#i also want to draw mars in a nightly setting...

[destroyusall]

BALLIN' — @laikascomet

This was a bit of an experiment with body fat - I don't usually draw larger set characters. Regardless I needed this out of my system because Laika is the coolest ever

[amieyhko]

Escapril 2019

escaprilday 2019 // 1: a fresh start

two Costco bags full of

umma-certified clean clothes,

“unpacking cannot begin with wet clothes”

Taipei humidity is unkind.

coins clink,

white noise revs

drowning out the drizzle

as heart somersaults

to the rhythm of the cycles:

what — tum — am I — ble

doing — tumble — here?

the darks tumble its final spin

as the lights

click —

into a stop.

a whiff into a warm towel

warns me the comforts of home,

promising

of munchies, blankies, and speedy wifi

of cushy floor space where crafting

and writing past midnight can be done in secret

but —

fold — maybe — toss — I changed —

yellow blouse — or gave up too easily —

fold — or could it be —

toss — I’m listening to all the wrong voices? —

red turtleneck — no — flick —

wait, this is so soft now, I guess the washing machine in that guest house in Seoul was indeed really terrible —

fold — yes, this is how it should feel on my skin —

toss – my heart knows, though —

fuzzy sock — maybe home is where I need to be right now —

into basket — there’s nothing wrong with —

grab — starting over again.

escaprilday 2019 // 2: april showers

you said all memorable moments

include an unexpected deluge

I nod and laugh

as the metro ac pierces through

my drenched jacket

I shiver as I feel my clammy socks

cling onto my not-rainproof Docs

("they're not?" you ask in shock)

ears ringing still

from speakers booming

throat scratchy from scream-singing

at the top of our lungs.

still, you smile, shiver, and say,

with half-dazed eyes,

all good memories

end in rain.

escaprilday 2019 // 3: incorporate music

“Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding”

at this in-between

this time of heating up lukewarm lattes

and microwaving soggy french fries,

a surrendering of old and new

kindles a familiar tune:

“not what’s easy, what do you want?”

at this in-between,

the seconds between a squat and a jump

or the hours during an endless free fall,

a whisper sings an awakening:

“even a phoenix dies”

so at this in-between

muster up the strength to

inhale blue

and exhale gold.

escaprilday 2019 // 4: anxiety

lacuna

¡amiga!” he chimes like clockwork

with a sonrisa that has probably charmed plenty of hearts.

my fist bumps his and I walk toward the dark halls

where they tilt their heads forward and say

“안녕하세요” they grin,

some fake, others genuine,

mostly muscle memory.

“哈咯“ she greets as I turn the corner—

a sound of familiarity.

the velcros on my lips finally relax

till we part ways to our stations

“how are you?” their words flow dry

they probably don’t want to find out

my tongue lands on one syllable:

“good”.

escapril 2019 // 5: back to nature

I’ve a secret spot for seeing stars in Taipei City.

after a day downtown,

blasting my headphones at damaging decibels,

fixing makeup with samples at drugstores,

and chasing after buses,

I skip down the announced “platform two for Taipei Zoo”

and gaze down at the light show stage named Zhongxiao Fuxing.

as the red greens, a rush of headlights streams at me—my eyes

lose focus, my heart

leaps back into my chest just as

the home-bound metro approaches.

//

I’ll always remember the yard at Tiszavasvári

where we lay to see a starry night drawn by the Creator

after a day of listening to screaming children,

braiding their hairs,

and chasing after the impossible ones,

we stood in awe, jaws dropped, then soon learned

our necks weren’t strong enough

so we lay down, evening breeze

accompanied by the crickets sang a lullaby—

my eyes played a senseless game

of connect-the-dots, my heart skipped several beats

as I let go of the memories of beds and blankets.

escapril 2019 // 6: nostalgia

missing you is easy.

remembering you creeps

up in little mundanities

like a cup of fruit tea

a bottle of Clorox

or an inappropriately loud laughter--

to my consolation, yours is unmatchable.

although,

the sound of your laughter rings

quieter

till I can whisper:

escapril 2019 // 7: start with a time of day

3 a.m.

why wait

for dawn when

we can set yesterday

up

in flames

over this river?

escapril 2019 // 8: love poem

I cannot recall the exact words uttered

but something in my heart fluttered:

our eyes met for a millisecond

we cracked, till our breaths weakened.

our words, lost in the waves

transformed into safes

I open in my heart of hearts

to feel at home within the laughs of your loves.

escapril 2019 // 9: focus on the color

chorok hadn't found its form in

korean of old. fields of

grass and evergreens,

little plates of herbal banchan,

lush of summers,

and squirming caterpillars

all existed as paran-- that same

color ascribed to vast oceans,

and sunny skies

then one lively spring, chorok

creeped its way into our tongues,

demanding to be seen on

street signs,

the mountain tops, and

cross walk lights

though some still speak "the light

turned paran",

and the incorrigible children's tune

singing of spring

blossoming into paran,

chorok sprouts an entrance

undeniable to out naked eyes.

escapril 2019 // 10: femininity

the bus,

back slides down on the uncomfortable bus seat,

fingers stroke through my freshly buzzed head,

while many eyes fixate above my eyes,

asking:

"is she a boy or a girl?"

"is she a lesbian?"

"what happened to her… hair?"

eyes read their faces,

mouth struts a big yawn with no reflex system telling me to conceal it.

imagination floats to a stadium,

feet stands on the podium,

voice declares:

I'm still so-very-much a lady--

just not fair like Audrey,

nor dainty like a stereotype,

or as brave as Joan,

and definitely not as attractive than most

but maybe more like

the ones writing history

now.

escapril 2019 // 11: not from your perspective

most of the time I sit beside the maroon sofa

where you watch tv and transform into a potato

I wait and wait for that sweet moment

you grab my handle

travel me to a flat desk

wind me up with thread

hook me up to a pedal

switch my light on

smooth out a piece of fabric

pinned up in zig zag

then

zoom, crackle, buzz,

your hands sync to my rhythm

you pray I don’t jam

or break your thread

then you announce with pride

“et voila!”

escapril 2019 // 12: spring cleaning

it takes two countries

few cities

thirteen houses

fifteen boxes

thirty trash bags

and an infinite repetition of

"do we need this?"

for a soul to grasp the spider web line

between a desire and a necessity.

then a decade teaches the

same soul

sometimes,

spectrums soften

escapril 2019 // 13: celestial bodies

if only

seeing you was as easy as

some nightly glow at your half

reflecting off

a big blazing ball of light on my half

escapril 2019 // 14: make it rhyme

a sonnet-full of embellishments, fake

notions of how lovely you are like some

weather in summer or spring, homemade cake

that tastes like cheap flour and rotten eggs, numb

from clichés, the love songs that never shut

up, posed photos of arms around my waist,

a let-me-take-that gentleness, so what

are you doing? leaving sour aftetaste

in our hearts. no, this sonnet is not for

us. we don’t need guidelines to fall in love,

nor the recipes known to prevent war

(it cannot be all fair in war and love),

so stop. steep in this silence as your hand

finds mine in this complicated quicksand.

escapril 2019 // 15: describe a smell

a dash of prickliness:

prickly, like appa’s beard attacking my forehead as he plants a kiss.

then an overwhelming sense of saltiness:

salty, like that time I accidentally used the spoon side of the seasoning bottle

or tasting my own sweat or tears.

something rotting at slow decay.

fruit flies feast.

my nose shoots me back to

halmoni yelling something in dialect, umma replying.

I stand in the middle of the market square, I’m ten.

they promised me jjajangmyeon,

my nostrils can hold out just a minute more.

escapril 2019 // 16: any dreams?

five—

I was to be a Pokemon trainer by day

and Sailor Moon by night

but adults hung my creativity dry

seven—

a singer-songwriter

but music chose me not

ten—

fashion designer,

draw designs, sew coutures, walk the runway myself

but whispers yelled discouragements

fifteen—

couldn’t care: I was a realistic teen

now—

I tip-toe about my heart

trying my best not to pick on scabs,

unable to answer any questions

albeit an I-don’t-know

has never sounded more

comforting and clear.

hear the wounds heal

to the beat of the unicorn hooves.

escapril 2019 // 17: body as friend or foe

I was born in Guatemala,

but my father’s from Georgia

he’s a musician, he produces

K-pop albums and we travel the world

searching for the next big deal,

my mother paints apples, she’s from Zimbabwe

she also writes Chinese poems.

It’s all true—

my body deceives every bit of reality within me.

escapril 2019 // 18: a happy place

hear nose tickle

with the sound of lavender feathers

fluttering by

eyes will open up to inhale

the golden hours spent

under Your glorious dance

escapril 2019 // 19: without your name, who are you?

if an utterance of a name

can form a heart,

her name has been called by many

if each spoken word forms

a vibration into what we are,

she's a someone

whispered into a myriad of paradoxes:

she's an asteroid, crashing fast,

uncontrollable, unexpected.

she's a cup of tea, calm,

idle, ready for nothing.

escapril 2019 // 20: a liminal space

this amorphous ground feels comfortable,

excuses acceptable:

the excruciating humidity,

drowsy rain, busy friends,

false pride, miscalculating time.

they say:

Prufrock measures his life in coffee spoons,

but Zeno says nothing ever reaches its destinations.

the Knight holds his tongue

yet his heart flutters a violent beat.

I’m just another contra, letting my feet skip away

as each step echoes heart beating somewhere

back.

escapril 2019 // 21: it’s the end of the world

no zombie apocalypse,

the sun still functions,

stars are still, hearts

unbroken, no one

escaping to Mars,

no fatal goodbyes.

one silent pink noise

a purple glow,

“welcome back home”

it said.

escapril 2019 // 22: nourishment

last month, I met a little

potted plant.

I took it back to my little

suffocating room

and named it little

foggy star.

I loved it little

by little

I gave it little

droplets of water,

spoke little

words of compliment,

took it to my little

window sill

the sun peeped through

a little.

it grew a little,

I did too.

escapril 2019 // 23: when the party’s over

recollect spilled laughters —

this, for unworthy jokes,

that, for suave comments,

maybe one for someone dreamy —

bottle them up,

keep them fresh

for the next sea of

stragglers,

mutual someone,

you-look-quite-nice,

wow-so-interesting.

escapril 2019 // 24: liar, liar

how to be a compulsive liar

one: disregard empathy, embrace despondency, think selfish,

my life doesn’t have to tell truth tales, no one needs to know.

two: rehearse recollections, think practicality, use names they’d never check,

let myself believe in each detail, each sight, smell the scenario

three: speak the perfectly fabricated phrases into existence,

no need to bat an eye, stutter a detail, overthink a loophole.

for example: “yeah, the party was fun. we walked around the park afterwards.

who? oh no, he wasn’t there. he had an important family dinner.”

four: remember the lie, inform reliable partners in crime if necessary,

never bring it back, stick to your guns.

promise yourself: they can’t hurt, they’ll never know.

remember: truths hurt, they’re inconvenient, it’s none of their business.

dig: until your shovel breaks.

drown out: every kindness the world has to offer.

die: in the said dug hole, climb out just to

repeat: until trust is a pair of cracked glasses, refuse to see a redemption until

die again: learn that these walls must go —

invite: the uncomfortableness that is vulnerability

repeat: until system reboots.

escapril 2019 // 25: pick an animal

my giraffe friend

shades me when the sun’s high

and warms me when the wind’s rough,

meeting her eyes pains me with

an aching neck,

she will always stand tall in a room,

there’s no shelf too high for me,

when she’s close by.

escapril 2019 // 26: girlhood, boyhood, childhood

when I was older, I had a pair of

very pink sneakers

they'd glitter in the sun,

glamoured in gemstones for dignity

velcros loud enough to turn heads

when it was time to take them off

I glanced over my neighbors' shelves:

ugly. blue. brown. ugly. mine trampled over all.

then my eyes stood silent

as I zone in

on her pair of Gundam sneakers

secretly jealous, mostly confused,

extremely frustrated of rule-breaking

girls, defying pink, watching animation

for boys only

now, I wear boring black or white shoes

so do most humans with feet.

escapril 2019 // 27: the state of it all

“you're it!”

a harmless push from their arms

my chest thrusts back

limbs under a spell

all bones removed

“catch me if you can”

why don't you save me

'cause you can?

escapril 2019 // 28: reflection

memories retraces a blur

crooked smile

red dye fading

cigarette between your fingers

standing mostly on your right leg--

you let out a puff as i tell you “i’m imaginary.”

you say you couldn't have

so i tease you more with a kiss

“that wasn't real

that was you imagining it all

new school

a manic pixie

the loneliness got to your brains

that's all”

you flick away the cigarette

eyes reflecting my face

you kiss me back and say

“please don't do this to my brain

you're real

far too real for me i'm not smart like that”

i snicker

the buzzing bus terminal is real

you and i are real

but i'm not

you're no more

escapril 2019 // 29: may flowers

she died a few days ago—

flew off the rooftop

fallen against teeming

reborn lives

the most beautiful of flowers

only last a day or two

you said we are beautiful

because we’re ephemeral

but what happens when

fleeting moments like

a crash kilometers away

pain for someone I never knew?

escapril 2019 // 30: catharsis

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

bugs infested each and every corner

I tried to catch them but they

hid away between the nooks and crannies

whispering schemes to each other

learning the dustiest corners I’ve ignored

waiting for a perfect time to kill

so I dusted out the corners

rearranged the furnitures

repainted the scratches

thinking cover-ups should make anew

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

praying for the bug spray to kill,

I felt seventeen, rearranging photographs,

filling up a space with desired personalities,

she would have been proud

there’s nothing I’d tell her, but to say

yesterday, I cleaned my room, for another hundredth time

they say an odyssey is a cycle

ending with a catharsis

where you come clean

but yesterday, I cleaned my room

again

[delicrieux]

god save the queen [ eggsy x reader ] 002

warnings: cussing (but this is kingsman...what do you expect???)

chapter summary: (name) goes to london and eggsy grants her wish

words: 2,200

MASTERLIST KO-FI. AO3. GSTQ masterpost. 7K GIFT!

custom suit

With a small smile you slowly fold a white blouse, make sure no wrinkles will form once it’s stuck in your suitcase for a couple of hours, before setting it neatly down into the big leather case with the rest of your belongings. You have been packing all morning, awoken at about 9 am, or about four hours after you returned from the bar with Eggsy. As far as you know he’s still dead asleep and probably hungover. You, however, being Agent Gin (damn that sounds cool) hardly feel anything at all regarding your brand of alcohol. Folding clothes is calming. You usually find packing tedious and you just throw everything in in whatever style and then pray that your suitcase will magically close, but this time you’re taking extra care. Possibly because you’re still a bit tipsy. And you were told by Champagne to make the best impression possible.

The two secret agencies had their fair share of disagreements over the years. The Valentine business caused a big falling out when they couldn’t decide which one should act, and both ended up trying to solve the issue separately and, well…A lot of people died. A lot of Statesman agents lost their lives, including Brandy, Sherry, Mead, Gin and many many more…You were promoted to Gin right after you finished training. Originally you had your eyes set on Palm Wine, but the agency suffered such heavy loses they took the best they had and placed them in powerful positions.

You are a good spy, you would possible be even better if you had enough time to actually train. You weren’t exactly as great of a shot as Tequila, nor could you use the lasso as expertly as Whiskey, but what you could do is charm your way into any situation possible. Granted, if you tried hard enough and you usually didn’t so besides ‘Gin’ people also call you a ‘Sarcastic Asshole’. You are quick to pick up accents, mimics; a thing you used to practice quite often back when you were just a little kid. You are a fairly good fighter, better than Margarita for sure, but you doubt you could take on any of the leading agents one on one. You wonder just how good Eggsy is. Normally you would’ve evaluated him already, but the Gin and Tonic is giving you a hard time.

Huh. So maybe you aren’t that resistant to it after all.

A knock on your door draws you out your thoughts and with a quick motion you shut the suitcase and click its locks shut. The door opens behind you and from the heavy steps you immediately recognise the person – Channing. That or you really are still drunk. Turning around you reward yourself with an invisible pat on the back - it is him after all! – and cross your arms over your chest. He leans onto the doorway, examines your room for a moment before his gaze falls onto you. A smile. He tilts his hat.

“Well lookie here, good mornin’, Gin. Thought you’d still be snorin’.”

“Tequila.”

“All packed up?”

You motion to the case behind you, “Just finished.”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Are my ears deceiving me, or are you actually nice for once?”

“Don’t get used to it.” You state, “It’s only because I will miss you so much when I go away.”

He grins, “Will you now?”

“No.”  You finish dryly, grasping the handle of your suitcase and mentally cringing on how heavy it is. Okay, perhaps taking so many ‘fancy’ clothes is a bit unnecessary, but you couldn’t help yourself. It will be your first time abroad and a real serious mission. Your first mission, to be exact.

Yeah, you’ve been Gin for barely two months.

Channing ignores your comment skilfully and motions to your suitcase, “Need some help?”

“Not really, but you can help yourself out of my way.” Your comment makes him laugh and you squeeze out a small grin of your own. With a quick step he allows you to pass and you do. The corridors are mostly empty. You meet Cider on your way out and he wishes you luck with a wave. You only nod. Before you know it, you are outside.

A bit cloudy. You suppose Kentucky is trying to ease you into the British weather. A parked car is the first thing you see; the second one is Eggsy sitting by the wheel. Neither Merlin nor Galahad Senior is present, and you guess they’re already home and awaiting your arrival. Much to your surprise Eggsy seems fine, though you do notice that his eyes seem a bit droopy and he is a bit pale. Throwing your suitcase into the trunk you shut it and move to sit down when—

“(Name)!” A squeaky voice calls after you and you snap your head to the entrance. Stacy Simons, with a bandaged lower lip and a black eye, smiles at you. You raise a brow.

“Mar…garita?”  You greet, unsure.

“I just…I just wanted to wish you luck and all…” She finishes dryly. You nod with an awkward smile.

“Well, thanks…You keep them’ boys on their toes while I’m gone, yeah?”

“O-Oh, of course! Have a safe trip!” She exclaims before ducking behind the door and disappearing. Still confused whether that really happened or not, you sit down and Eggsy, without wasting another second, turns the car’s engine on and presses the acceleration.

“Margarita?” He inquires, “Thought you Statesman had names of actual alcohol, not cocktails.”

“Listen, Egi,” You start, taking out your sunglasses and putting them on, “I am a bit sad that no one ever told you, but…” You look at him, “Size does matter. The more agents we have, the more mission we can do, and the more lives we can save. So what if there is a Cosmopolitan or Mojito running around! If, for instance, I meet my early demise, Margarita could theoretically take my place.” You finish explaining and he just shakes his head at you with a small smile. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Fan-bloody-tastic. And you?”

Nervous. Fine until I saw your face. The sun is physically hurting me. “Brilliant.” Your attempt to mimic a British accent is met with mocking laughter and you give him the cut-eye, “Completely unrelated, but can I ask you something?”

“Yea?”

“Do all brits sound like they have a cock in their mouth when they speak?”

He snorts, “Why?” His eyes shoot from the road to you, “That desperate that you’re actually hearing it now?”

“Ha! You wish.”

Eggsy is quiet for a single moment of consideration, before a smirk rises to his lips, “Maybe.”

Okay, this is not how you expected your morning to go.

~*~

Britain doesn’t feel that different, that much you’d admit. At first you figured you’d at least complain about the weather, about how the air feels musky and cold, but to tell the upmost truth you feel no different than when you were in Kentucky, perhaps more tired but in every way shape and form – fine. You did, however, take a liking to the new scenery: the polished architecture, conjoined houses and their perfect white fenced gardens, a couple of old-school cars parked in the posh side of London. It was easy to get lost in this world; the light drizzle of rain acted as an active comfort inducing substance and you almost melted into the leather seat of the car. You will enjoy your time here, you realized, you most certainly will.

Not until you reached the famous ‘Kingsman’ tailor shop did you glance at Eggsy – he was, for the most part, keeping his eyes on the road and still reaping the fruits of his nightly endeavours aka he was still hungover and now jet-lagged too. He parked the car and you unbuckled your seatbelt. Finally, after so many hours, you stretched your legs on British soil. Tilting your head to the side you eyed the suits neatly presented in the display. You don’t have such uniforms at Statesman, and for a brief moment you wondered will you be made one as a gift from one agency to another.

“Welcome to Kingsman.” Eggsy said, coming to stand by your side. He caught our gaze and smiled, well smirked, before hopping up the stone steps and opening the door for you like a true gentleman. You saved the urge to roll your eyes, bit back any comments and simply walked straight in, ready for whatever was waiting for you inside.

The briefing was quick. You met up with Merlin in the counselling room and listened carefully to the details. Not as exciting as you expected: you and Galahad Junior are expected to carry an expensive jewel that used to belong to the Queen and safely displace it in Italy, Rome. There was also something about assassination, but you missed that part. But apparently this black pearl, so small it’s barely the size of your pinkie’s nail, holds such great history that many fractions and black markets may want it. The instructions were to carry it around at all times: no shipping, no leaving it. It’s important to the Royal family. At least…of what’s left of it.

“I don’t get it.” You say after the meeting is over to your new partner for a couple of weeks at the very least, “Isn’t the Queen…dead?”

Eggsy gives you a strange look, one torn between amusement and disgust “About that, yea? Best not to mention the Queen to most folk. It’s a touchy subject.” He explains. You doubt he actually cares all that much, but it must be a British thing. Damn that Valentine, ruining everything for everyone.

The interior is exquisite and it almost rivals with Statesman’s main HQ. You can’t help but awe at the glistering wooden ornaments, statues of men you have never even seen in your life but they look important so you gaze at them with respect, the expensive cloths laying around, suits, bowties, ties…Everything a tailor can dream about, or a man with an extensive wallet. Eggsy leads you forward and you follow like a lost puppy.

“So…” He stops next to dressing room ‘1’, “How about that suit?”

You blink, feel a rush of confusion as your focus falls to him from the impressive portrait of a man with a goatee, “What?”

Eggsy opens the door, “You wanted a custom suit, yea? Or was it the alcohol takin’?” He looks sneaky and smug and if those glasses weren’t hiding his eyes you are positive you’d see mischief glisten in them. Your brows knit together forming soft lines between them. You glance at the gentleman by the counter with a metre thrown over his shoulder.

“You mean…” You trail, “He will make me one? If I asked?”

“Just get in, yea?” He doesn’t wait for your answer simply enters the small secluded room and you have no choice but to follow. The man behind the counter gives you a smile, as if the interaction between you and Eggsy never happened.

He shuts the door once you’re in. The room emits a strange musky scent, almost like cologne, the warm yellow glow of lamps bounces off the green walls and a wide mirror reflects both you and your partner, full length, exposing all of your and his details in brilliant light. You don’t fail to catch Eggsy’s smile, nor do you fail to notice him taking out a metre of his own.

You raise a brow, “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He shoots, “I’m sorry, love, but we have nothing here for ladies if you haven’t notice already.” He fixes his glasses and takes a step forward; with the tips of his fingers he gently presses the metre from your right shoulder to your left, his eyes trailing it carefully to make sure your measurements are correct.

“Don’t you have any female agents?” You inquire.

“Well,” He stops for a moment, “We have Roxy. Not many other that I know of.” And continues measuring.

“Wooow,” You bleat, “That’s sad.”

“Lift your arms, please.” He mumbles off-handed and you comply without a second thought. He ties the metre around your bust. A positive nod comes from him a second later and you surpass a sigh.

“You didn’t tell me you are actually a trained tailor.” You say as he crouches to measure just how long your legs are.

“Fuck if I know how to sow, but can’t be that hard, can it?”

tbc ( if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

tags: @writeasfitzsimmons un-education @ketterdame 

[denial-island-spn]

[Admin Island - Near the docks]

Late afternoon

She is not prepared.  

No matter how much she’s thought about this moment.  No matter how many times she’s run it through in her mind.  She has prepared for his anger.  She has prepared for his wounded pride.  She is not prepared to see him so hurt.  

(Dark) Gabe: Megs, you don’t really want this…

She is not prepared to see uncertainty mar the brittle confidence he’s rebuilt since they’ve returned.

Megs: It’s not about what I want anymore, Gabe.  

She is not prepared to feel like she must choose one person she cares about over another.

(Dark) Gabe: This - this is a bad idea.  What happens if one of you need our help?

She is not prepared to feel so much fear at the thought of him not being there when she needs him.

Megs:  *she swallows, her mouth feeling uncomfortably dry as she drops her gaze to the sand* It’s not permanent.  

She’s not sure who she’s trying to reassure more with that remark.  

(Dark) Gabe: *his eyes are sad and pleading, and he looks like a puppy who’s been kicked* Don’t shut me out, sweet tart.  *he reaches up and pushes the hair back from her face.  His fingers caress along her jaw, taking her gently by the chin as he forces her to look up again*  Not after all we’ve been through.

She’s weak.  She’s so weak, and she’s so close to giving in and saying he doesn’t have to go, that she’ll find another way.  Then Gabriel’s warning drifts back through her mind and she remembers that despite this being mostly for Krys, there is a reason she’s prepped to ward the inside of her house as well.

She also remembers she’s angry at him for not being the one to warn her.

Megs: *look up at him,displeased* When were you going to tell me it eventually wouldn’t matter whether it was day or night.

(Dark) Gabe: *his brows draw together and now he just looks like a confused, kicked puppy*  What are you talking about?

Megs:  I know, Gabe.  Gabriel explained to me what happens if I remain unclaimed.

(Dark) Gabe: *there’s an immediate shift at the mention of his counterpart and he glowers*  Of course he did.  Idiot can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life.

Megs: *she glares at him* It’s called being transparent.  Maybe you should try it sometime.

(Dark) Gabe:  *he arches a brow* You know, the saying people in glass houses?  That topic, my dear, is the equivalent of you swinging a wrecking ball .

Her lips pull thin as she bites back a retort because he’s not wrong.  

(Dark) Gabe: *his chin dips down, and he gives her the look, the one that’s soft and adoring and wholly adorable that she can never seem to resist*  Do you trust me?

Megs: *her glare softens but doesn’t fully disappear* You know I do.  But trusting you won’t stop what I am from becoming some sort of homing beacon for the divine choir.  

(Dark) Gabe: I’m never going to let that happen.

Something changes as he says this.  She can’t quite put her finger on it, but it instills that uneasy feeling she had the other night when he smelled Gabriel on her.

She really does trust him and knows most of it is his desire to protect her.  But there’s this little piece of him that makes her uncertain that’s the only reason why.  It’s the one that has him pushing her all of a sudden, one that is selfish and more archangel in that is whispers of basic, predatory instincts.  

She wonders if this is what Gabriel was trying to warn her about.  

Then again, he also tried telling her she’s the danger, in addition to (dark) Gabe.  She’s still feeling the sting of that remark.  

Megs:  *realizing that maybe them taking space isn’t necessarily a bad thing*  It’s not about me anymore.  Or you.  First and foremost, this is about protecting Krys, and this is happening whether you want it to or not.  

He becomes angry.  Really angry, in a way that tells her he not only does not care to be challenged this way, but he’s scared.  Except this Gabriel is more scared for her (and likely himself) than anything, and it breaks her heart even more to be doing this to him.  

(Dark) Gabe: Is this what you really want?

He’s pushing again and for some reason he cannot let this one question go.  

Megs: I - I don't know what I want.

It’s not quite a lie, not fully a truth, but the middle ground between is the safest place for either of them right now considering stepping out into either direction will just make this even harder than it already is.

(Dark) Gabe:  *Gold flares bright and fierce* Stop playing it safe.  Stop hiding and make a father damn decision for once!  *he grabs her arms, looking like he wants to shake an answer straight out of her*  

Megs: *tries twisting out of his grasp, pleading with him*  Gabe, stop. Please.

Her rising anxiety pushes against the thin barriers she’s prepared to keep everything from the past week at bay.  Her limits are stretched to the max, however, and she finally hits the point where it’s just too damn much.

(Dark) Gabe: *keeps a firm hold over her, and it’s clear he has no intention of backing down.  For the first time ever, he raises his voice to the point he’s shouting so loud he can be heard clear down the beach*  Why do you keep pushing me away?

His fury is palpable in a way that is overwhelming and frightening.  She’s never seen him this close to losing control and the rush of adrenaline and nerves has her blurting out the truth before she can stop it.

Megs: *yelling through the thick emotion in her throat, tears springing into her eyes*  Because you’re not him!

Her mouth drops open, horrified she’s actually said that aloud, but the fallout hits before she can take it back or explain.  He releases her so quickly it’s like she’s burned him (though she imagines in some ways she has).  He’s beyond angry.  Beyond furious.  Where he is, isn’t even on the map.  Every part of him goes rigid, his hands half curled like he wants to clench him, but doesn’t dare.  His chin swings sideways, his head tilting slightly and the way he stares, he’s no longer Gabriel.

What he is is infinite, primordial, but it’s more than that.  She’s never seen this before, but the shadows that nearly swallow gold are far from angelic.  It carries a familiar, absolute edge, but this is full of sin and corruption and for a moment she’s not sure if he’s going to kill her, fuck her, or simply set the entire place on fire.  

(Dark) Gabe: *his voice is low and eerily even* You’re right.  I’m not.  

As he turns to leave she realizes she’s pushed too far, only this time she hasn’t intended to at all.

Megs: *she grabs him, half her instincts warning her not to let him walk away like this* Gabe, wait… *look she receives suggest she will regret it if she doesn’t let him go immediately.  She hurriedly moves in front of him, ignoring the other half of her that’s alarmed and well aware of the sudden danger * Wait.  

(Dark) Gabe:  *snarls* I’ve waited long enough. *he breaks free from her grasp and starts to move again*

The finality in his tone is what makes her realize he’s not just leaving, he’s leaving whatever this confusing and tentative arrangement is.

Megs: *she makes another grab for him, pleading for him to listen*  I didn't mean it like that.  

This time there’s the smallest burst of energy that pushes her away.  She stumbles back, stunned, and as he turns, his eyes flashing dangerously with a clear warning  to stay away before he continues toward the docks.

She doesn't dare go near him again, but she can't just let him walk away.  She’s done this.  She’s done this to him and she needs to fix this because he doesn't understand.  

Megs closes her eyes, just as terrified of what she’s about to say as she is of losing him.  Her heart is racing wildly, her body shaking from the adrenaline, anxiety, and threat she felt from him.

Megs: *shouts desperately after him* I can’t love him.  

(Dark) Gabe freezes, unsure if he’s heard correctly or if it’s somehow a trick.  He turns his head, his features tightly guarded as she slowly approaches.  His stare, however, is hard, unyielding, and it’s the cynical look of distrust he levels that pierces her resolve.  

Megs: *closes her eyes, unable to see him this damaged, knowing how much of it is her own doing.  She picks at her nails, trying to still the way they shake, the way her entire body trembles at the influx of energy that washes over her the closer he gets* W-we could never be more than friends… He’s not built like that. It would be like caging him… and I would never want him to be anything other than what he is.  

She doesn’t open her eyes until she feels his finger beneath his chin, and even then it’s only because there’s a strange pull that comes with it, as if she has to face him right at this moment.

Megs: *her eyes become wide, clearing of the chaotic sentiments that have clouded them since her return. The inner edge of gold in Gabe’s gaze glows with an unusual light that begins to reflect back in darks of her eyes* *quietly, her tone subdued*  You’re not him…

His wings suddenly flare out behind him and she’s too caught up in how intense his energy is to notice that they now resemble smoke and ash, the sporadic, twinkling lights a dark red, like burning embers.  

(Dark) Gabe: I’m not him.  *he releases her face, dropping to his knee in front of her.*

Megs: Wh-what are you doing?

(Dark) Gabe: Showing you I’m not afraid to offer myself to you.  

She doesn’t know what that means, only that there’s a whole world of official that resonates beneath that statement.

Megs: I - Gabe - You don’t have to --

(Dark) Gabe: Ol dalagare en olapireta pugo amiran…

She’s heard this phrase almost nightly, along with a litany of others, but this time there’ a sharp, innate tug that starts somewhere deep inside her.  It continues pulling taut until it finally snaps straight up through her mind.  She doesn’t know what’s happening.  It’s not quite like she’s no longer in control, but later when she looks back on this moment, it will shake her more than anything else that’s happened today because she’s not certain she still is.  

Megs: *takes hold of face, gazing intently down at him, searching, for what she doesn’t understand.  She only knows she’s found it as she sinks down to her knees in front of him.* Ol vinu od zacar elasa

She has no idea what she’s just said, only that she’s never seen him happier.  Just as she thinks her mind is recovering, he sends her reeling again as he leans in and steals a kiss.  His touch is like a live wire, and the distinct tingle that accompanies the energy shooting through her being tells her it’s completely his... and somehow hers. 

(Dark) Gabe: *pulling back, looking deeply into her eyes as he promises*  I will wait as long as you need me to. *he brushes his lips against hers once more before pulling away*  You’re right.  It’s safer to take precautions.  Do you need any help with the warding in your cabin?

Megs: *blinks a moment, trying to recover from the severe whiplash he’s given her*  I, um, no.  I should... no.  

(Dark) Gabe: *chuckles*  You know where to find me if you need anything.   

She needs a few things at the moment.  One would be a stiff drink, the other is some answers because she has no idea what has just happened for him to do a complete 180 on everything.   

She doesn’t get either as he disappears with the quiet rustle of wings and it takes her several minutes before she’s even able to make the solitary walk back to her place.

[merchantofwhispers]

ribbedxgloves‌:

Brent gave her a plain look, as though he might as well have been daydreaming, but he was doing his best to control his thoughts and not show any anger towards the Council of Elders. He was sure they were attuned to him and despite being centuries old, the vampire prince cannot completely close off his thoughts to them. They were called Elders for a reason, each of the 20 members sired countless vampires and spread their mystical powers. None of them sired Brent, however. They did seek out Gemina and thought it would be fitting to have their vampire king marry one just like him, but they expected Brent to have control over her. Brent did not want that, personally. He had the idea that a spouse did not become property of another spouse. 

He cannot focus on how his heart ached for Gemina, how he felt guilt for dismissing her but also knew he did so for her best interests. He did not want her tortured or hurt, not when he swore to protect her for all of eternity. 

What he was unaware of, however, was the talk in the Councils of separating Gemina from their beloved prince. A dangerous idea had just seeded in their minds and they were sharing the idea with one another. Brent had no way to know, as he cannot read any of their minds due to their mental block. They ceased conversation when he returned back.

She told him to not negotiate on his behalf. Brent sighed, turning the attention back to his plans to reunite the kingdom, honoring his wife’s wishes to not speak for her. Hopefully they all forgot about it, if forgetting is what the Councils are known for.

He was wrong. What he heard next had him shaken to the core. 

Brent returned, standing near the doorway and watching his wife with her sketchbook. He gulped, aware that she can now sense his presence even when he was not in her field of vision. Approaching her, he sat beside and stared down at the floor.

“They want me to torture you, in the dungeons. While they watch. I did not negotiate for you like you told me to, and this is what happened,” the statement was made dryly. He stopped himself from thinking about how terrible and twisted the Council members were, before any of them can pick up on his thoughts even at this distance. 

I can’t do it.

I have to do it, or it will be worse.

There was no initial reaction to his arrival, nor even one as he sat down. Her pencil moved fluidly over the paper, marking and filling in shadowy areas on the crow she was drawing -- perched upon a crumbling wall. Gemina’s pencil only came to a stop after the weight of his statement was allowed to linger in the air and she set the utensil down gently. “So that’s how they intend on teaching me.” She said in a gentle hum unbefitting of the situation. She had expected as such, some form of humiliation to put her in her place, but she’d made peace with that long before her marriage to Brent was ever even an idea. 

Resting her sketchbook onto the edge of the windowsill, Gemina rose up from her spot on the seat and looked down at Brent without a hint of reservation. “Before the sun rises then. Let’s not waste my our time and risk giving them a bit of a sunburn, shall we?” She began stripping off her finer clothing down to her undergarments but was quick to replace it was the simplicity of a bland day dress-- something she often wore when intending on moving through the gardens while Brent rested. Her hair was taken down, jewelry removed, and she washed her face free of the nightly routine that added color to her snowy skin. 

When she returned to face Brent, bare and white, the scars that marred her brow and lip were plainly visible -- and in the hours coming she hoped the rest of her scars would be as well, raised and ugly off the skin from tortures passed. Moments in time that made her what she was. A promise not to be broken.

“Lead the way, your majesty. It’s time to perform your duty.” Perhaps there was more bitterness in her voice than intended, but the warmth and joy, the admiration she felt for brent in the weeks and months prior was nowhere to be found at that exact moment. 

[mab-speaks]

Fic: Dangerous Decadence

For @zokudarakuron. Written for my bsd ficlet challenge based on the prompt requests: “I would kill for a cup of coffee…literally” and Angocest. (Ango x Ango)

Rated: M 

Summary: Definition of Decadence - 1. moral or cultural decline as characterized by excessive indulgence in pleasure or luxury. 2. luxurious self-indulgence.What if Ango's ability enabled him to luxuriate in self-indulgence - literally and, like Chuuya when he goes into Corruption-mode, Ango can lose himself to himself in a downward spiral to the point he can't stop? Who needs friends when you can entertain yourself?

Content Notice: Sex, references to suicidal ideation/attempt, loss of control, Inappropriate humor. Also, implied Odazai and potential Dazango.

You can read it here or on the Ao3. 

Clack. Scuff. Clack.

The sound of my shoes against the pavement resounds in my ears tonight. My shadow stretching before me grows longer with every step, taunting me to chase it, to catch it before it, too, slips from my grasp.

I try to ignore the taunt, pushing my glasses further up the bridge of my nose and focusing instead on the end of my journey. The hotel. Eighteen stories of concrete walls, the promise of anonymity and seclusion within.

Who needs friends anyway? I've gotten by just fine without them for most of my life; if Dazai and Odasaku feel the need to cozy up together at the bar and forget I'm present, then who am I to interrupt? I'd excused myself to use the restroom and left through the back door. They probably haven't even noticed my absence.

I furrow my brows as the wind picks up, the sea-breeze chilling my face with a layer of salt, fogging my glasses. My temples throb, a tension headache building.

Clack. Scuff. Clack.

I continue walking, the buzzing of the streetlamps accompanying my shoes in a pathetic rhythm. It's odd, the lack of people tonight. Normally the nightlife in this district borders on bawdy, but tonight – the streets are vacant, the shops all closed, windows dark.  

My shadow jumps as I pass the park, playing hide and seek with itself amongst the diagonal pattern made by the trees. Nearly there. The hotel looms ahead, dark but for a scattered few lit windows.

I welcome the burst of warm air that greets me as I stride through the lobby doors. I flash my ID at the doorman and head for the elevator, rubbing absently at the nape of my neck. I need to do something about this tension, something I haven't indulged in for far too long. The idea flashes across my mind like a sign from heaven, making my pulse race, my palms itch.

The elevator dings as it reaches my floor, the doors taking far too long to open. I have to force myself not to break into a run in my rush to reach my room. My hand trembles as I put the key into the lock, my heart thudding in my ears. Is this really a good idea? I have had several shots of whiskey already. I may not be thinking clearly enough to … NO! I don't care! I deserve this. Attention. Affection. Self-care. I need it. I bite my lip as I open the door and step into my sanctuary.

I loosen my tie, unbuttoning my jacket as I cross the room to draw the drapes over the windows. That finished, I run through my nightly routine of checking the room for bugs and signs of intrusion, shrugging out of my clothes as I go, leaving them where they fall.

It's been too long. My hands grip the tiled bathroom counter, my back bent, head bowed as I glare at the large wall mirror, my forehead creased. My gift – I used to rely on it all the time – decadence enabled me to rise above all others, to need nobody. It made me superior. In this moment I can't recall why I had sworn off using it, why I had called it a curse.

I bite my lip, hesitating, my eyes roving over my own reflection. His pale skin, nearly always hidden beneath a brown three-piece suit, now completely revealed. His lips are plump and rosy, the faint traces of teeth marks marring the lower one. They stretch into a smirk, an invitation. I'd been ready to go for it the moment I'd stepped off the elevator, but now, facing him – my conscience prickles, the throbbing at my temples intensifying.  

"Wh-hy?" I ask aloud, my voice cracking. "I haven't needed you for more than two years. I buried you." My arms tremble, elbows locking to keep them from giving out. My nerves feel raw under the eyes of my reflection, his dilated pupils drinking in every inch of my exposed body with the magnetism of a black hole.

He doesn't answer out loud, can't … yet.

He arches an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. I know what he's thinking. After all, he is me. If you'd like me to answer, you know what you have to do.

My eyes burn as I close them, briefly shutting him out. It's hard to think clearly under his gaze, harder still with the pounding in my temples. In my mind's eye, I return to the bar, to my lonely perch on a barstool, separated from Dazai and Odasaku by the service counter. They share a laugh, a joke perhaps that I hadn't caught, their shoulders brushing, Dazai's hand clutching Odasaku's wrist to steady himself. I sigh, swigging the last of my drink and swallowing the bitter taste with a grimace.

I open my eyes again, meeting his, my focus sharpening as the lingering taste in my mouth grows bitter once more. Right. What are friends really? What guarantee do they deliver? Friends grow together and then apart, some faster than others, at least, according to my observations. I hadn't asked to be friends with them in the first place. I was bullied into it. Sure, I enjoyed the time I had with them more than any other period of my life, but I always knew it would come to end. It was inevitable. They never knew who I really am and, were they to find out, they wouldn't hesitate to kill me. Dazai especially.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, lips parched. I take in my reflection. My eyes are round and soft, sad. This, too, was always inevitable. I can't count on others to fill the emptiness inside me. I can only rely on myself.

"Discourse on Decadence," I whisper, reaching up, touching my fingertips to his, meeting them in a coarse press of dry skin against skin, our palms lining up, pressing flat together and then, our fingers linking, curling, joining in a shared fist. Heat floods my body, the familiar thrill of pleasure, of promised satiation. I pull, breathing out, stepping back to make room as he climbs out of the mirror as if from a veil of mercury and then we stand face to face, my peripheral vision catching our twin profiles in the mirror.

"Ango." He speaks first, his voice soft and deep, washing over me like warm puff of air, sending sparks of anticipation up and down my arms, canvassing my chest. I simply take him in, his presence so familiar and yet, altered. The hollow space inside my soul aches, yearning for him to fill it up, a hole tailor-made to his shape. "How I've missed you."

I fall into his arms without a second thought, his warmth further igniting mine, making me feverish. I don't care. I haven't been cherished for so long, haven't felt whole and complete. I need this – him – like air, like water. He can do anything to me and I'll let him. I close my eyes, nuzzling his neck and lose myself in the sensation of our skin brushing together, my pulse rushing, my mouth panting, desperate to join as one.

Our lips meet and catch, tongues tracing familiar patterns, and then we trade kisses, drinking them in with so much need, so much frenzy, I forget to breathe. Surrendering myself to his arms, his guidance, giving myself completely over to the only person I can trust makes my heart swell with the thick nostalgia of coming home. I lose myself, my sense of time, my everything without complaint so long as he doesn't leave me. He carries me to the bed and sets about fulfilling my deepest, most hidden desires. Nothing is false between us. How could it be? He is me.

XxxX

Self-Indulgence. Decadence. It isn't so much a gift as a curse; I recall these facts now. I can give myself anything, can accomplish any goal so long as it's something I truly want. The downside to this ability took me a long time to realize and by the time I had, it was too late for me. If your every desire can be had, every goal you set can be achieved all on your own, goals cease to carry weight, pleasures become boring, dull, and the need to connect with others, to develop relationships is not necessary. I began self-sabotaging my efforts, finding half-way through a mission that would have secured me a position of great power that I no longer wanted it. I no longer cared.

I got picked up by the government, drafted into the Special Abilities Division, and then seduced into becoming a double agent by Ougai Mori. He was always the mastermind behind most of the cases I catalogued during my undercover stint as an accountant. When you get to the point of complete apathy, hollowed out inside and dreaming of a day when you may once again have something to live for, following a master with a clear vision and a tight grip on control is just what happens.

I hate myself as much as I love myself. I hadn't realized that I still had the capacity for such strong emotions as love and hate until Dazai singled me out. He and Odasaku. And now they have outgrown our friendship, found a higher plane together and left me high and dry. I can't hate them for it; I already saw it coming.

It was only ever a matter of time before this whole experiment went bust. I had ceased relying on my ability in order to save myself, to find a reason to live, to do something worthwhile and also to protect myself from exploitation. It's preferable that my masters remain ignorant of my gift. I truly believe the work I do is, in the grander scheme, worthwhile. So long as the Mafia gains legal status, the citizens of Yokohama will continue to live peaceful and happy lives. Law and order. Peace. Happiness. I long to understand these concepts, to realize them in my own life. I don't know if that will ever be possible, but I still hope.

Fingers press my pleasure spot, scattering my thoughts like chaff. I exhale, moaning, giving in once more to my basest desires. I've lost track of the time, the date, how long ago I ate or drank. I know myself, he knows me, knows what I need and how and when to give it to me. After two years of abstinence, a passionate reunion is definitely not unwelcome.

"Ango," he grunts, his breath hot against my cheek, his touch reaching deeper, higher inside me than he ever has before. I feel like I'm floating, hovering halfway between wake and sleep, the land of dreams and fulfilled desire. My eyes roll back in my head, I'm losing my ability to stay present, passing out … "No you don't. Look at me."

He grabs my chin, forcing it down, his eyes dark as tunnels swimming as I try to bring him into focus. My vision splits into three, blending into two and then, as he stops pumping into me, I'm able to focus on his face.

"It's too much." I sound like I'm whining, but even I can hear the yearning for even more in my own ears. I never want to stop, never want to be alone again. I can see him read my thoughts as he grins at me, his bangs plastered to his forehead, sweat dripping from the tips. "My throat is dry," I clarify. "I need a drin–" I swallow my words as he closes his mouth on top of mine, chasing my complaints down with his tongue. I don't mind. I wrap my arms around his back, holding on for dear life as his hips begin pumping into me again. Drunk on his taste, his kisses, his presence enveloping me, I find my climax as he steals my breath, my vision going white. It stays white as I linger in the moment, high as a kite, floating on a cloud, without a care if I ever come back down.

XxxX

So empty, so high, so light … my brain buzzes as I return to the present, my eyes lolling unfixed in their sockets. I force myself to focus, too see out from my dazed state, but it's as hit or miss as getting power through a frayed wire.

My body rocks, my head rolling on the mattress, occasionally bumping up against the headboard. How long have I been out? How long has he been at it? How much more can either of us take? My stomach clenches, a gnawing rumble breaking the silence. He chuckles.

I try to wet my lips, but even my tongue is dry. My throat feels like a desert, wasted and parched. My eyes are dry. It's more comfortable to keep them closed, but even then, my eyelids feel like they're made of sandpaper.

This … my ability … It's gone too far; it's too much. I realize with horror, holding fast to the thought: I have lost control. I feel nothing. My physical self is somewhere apart from where my mind is at. Where do I find hope? What is hope? Do I still have that? I feel so blank. Empty.

"Da-zai …" The name sounds in my ears, a croak. I'm pretty sure I'm the one who called it. And it makes sense right now, in this moment, that the one man who inspired emotions in me, a man of a similar emptiness, would be my last hope. "I want … I want … Dazai."

The bed creaks as he rises above me. I can't feel my legs. The only sensations I hold seem centered in my chest and my head. I open my eyes as his breath hits my cheeks. My heart clenches as if lodging itself in my throat. His features shift, changing, becoming more like Dazai.

"No!" I gasp. "Not like that. Not you – not me in a Dazai mask. I want the real person. Dazai."

His face returns to normal. The heart-shape, bland features I see every day hover over me as if I was peering into a mirror. His expression doesn't hold the horror I feel at all. His eyes look at me half-lidded, bored.

"Ah yes. But … this goes both ways, you know. You invited me to come inside, to become one with you and that is what I want."

Wait. What? My mind reels. I'm losing the plot.

"I cannot do what you do not want, Ango," he says, sounding so much like he's reciting a carefully prepared criticism. "And, likewise, you know that you can trust me because I am you."

My vision dims again, his face becoming a blur of color until I close my eyes to stave off the discomfort. "Still. Call him. I want Dazai, not this. Please …" Even without the dizzying color blur, I'm losing my fight to stay aware. "I want … Dazai … want you … come …"

I'm slipping in and out of consciousness, unable to fight it, unwilling to try.

XxxX

"Back again, Ango?"

His voice sounds far off, but it gives me an anchor point to draw myself back into awareness. My eyes open as slits. It takes more energy than I have to blink.

"Good. You're nearly ready. We will be one."

My heart stutters, picking up and knocking against my ribs and then skipping a couple of beats. I don't know what he's talking about. It's impossible. We've always been able to read each other. We have no secrets. "I … I don't understand…" My throat feels like it's been scraped raw, just pushing enough air through it to make my voice heard.

"You wouldn't," he says dryly. "You think you can seduce me, us; use us; thrive off the power we make together and then just … one day … stop? That there wouldn't be any consequences?"

My mind races, attempting to catch up to him, to get a glimpse, a thread of what he's telling me. "I thirst," I croak. "Can't think. Need help. Feels like … dying."

He talks over my complaints as if he didn't catch them.

"It's time to break down all the boundaries between us. You can't put us away any more, Ango. Can't refuse to answer us, to ignore our presence, your true nature. We will no longer be suppressed."

"How?" I ask, my voice barely audible, like wind hitting a blade of grass.

"That empty space you always bemoan – it's grown. I've been growing it more. Going to hollow you out, break your reins, your last hesitation and then, I will climb inside. We will reside together in one body and be one always. We will never be without our ability and we will rise above the rest of the riff-raff and show them what true mastery is."

I form my words with my lips, forcing the last of my strength into making them heard. "I'd rather die."

He grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging in bruisingly. "This is the truth? Why you call out for Dazai, for that suicidal freak? You choose death over us?"

"Y-es," I gasp. My eyes burning, my lips going numb, the world going dark.

XxxX

"Well that wasn't very nice, but I do admit it had that touch of poetry about it."

My lips are cold, freezing, but it doesn't matter because my throat is wet again, cool trickles of water sluicing over the parched membranes. I'm so relieved, I don't even wonder who that voice belonged to or what it said.

I move my lips, finding a rough bit of something gummy, gluey, pressed against my mouth. The water source. I latch onto it and suck, drinking it as much as I can, though it's slow-going. Ice? I think it must be ice. That would explain the cold, but the weird texture … It must be wrapped in some sort of … fabric? I'm not sure. It's slimy.

Tentatively, I open my eyes, blinking, disoriented. And then things start to make sense as I take in the scene. Dazai, crouching over me, straddling my thighs and pinning me in place while he feeds me melting ice with his … Gross. I turn my face away from the ice pack, finally making sense of the odd taste. "Dazai, stop." Gauze. I turn back to meet his eyes after he's moved the bundle away from my face. He looks like he's trying to hide his amusement. "Seriously? You had me sucking on ice through your damn bandages?"

The pounding in my temples is back again. I'm so tired, Dazai's stupid smirk souring my mood further. "Get off! I can't feel my legs with your bony ass sitting on them."

He smiles, his left eyebrow lifting high on his forehead, his right eye and upper face are still hidden with bandages. "Yes! Good morning to you too, Ango! Did you sleep well?"

My brain feels like mush. I hate mornings. I wrinkle my forehead, confused. What did I do last night? What did I drink? I dare not voice those questions.

"Why are you here?" I ask him, sighing and rubbing absently at my forehead.

He hands me my glasses as the scent of coffee suddenly wafts across my nose, my brain screaming for it. God. Coffee. Yes. Caffeine. I need wake-up juice to give me a boost and then I might be able to deal with Dazai this early in the morning.

I slide my glasses into place and start to push myself up, but Dazai holds me down with his hand on my chest, still pinning my legs between his thighs. "Dazai?" I repeat, unamused.

"Hmm?"

"This is not a joke."

"No. You're right. It isn't."

"Let me get up and grab a cup of coffee then? I'll gladly sit still and listen to whatever you have to say after that."

His forehead creases, worry lines bunching up, his lips drawing down into a frown.

"Dazai. I will kill for a cup of coffee … literally."

He nods again, his expression seeming to grow more sad than worried. What the hell is going on right now?

"And your body is currently between me and the coffee pot," I lower my voice to emphasize the threat. And then it hits me as Dazai's lips twitch into a playful smirk. I massage the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes against the tension. "Right. And it's pointless for me to threaten to kill somebody who longs to die. Is that it?"

I pause, waiting for his playful comeback and encountering only silence. I look up at him, locking gazes with the most serious face I've ever seen Dazai wear.

"You tell me, Ango. Is that it?"

I scoff, an uncomfortable inkling making the back of my neck prickle. I did something stupid. I showed him something too close to home. I blanch, feeling the blood draining from my face.

"Whoa, whoa!" he says, holding onto my shoulders to keep me steady and then fluffing my pillows behind my head. "I'm not judging, just trying to jog your memory. I gotta tell you that I didn't see that coming at all. Like, honestly. I'm impressed."

I can only gape at him. What the hell did I do?

"I've attempted to kill myself dozens of different ways, but … suicide by fucking yourself to death is uh... creative, to say the least."

I cannot believe he just said that. I cannot believe … and then snippets of memories flash across my mind. Dazai and Odasaku's closeness, my quick departure from the bar, the walk home, the mirror … "Oh my god. Why does it have to be you? Why do I have to have this conversation with you?" I'm so mortified, I wish I could disappear into my mattress and just be gone.

His hand closes around my wrist, surprisingly gentle.

"Because, Ango, you called me."

The End

[revlyncox]

Beside Still Waters

Replenish the spirit and dwell in goodness. An embodied faith community that goes about the business of the collective restoration of souls can help us sustain each other in difficult times. Revised and updated for the UU Congregation of York, PA, I preached this sermon on February 5, 2017.

Not that long ago, we almost had real snow. The weather predictions were noncommittal. We worried about commuters, travelers, and public safety workers. Winter weather can be both beautiful and terrible. Just when I thought the snow was a complete hoax and I set out on a long drive, flurries twirled through the sky. We didn’t get more than a dusting of accumulation, but it was an exciting show. Melted water and frozen water were tumbling in tension on the unpredictable path toward spring. There may be other frozen skies this month, but warmer days are struggling into birth.

Unitarian Universalism has its own kind of wintry mix. Our history shows us to be both critical and optimistic. We work for justice and compassion with confidence in the possibility of progress. With gratitude, we enjoy the gifts of the interdependent web and the support of our community. We are also realistic as we learn more about the work yet to be done. Most of all, we are real people with joys and sorrows. Like everyone else, UUs have triumphs and disappointments, and we need our faith to comfort us, sustain us, and help us give voice to joy.

As we circle together to dance with this simultaneous awareness of what could be and what is, the terrible and the beautiful throughout time, we can find inspiration from all of the sources of our living tradition. Sacred text, the stories of prophetic women and men, and direct experience are just some of the strands of music that keep us moving.

In complicated times, I find encouragement in the 23rd Psalm. The translation I’ll draw from today is from the arrangement by Bobby McFerrin, found in our Singing the Journey hymnal. The 23rd Psalm describes the experience of a person who faces danger and opposition, yet also finds a sense of renewal, forward momentum, and balance through spirituality. In our own lives and in the example of UUs who have gone before us, we, too, can find this centered place of gratitude and growth.

Organizing in faithful communities can replenish the spirit; as the Psalmist says, “she restores my soul.” The Psalmist also says, “she leads me in the path of good things.” The spiritual path gives us the courage to move forward when we are in despair or just caught in a routine. By knowing our mortal limits and using our gifts in the service of love, I believe that “goodness and kindness will follow” us all the days of our lives, and that we will “live in her house”—that is, the path of the Spirit of Life—forever. We cope with the beautiful and the terrible when we replenish the spirit and dwell in goodness.

She Restores My Soul: Replenishing the Spirit in Community

“She restores my soul.” We have resources for both comfort and the strength to face challenges in our communities. Some people hold that the gathered community of faith is the Divine body. The Holy is tangible in the sense that helping hands and shoulders to cry on are among us, motivated by one spirit. Here in this congregation, some of us believe in God, some of us don’t, some leave the question unanswered.

What we do believe in is each other. When we are lost, when we are feeling overwhelmed by the effects of brokenness in the world, there is still hope being kept alive by the energy of human relationships. Together, we go looking for it, we shape that energy into beauty through art and music, we organize ourselves in such a way that hope and comfort and solace flow to the people who need it.

One of our UU ancestors who understood this was Fannie Barrier Williams (biographies here, here and here), a member of All Souls (Unitarian) Church in Chicago at the turn of the 20th century. We heard a bit about her in the Time for All Ages story this morning.

Fannie Barrier Williams was a force for the collective restoration of souls. She brought people together in all kinds of community settings, culturally focused and culturally mixed, rich and poor, powered by privilege and empowered by hope. As an accomplished painter and musician, Barrier Williams showed that the arts are part of what we need for the restoration of souls. Inspiration comes through meeting and lecturing and writing, yes, and she did all of those things well, but inspiration also comes through shared experiences of beauty. She looked at a her beloved country, marred by lynching and discrimination, and responded by building institutions and relationships that replenished minds, bodies, and spirits.

I think we can apply the teachings of Fannie Barrier Williams in our own time by strengthening all of the positive communities of which we are a part, and by constructing communities where people can shine with the full range of their gifts. When we make time for the arts in our own lives and encourage others to develop their talents, we are restoring souls. When we squarely acknowledge brokenness and introduce people to one another for the purposes of strength and healing, we are making repairs to the interdependent web.

One of the questions I get asked sometimes is whether I agree that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. If somebody asks me this privately, my answer doesn’t matter as much as listening to the pain that inspired the question. As a matter of public theology, I will say that I don’t think God sits around deciding how much suffering to deal out to individual people. I believe that the Divine weeps with us and holds us in love in our times of sorrow.

I think a great deal of evil and suffering in the world is caused by people who make bad choices in the midst of anger and fear, and that these human mistakes require a human response. Also, I think the scope of the question needs to be expanded. Individuals are, indeed, met with more pain than one person can handle. There is no shame in not being able to cope silently and alone with grief or trauma. And we shouldn’t have to. Together, neighbors, church members, movements, nations, and world communities have a greater capacity to bear and to transform suffering. That shared lifting takes willingness and cooperation and strategy.

She restores my soul. The Source of Love is present in communities that align with the forces that create and uphold life. Just and compassionate gatherings of people are embodiments of the Divine. May we create and expand the circles where spirits are replenished.

I Will Live in Her House: Dwelling in Goodness

In his poem, “Let Me Die Laughing,” the Rev. Mark Morrison-Reed writes:

We are all dying, our lives always moving toward completion. We need to learn to live with death, and to understand that death is not the worst of all events.

(Excerpted from the anthology, Been in the Storm So Long, 1991, edited by Mark Morrison-Reed and Jacqui James)

Morrison-Reed’s poem suggests that joy takes into account the authenticity of grief. He says that embracing our mortal limits is an invitation to use the gifts that we have. Fear might keep us from being compassionate or make us want to distance ourselves from the fullness of suffering and ecstasy in the present moment. The fear that immobilizes is often generalized: the ambiguous what-ifs, the unknown reactions, the clock that may or may not run out. The love that frees is often specific. Morrison-Reed refers to savoring and appreciating, breathing deeply, and holding hands with one person.

For myself, when I feel overwhelmed by the sorrows of people I care about and a constant stream of negative news reports, re-focusing on specific people or positive events can help bring me back to my center. I go looking for the people who are making a difference. I write a note to a good friend. I read the Beacon email. Reminders of good things are available to me.

Another technique is a sensory inventory. I take note of the blessings I can hear, touch, taste, smell, and see right here and right now. Is my heart still beating? What signs of life do I hear? What do my feet feel like against the floor? What is the unique pattern of light, shadow, and color in this room right now? Bringing awareness into the present moment helps to slow down the part of my brain that says I have to fix everything by myself immediately. If I’m particularly lucky, my inventory will turn up evidence of a person I admire or help me catch a glimpse of something fleeting and beautiful.  

The Psalmist writes, “Surely, surely goodness and kindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I will live in Her house, forever.” Goodness and kindness may not be obvious in any one story, or even in the wall of stories that come across the nightly news. On the other hand, odds are good that, at any given moment, someone I know is perpetuating goodness. Carrying that knowledge in the pocket of my mind helps me to calm down and to spread kindness when I am able.

Traveling with goodness and kindness, dwelling in confidence that love persists, comes with living fully in this world. This world is the one where we make mistakes and we suffer from the results of mistakes made by ourselves and others. This world is the one where we can give or receive a kind word, where sunrises are brilliant, and where baking bread smells delicious. Seeking to isolate ourselves from challenge or pain is not the path of good things. Knowing our mortal limits, gathering with others to nurture our gifts and to expand the reign of love, these are some of the ingredients for traveling alongside the Holy. May we live boldly, aware of the boundaries of this precious life. May we find assurance and peace in hearing, tasting, touching, smelling, and seeing the blessings directly in front of us.

Conclusion

As Mark Morrison-Reed reminds us, appreciating the world is part of saving the world. We may feel a sense of tension between the amazing glory and daunting problems of the world as it is, let us respond to both conditions in the spirit of love. Our Unitarian Universalist faith urges us to embrace both the goodness and the unfinished business of this world with honesty and passion. There is work to be done on behalf of justice and compassion. There is also beauty and joy. May our yearning for what could be thrive alongside our gratitude for what is.

May our faith bring us together with people who practice the collective restoration of souls. Let us develop our own community and join in common cause with others to promote hope and healing.

May our spiritual paths move onward with good things. Let us use the past as a guide for reconciliation.

May our limits give us a reason to live in the moment. Notice goodness and kindness as it happens. Take an inventory of the beauty and blessings we experience in this very moment.

So be it. Blessed be. Amen.

[asvinsamadhiya]

“On the road to Rishikesh I was dreaming more or less, And the dream I had was true Yes, the dream I had was true”

Indeed the Beatles were successful in putting words to the feelings that one gets in fascinating Rishikesh. The emerald green water, the equally green hills and the shimmering white sand. I thought only Goa could spur such magic but I was completely wrong.

Rishikesh is essentially the first place that the sacred Ganges River exits the mountains and enters the plains of India. In the high mountains, the water travels through forests and remains in clear glory. At this part of the river, nothing of the slush to come is visible. The Ganges’ poor reputation is well deserved once it reaches Varanasi, where riverside cremations and funeral pyres create a thick, polluted river that flows into the rest of the country.

As an avid India traveler who has covered 16 states in about 3 years of travel (spread over 12 years), I am often asked, “Where is your favorite place?” I always find it tough to answer as I have a LOT of favorite places. Usually, my answer will depend on my mood. With this blog, I am answering the question one favourite place at a time — starting with a small town in north India called “Rishikesh” I find Rishikesh a deceptively powerful place. Its robust, pristine nature, and the fact that it is probably the most easily accessible place in the Himalayas, from the capital city of New Delhi, makes it a fairly beatable tourist destination in the entire Himalayas. A 6-hour journey in a public bus and you find yourself being rejuvenated by the incense wafts on one its many Ganga ghats. The vibe here is both relaxed and reverent. Temple bells ring incessantly, giving almost a musical healing therapy to your ears. The ubiquitous, charming company of yogis, and the never-dying incense wafts in its breeze is nonetheless, always a plus.

There is a feeling in Rishikesh unlike anywhere else. The vibe is both relaxed and reverent — and consequently attracts genuine Hindu devotees and gurus as well as western hippies and spiritual dilettantes. While some may ascribe the increasing popularity of Rishikesh to the booming worldwide interest in yoga, in fact people have been gathering at this confluence of nature since the dawn of time to pray, meditate, chant and imbue the peaceful valley with eons of sacred energy. It’s a deceptively powerful place.

My favourite spot in Rishiskesh is at the quiet north end, where the sea-green river spills out of the mountains. White sand beaches line the banks, an occasional cow wanders by, and locals, yoga students and hippies gather in small groups to bathe in the chilly, fresh water of India’s most sacred river.

Just below is the first of two great pedestrian bridges that span the mighty river. Lakshman Jhula is the smaller bridge, but still it teems with foot traffic, scooters and monkeys. Cafes on both sides overlook the river and one of the most scenic spots in town. From here, Rishikesh wends its way along both banks of the river, at the bottom of a narrow valley. The east side is almost free of car traffic, and a walk from end to end takes about an hour, and passes sadhu huts, parks, and scores of small shops and stalls selling cotton clothes, gems, spiritual souvenirs, Hindu religious icons and snacks.

By the time you get to the other bridge, the big one, Ram Jhula, you are in the thick of the busiest part of Rishikesh. Sprawling ashrams, bustling restaurants, busy temples and statues depicting scenes from Hindu epics and the Bhagavad Gita abound.

*According to Lonely Planet, Rishikesh is one of the most famous destination for international tourism planning a trip to India. Travel to this town and you’ll feel it’s high energy! Rishikesh is divided into two main areas: the crowded and very lively Rishikesh town, where the local bus and train stations are situated and also the popular Triveni Ghat (a popular travel destination, an auspicious bathing ghat and place of prayer on the Ganges), and the riverside communities that are 2 km upstream around Ram Jhula and Lakshman Jhula, where most of the accommodation, ashrams, restaurants and travelers are ensconced.  Swarg Ashram, located on the eastern bank, is the traffic-free ‘spiritual center’ of Rishikesh, while High Bank, west of Lakshman Jhula, is a small enclave popular with backpackers.

It is at this end, near the huge Parmath Niketan ashram, where the nightly aarti(spiritual ritual) takes place at dusk on the ghats (steps), in front of a massive white statute of Shiva in meditation pose. It is an exciting event to take part in: pandits chant and wave oil lamps as the sun sets, and after dark everyone is invited to release small offerings — little “boats” made of flowers and leaves, containing a candle and incense stick — on the strong currents of the black river.

Rishikesh has something to offer for everyone – from those looking for a month-long yoga vacation to the less fortunate, time bounded, adventure seekers. Well, there’s a feeling in Rishikesh unlike anywhere else, and it draws you in.

So, Here is How I spent my 5 days in the Yoga Capital of the World ?

With excitement, curiosity and a fascination for all things beautiful, I embarked on a six hour trip from Delhi to Rishikesh. My aim was to explore the place at my own pace without rushing into things.

I had planned this trip on a shoestring budget and hence did not want to spend a bomb on accommodation. A friend from Delhi had told me about a recently opened hostel there called Zostel. As soon I reached Rishikesh bus stop I started exploring the lanes of rishikesh, getting the spiritual vibes of holy river Ganga flowing by and moved towards tapovan  where the hostel is located. On reaching Tapovan I called up the number available on the website and was guided to the hostel. It is located at a convenient place, quite close to the Laxman jhula. It is a cosy, beautiful property, ideal for budget travelers. I was happy to see the concept of backpackers’ hostel and social travel catching up so fast in India. I took a room in their mixed dorm, kept my luggage in one of the lockers and went out to explore the town. After a long journey, I was fairly hungry and wanted to eat at one of the riverside cafes which Rishikesh is quite famous for. The guy at the counter at Zostel told me about a few of them close to the Laxman Jhula.

So I walked to a cafe called ‘The Office”, that serves the best banana nutella samosas in the entire town, and possibly in the entire state. I had an entire evening to spend, so I decided to sit and read at the Ganga Beach Cafe, which, as the name suggests, is a cozy little place on the banks of river Ganga and then attended Ganga Aarti at Parmarth Niketan

For my very first day in Rishikesh, I happily wandered the town, relaxed in cafe with with river view and caught up on blogging. In evening I attended the Ganga Aarti at Parmeth Niketan Ashram in Rishikesh. This is the largest and best known Ashram in the area – set on the banks of the holy river. It accommodates up to 2,000 people at any one time. The Ganga Aarti were beautiful if somewhat marred by the many visitors who it seemed had come predominantly to take photos as opposed to soak up the atmosphere and appreciate the rituals.

My second day at the place deserved to be an adventurous one and so I decided to try my hand at the sport Rishikesh is known for- rafting. Few Travelers I met there had helped me with all the details and I’d managed to find myself a trainer.

At 9 in the morning, I found myself at the rafting site staring at the gushing waters and waiting eagerly to meet them. There, I met Tom an expert rafter who would also be my trainer. He told me that we would cover a total distance of 26kms in approximately 4 hours. He taught me some basic signs, which I was supposed to use in case I wanted to communicate with him while rafting. I, along with eight other people, all of them strangers, went on an adventure of a lifetime. As we kept tossing over the white waters, I came into close contact with the power and might of nature that made me revere it even more. During the entire trip we came across several rapids such as Good morning, Three Blind Mice, Crossfire and Club House (as identified by Tom). At many points during the session we felt that our raft would turn upside-down but thanks to Tom’s decisiveness and our meticulous following of instructions, nothing unfortunate happened.

Tom was an amazing instructor, a rockstar, but he spoke very little. And I am a curious person , so I pestered him to no extent and after much prodding he gave in. I learned that he was basically from England and had been living in India for three months then. He has rafted around the world, in some challenging spots like Zambezi, where getting down from your raft abruptly meant sure-shot death. And then I realized, he too, like Siddhartha from the book I was reading, has a definite goal in mind, and that goal is to stretch his boundaries to the farthest point. It takes courage to get out of your comfort zone and explore dangerous terrains especially when most of the people around you are totally smug and satisfied in the sheltered life they are leading.

The day was physically tiring and my mind was almost saturated with a lot of things. I did not have much energy left to do anything else, so I decided to eat at the Little Buddha Cafe, and it was jam packed with international traveler. This is a pretty, tree-house themed restaurant with a lounge-like vibe – but can get very hot in summers because it is open with no fans or air conditioning. I did manage to get a table, but this place is only worth the wait if you get one of the three / four tables right by the edge of the terrace – overlooking the Ganga. Those are splendid!

The food at Little Buddha Cafe was pretty average according to me, but then, it is catered for foreign tourists who travel across the town and are the regulars here. Their menu has a variety of dishes like three cheese Salads, bland (VERY bland) nachos and other non-spicy food items that seemed to be a hit. The vegetable platter is famous. Shakes are good, and the staff is friendly. The service though, is slow.  I had a light lunch and then went back to Zostel to rest. Once I woke up, I decided to leave to Hill Top Swiss Cottage which i booked for my stay for my further in this city with the hill top view. I had my dinner and After that, I went to the terrace for an impromptu jamming session with the travelers staying there for more than a month. After two hours of continuous dancing and singing, we all were tired and went back to our respective cottages to sleep. I had yet another day in this beautiful place to look forward to.

Ever woke up to the sound of cascading waters? Imagine the chilly breeze kissing your cheeks, you endlessly gazing at trees swaying by with rhythm of chirping birds, tiny splashes of water touching your face now and then and of course the calmly dawning sun. The peace and the connect you feel with your spirit in the moment cannot be described into words here. With the basking sun spanning the horizon and shining on us, the next morning I woke up and spent time in the river playing like kids in the splashing water, snapping some memories and enjoying.

It seemed as if the place was awaiting our presence when the weather took a toss and the scorching heat turned away its face and drizzles trickled down. After satisfying our tummies and relaxing for some time, we tucked into our trek suits to make way for a short trek to Neergarh Waterfall. Where first 2 kms were just a simple walk crossing the camps and striding on narrow side paths, next 1.5 kms were steep and little hard but the ultimate destination kept our spirits high. Paving our way through camps, steep cuts and turns, twists and jumps, stepping the stones and climbing the rocks, cutting through the lush emerald green hills, we finally witnessed the elegance of nature.

We knew we had made it to our destination when the distant sound of water gushing down the hills became clear with each step forward. The excitement and the satisfaction of reaching the final trek point, NeerGarh Waterfalls, bought a deep smile on our faces. Neer Gaddu Waterfall is around 4 km from Laxman Jhula, and about 6 km from the Rishikesh main market. From the Rishikesh Badrinath Highway, there is small hilly trek to reach Neer Gaddu Waterfall.

On the way back to hotel from waterfall Ashish took us to Bhootnath temple *Mahadev temple to be precise that she asserted the most beautiful and peaceful temple nearby and the best thing was you could capture the whole city from here. True!! You could see the whole ways from here, what I found about this temple is that it had become commercial as it was written that move to next floor for this specific god. Quite funny but learned to never mess with God matters so kept silent. The voice of bells was echoing as I touched it. Still, that kid in me to touch the bell and ring it as many of times as I could were alive. On the rooftop, alluring landscape was representing Rishikesh in a picture. and then We went back to the Ramjhula and sat close to a beach. Did crazy stuff like laying on the stone, posing to the camera so comfortable that nobody is watching us.

  I woke up early to give a treat of fresh breeze to my lungs. I walked down to the ghat to have a closer feel of the morning waft. The wind was blowing at much higher speed than I thought. I saw many orange clad sadhus who had nestled themselves some corners on the open ghat last night were performing their daily chores. Some were taking baths in frosty Ganga water while some were enchanting some mantras and simultaneously cleaning the ghat.

I went down on the steps till the water kissed my feet. I parked myself on one of the steps with my feet in water for some time but it was so chill that I had to take them out after few seconds. I spent some time silently adoring the quietude of the surroundings and incessantly travelling river. I looked around for the giant Lord Shiva statue in middle of the river but soon the memories of last year catastrophe which wiped away the certain towns and the statue too grabbed my muse. But I guess people have moved on and the place was returning to its pre-catastrophe charm again.

Soon after that I hired a shared cab to Neelkanth Mandir, around 35 Kms from Rishikesh. Neelkanth Mahadev Temple is a Hindu temple dedicated to Neelkanth(Lord Shiva). The temple is situated at a height of 1330 meters. The entire way to the  Neelkanth Mahadev Temple was treat to eyes . it took us 2 hour to offer the prayer as it was very crowded. It was getting dark and we were tired so, we decided to go back to our hotel early and take some rest as the last day in Rishikesh was going to be hectic.

Last Day

This day was dedicated to the Beatles. You cannot come to Rishikesh and not visit the Beatles Ashram, especially if you love music. Beatles had visited Rishikesh in 1968 to learn ‘Transcendental Meditation”- which obviously sounds fancy enough to lure them into coming to an obscure place in the Himalayas and settling here for months. After breakfast comprising of milk, fruits and muesli, I went all the way to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Ashram or the Beatles’ Ashram as it is more popularly known, situated at the foothills of Himalayas.

Once there, I realized, one of my favorite Beatles’ song were written in Rishikesh. It goes like this-

“Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here Here comes the sun Here comes the sun, and I say It’s all right”

And I couldn’t stop myself from humming- doo doo doo doo doo doo! Coming to this place and not humming a Beatles song is sacrilegious. You should never do that else you might end up offending the hippie gods!

Ok, I was kidding all right, but this does make a great story- pay homage to Beatles at their Ashram and bless your soul!

Not much of the aforementioned Ashram remains except a wall with amazing graffiti, which was the Beatles gallery once. One thing worth noting is that the Ashram closed down way back in the 90s, but usually the guards are sweet enough to let you in.

Next I visited the Swarg Ashram, which lies at the ‘ground zero’ of Rishikesh and is known for providing free courses on Yoga and meditation. I decided to do a bit of both. Yoga, as an ancient art form, has many takers all around the world, and this Ashram also was filled with more foreigners than Indians. The entire atmosphere was energetic yet peaceful, something I had not experienced in a long time.

After trying my hand at Yoga and chanting a few ‘Oms’ amidst stunning backdrop of rolling mountains, I realized my stomach was rumbling and I needed to grab a bite before doing anything else.

On my way to Lakshman Jhula, I discovered an amazing café called Café Beatles. It was great, the food was great and so was the ambience. And the music, well it was the Beatles’.

Yes, it was an eventful day, after which I went back to Hill Top Swiss Cottage for yet another evening filled with fun, music and some of the best people I have ever met. It was my last night at Rishikesh, and I had to make it count. We sang, danced and talked till morning, after which I bade them farewell, hoping to meet them sometime soon in future.

After all ‘hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies’.

My days in Rishikesh were phenomenal. It was a journey that enriched me from within and made me look at the world with a totally different perspective. I realized there is so much to live for, so much to explore. My problems and worries suddenly turned miniscule in comparison to the wonders of this world. I am still a long way to go before I become a seasoned traveler but the seeds have been sown and the process has begun. I am falling in love with the world and its quirks.

May be this is what enticed the Beatles into entering an uncertain world of spirituality.

Thank you

Regards,

Aditya S. Samadhiya 

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Rishikesh – A melting pot of thrill and piety #traveltaleswithSunofSudha “On the road to Rishikesh I was dreaming more or less, And the dream I had was true Yes, the dream I had was true”

[thisdaynews]

Breaking News: What you don't know about Donald Trump's Youngest Son Barron Trump

New Post has been published on https://www.thisdaynews.net/2018/05/24/breaking-news-what-you-dont-know-about-donald-trumps-youngest-son-barron-trump/

Breaking News: What you don't know about Donald Trump's Youngest Son Barron Trump

Most of the Trump children have become well-known to the public over the years, but Barron remains a family outlier. The 11-year old son of the President first captivated the eyes of the world late on Election Night when he stood behind his father on the stage while victory was accepted. Barron, of course, looked more sleepy than jubilant on stage, which inadvertently won over the cold hearts of an America that was mostly happy the election cycle was finally over. Who is this young Simba-like figure? It’s time we get familiar with America’s new boy-prince, Barron Trump.

He’s the only child of Donald and Melania

One thing about the incoming First Family to take note of is that it has a little bit more sprawl than the last one, owing to Donald Trump’s multiple children by three wives. Barron Trump, the youngest of the clan, is but one branch of a family tree that includes Ivanka, Eric, and Donald Jr., born to Donald’s first wife, Ivana Trump; and daughter Tiffany, born to Donald’s second wife, Marla Maples.

As for Barron, he’s the only child of Donald and Melania Knauss Trump, and was born on March 20, 2006. Until recently, he lived with his mom in their Trump Tower penthouse on Fifth Avenue in New York City, while dad moved into the White House after assuming his new role as POTUS. Donald and Melania were married about a year prior to Barron’s birth, in January 2005.

His delayed move to the White House was because of school

As of this writing, Barron and his mother have officially joined President Trump in residence at the White House. But the reason they stayed behind wasn’t because of the lack of gold plating in the West Wing. It was so Barron could finish out his year at the prestigious and very-expensive Columbia Grammar and Preparatory School, where he attended through the end of the school year.

Reassuring him that he’d be able to finish out his year at the school that Us Weekly reports has a price tag of around $45,000 per year, Barron’s mom told him, “Take it day by day, enjoy your life, live your meaningful life as I like to do.” We’re not sure the then-10-year-old Barron was able to process such a life-changing move through the lens of that fortune cookie wisdom, but he did get to finish the year with his friends and classmates. Although things at the school definitely changed after November 8th, 2016…

Parents at Barron’s school had a post-Election freakout

Anyone who has so much tried to walk near Trump Tower will tell you that Donald Trump’s presidential victory has created major headaches for the city of New York. Apparently, though, few people were more worried than the parents at Columbia Grammar and Preparatory School. “Some parents are freaking out and worked up about security and what the school is going to do,” a board member told Vanity Fair. Some are worried about safety concerns; others are reportedly annoyed about various inconveniences—like, you know, the time the school’s sole elevator was blocked off for Melania for an open house event in 2016.

The school even had a real life scare scenario in March of 2017 when a lockdown procedure was put into place after a suspicious vehicle was spotted outside the building. According to The New York Daily News, “a military-style bag in a beat-up blue and silver pick-up truck with an Indiana license plate” was reported to police as a “suspicious package,” triggering a bomb squad response and the school’s reactionary security procedure. It’s a frightening scenario for any school, but one that carries additional weight when the President’s son happens to be enrolled there.

He’s the first boy to live in the White House in decades

Now that Barron’s actually made it to Washington, he has officially become the first boy to grace the halls of the White House in almost 60 years. Yep, the last time America had a “First Boy” was all the way back in 1961, when John F. Kennedy’s son, JFK Jr., moved into the White House when he was just a baby, according to CNN.

And Barron made his entrance to the presidential residence in true Trump fashion, exiting Marine One and strolling across the White House lawn to his new digs while wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words ‘The Expert.’ And here we thought Uncle Jared was the boy wonder of the family.

He’s not into wearing sweatpants

As one might expect from someone born into a billion-dollar business family, little Barron has been dressing for success pretty much his entire life. He even wore a suit to the launch of his half-sister Ivanka’s book when he was only three-and-a-half-years-old, according to People magazine.

“He’s not a sweatpants child,” Melania said while discussing her son with ABC News in 2013. “He doesn’t mind putting on [a suit]-but not every day- and he likes to dress up in a tie sometimes like Daddy.” But that’s not to say that Barron doesn’t like a little comfort. In fact, he sometimes pairs his prep school uniform with customized New Balance sneakers that reportedly cost $149, according to Footwear News. Yep, you read that right. The Trumps pay $149 for Barron’s sneakers and something called Footwear News actually exists in reality.

He used to moisturize his skin with caviar

If you needed further proof that Barron isn’t your typical 10 year old, try this one on for size: in 2013, his mother admitted to ABC News that, at the time, she applied her own line of caviar-infused moisturizer to his skin after he took his his nightly bath. “It smells very, very fresh,” Melania said of her Caviar Complex C6 skin care line. “I put it on him from head to toe. He likes it.”

Unfortunately for the two of them, this tradition may have been short-lived; according to Racked, Melania’s skin care line fell apart shortly after its high-profile launch.

He takes after his father

Given that he loves to wear suits and moisturize his skin with caviar, it should surprise exactly no one that Melania often refers to her only son as “little Donald” and “mini-Donald.” “He is a very strong-minded, very special, smart boy,” Melania told Parenting. “He is independent and opinionated and knows exactly what he wants. Sometimes I call him little Donald. He is a mixture of us in looks, but his personality is why I call him little Donald.”

“When he was 5 years old, he wanted to be like daddy: a businessman and golfer,” she added later in the interview. “He loves to build something and tear it down and build something else. He is very detailed at drawing. We travel often and he remembers everything he sees. Sometimes later the same day or the next he would build something like he saw or imagine something himself.”

In a 2013 interview with ABC News, Melania again referred to Barron as “mini-Donald,” which if we’re being honest, has to sting a little for Barron’s older half-brother, the actual Donald Jr.

He may or may not have a nanny

In a September 2015 interview with People magazine, Donald and Melania insisted they did not use a nanny to help raise Barron. “I like to be hands-on,” Melania told the magazine. “I think it’s very important. Barron is 9 years old. He needs somebody as a parent there, so I am with him all the time. As you know my husband is traveling all the time.”

Days after the interview was published, Donald, in true form, told the New York Post that there was, in fact, a “young woman” who “works with Barron.” Still, to this day, reports describe Melania as being “really devoted” to her son; a source told the Post in November 2016 that Melania is often seen picking up Barron from school. That same source also claimed that Melania had not relied on nannies to help raise her kid. So, who knows what the heck is going on?

Donald didn’t change his diapers

In that same interview with Parenting, Melania said of her husband, “He didn’t change diapers and I am completely fine with that. It is not important to me. It’s all about what works for you. It’s very important to know the person you’re with. And we know our roles. I didn’t want him to change the diapers or put Barron to bed. I love every minute of it.”

But that’s not to say that Donald wasn’t a doting dad in his own way. Melania also said that he and Barron love to play golf, eat dinner together and “enjoy family time” at Mar-a-Lago, the family’s Florida getaway. Golf and dinner, huh? Sounds a bit more like the closing of a business deal than a loving father-son day.

He’s fluent in two languages

Although he reportedly takes after his father, Barron has also inherited his mother’s roots as well. According to a 2016 interview with GQ magazine, Melania revealed that Barron “speaks Slovenian fluently.” In fact, he speaks the language with his grandparents, who live near Trump Tower, according to the interview.

Melania also once bragged to People in 2009 that at just three-years-old, Barron was also speaking French in addition to Slovenian and English. But two years later, during an appearance on The Joy Behar Show, Melania said, “Barron speaks two languages completely perfect. He goes from one thing to another, Slovenian/English.” What happened to French? Was he just not fluent enough to mention it yet? Does Barron Trump own a beret? These are questions of national importance that need an answer.

He lives like a king

In her interview with Parenting, Melania also dropped the bombshell news that Barron’s digs at Trump Tower are so sweet, he actually has an entire floor to himself, complete with his own personal flourishes that include the incorporation of “planes and helicopters” into the decor of the rest of the house. Not only that, but it was no big deal if he wanted to draw all over the walls, because “we can paint it over,” she said. With that kind of set-up, it’s no wonder that they weren’t in a rush to move him into the White House.

And though he’s not getting his own wing of the executive residence, his lifestyle isn’t exactly getting downgraded. According to Inquisitr, the White House has a staff of 100 people who “will know what every member of the Trump family likes, as far as food, snacks, and personal items. This will be stocked and waiting for the family so they can obtain it at a moment’s notice.” Rumors even swirled that Barron’s getting a Goldendoodle puppy, named Patton, to go along with his new home, so at least if he gets homesick, he’ll have a new buddy around to cheer him up.

He’ll probably stay out of the spotlight

With his official appearances thus far limited to the Inauguration Day festivities and the White House Easter Egg Roll, it remains to be seen how involved with public life Barron will be. But if history is an indicator, young children of past presidents have mostly steered clear of the public eye.

And it seems like Melania intends to uphold that tradition as well. In an October 2016 interview with ABC News, Melania said she is hoping to shield him from the public as best she can. “I teach him, I explain to him so he knows what’s going on,” she said. “And—he’s—he’s taking very well. I keep him balanced and—just have him a childhood as normal as possible. And he’s enjoying his school and his sports. He’s a great athlete. And I just want to have him—out of the spotlight for now.” Even though they’ve since moved to Washington, her stance on wanting her son to have as normal a life as possible probably hasn’t changed.

He will attend St. Andrew’s Episcopal School

Just weeks ahead of Melania and Barron’s move to Washington, the First Lady released a statement regarding the family’s choice for Barron’s matriculation in the fall of 2017. He’s headed to St. Andrew’s Episcopal School in Potomac, MD, which according to The Washington Post will cost approximately $40,000 per year. In addition to the school’s prestigious reputation — it boasts that 100% of its graduates go on to some type of higher education — St. Andrew’s has a range of impressive facilities, including “a 14,000-volume, two-story library with an audiovisual classroom and a periodical reading room; a multipurpose theater/assembly/lunch space that features a stage and light/sound booth; two visual arts studios with ceramics wheels and a kiln; a darkroom; two full-size basketball courts; a fitness room; a dance studio; and two full turf fields for softball, baseball, lacrosse and soccer.” Nice.

Barron will be the first child of a sitting president to attend St. Andrew’s, though the school does claim other famous alumni, like eBay founder Pierre Omidyar. Maybe if Barron plays his cards right, he might end up rich like that guy some day.