminara became more than a legend; she became a symbol of the delicate balance between ambition and restraint, a reminder that some doors, once opened, might reveal the splendors and horrors of the infinite.

[droctaviolovecraft]

ANM-∞: Mommy Moth (art made by my friend Maicon Sabino Rodrigues, Viper11)

http://mothrainstitution.wikidot.com/anm-8

"I am the light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness that consumes the light. I am the mother who gives life, and the mother who takes life away. I am the dream that inspires, and the nightmare that terrorizes. I am Mother Moth, and I am beneath your feet."

Anomaly File: Subject 0-00-000

Designation: Subject ANM-∞ (Codename: Mother Moth)

Risk Level: UNKNOWN ⚪️

Description: Subject ANM-∞, colloquially known as "Mother Mothra," is an anomalous entity of immense power and enigmatic origin. Standing at an imposing height of 2.60 meters (approximately 8'6 feet tall), the anomaly possesses a striking anthropomorphic appearance, adorned with luminous white furry skin, a voluptuous body with distinct feminine characteristics, including ample breasts. Its most prominent feature is its four large wings, each adorned with symbols representing the four powers of the Institution: nature, the occult, public, and war.

Notably, the entity bears the symbol of infinity marked in the region of its womb, replacing its navel, seemingly symbolizing its status as a transcendent being beyond mortal comprehension.

Discovery: Subject 0-00-000 was discovered in the depths of a pine forest in the United States. The circumstances of its discovery remain obscure.

Abilities: Mothra possesses unparalleled abilities that defy the laws of nature and challenge the very structure of reality. She exhibits mastery over the manipulation of matter, energy, and information, capable of creating, altering, and destroying any form of substance with a mere thought. Her control extends beyond the physical, as she can manipulate space, time, and reality itself, transcending the boundaries of natural and supernatural laws. Capable of disintegrating the physical and the non-existent, she can create anomalies and erase existing anomalies.

Containment Protocol: Containment of Subject ANM-∞ poses a challenge due to its immense power and unpredictable nature. Mother Moth is kept in absolute containment in the depths of the MOTHRA Institution, buried and encased within it. She does not appear to exhibit vital activity or aggression in wanting to escape, but we know that it would not be difficult for her to accomplish such a task.

The anomaly appears to be cooperating for an unknown reason.