#shame is the little death that brings total obliteration

[byrdstrolls]

lately I've been reciting the litany against fear (from dune) in my mind and just replacing 'fear' with 'shame' and its been doing wonders for my mental health

[perlelune]

Glory And Gore | Feyd-Rautha

The trip to Giedi Prime you take with your mother should have been a mere diplomatic gesture. Instead, you find yourself prey to the inevitability of fate as it sinks its claws into your flesh.

Warnings: NON-CON, Deception, Parental Neglect, Cannibalism, Mutilation, Bene Gesserit Reader, Knives, Murder, Forced Marriage, Primal Kink

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

“I don’t want to.”

“You must.”

“Mother-”

“Use it!”

The authority dripping from your mother’s voice has you shrinking in your chair. You lift your gaze. A shudder slithers through your frame. Your fingers squeeze around the armrests, gripping so tightly you can feel the iciness seeping into your veins.

You study your mother’s face. 

An unsettling realization crashes over you.

You no longer are looking into your mother’s eyes…but at the Bene Gesserit. You steel your features and iron your resolve. 

You swallow a deep, calming breath.

“Give me the blade,” you repeat, for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. The exact count has evaporated amidst your heated nerves long ago. Your mother is unyielding today, pushing you further than she ever has before. While her purpose eludes you, the urgency etched in her manner from the moment she tore you from bed that day doesn’t. Today, your mother will not settle for surrender. She demands results. 

Results for all the years she spent drilling the Bene Gesserit ways into you.

There is no hint of being swayed in your mother, her handle on the dagger unwavering. No twitching. No slackening of her grip. Your spirits dim.

“Again,” she barks.

Pearls of sweat gather on your brow as you strain your mind once more. The humming courses through your blood, the echo of power swelling in your mind. Fiery tendrils trickle through the veil of hesitation and nervousness. 

You grasp at the threads, the fleeting wisps of control, pulling on them with all your might. Still, they slip through your fingers like sand. Frustration flares inside you with every attempt. 

You persevere, enduring through the agony bleeding inside your mind. Through the liquid fire sweeping through your veins. 

You meet your mother’s harsh stare.

“Give…me…the blade…” you articulate, injecting every bit of hazy conviction glowing inside you. 

For a while, you and your mother hold each other’s gaze. A battle of wills. An ephemeral, pathetic one that ends as it always does…with your mother snickering at your failure.

She shoots up from the chair, exasperation evident in the drawn-out sigh she unleashes.

“No willpower. Just fear,” she says, pacing across the room.

“Apologies, mother,” you mutter, lowering your head in shame. 

The Voice. The damned Voice. In eighteen years, you have never mastered it. 

She approaches you, kneeling in front of your chair.

“Child, you must never fear, because fear…”

“...Is death,” you finish. The Bene Gesserit words are woven into the very fabric of your mind, for you have uttered them so many times since childhood.

She places her forehead against yours, cupping your cheeks.

The combination of your two voices echoes in the room.

“Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me…”

As you recite the familiar prayer, a wave of serenity swaddles you in its calming tide.

Your eyes flutter open. 

Your mother’s fingers wrap around yours.

“Reverend Mother will see you tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“You are of age. It is time.”

“Time for what?”

A shadow flits across her eyes.

“For the Gom Jabbar.”

“Gom…Jabbar.” A crease appears on your forehead. “What is it?”

A tense smile spreads on her face, her grip on your hand growing tighter.

“You will learn soon enough,” she says.

Rest eludes you that night, your mother’s words weighing too heavy on your mind for it to float away in peaceful slumber. Tormented by nightmares, you toss and turn between your sheets. 

A beast chasing you, its claws sharp and long…Like knives. Darkness creeping on your every step. Fire shooting through your veins.

The world in flames, while you burn alongside it.

You awake drenched in your own sweat. 

Hugging your knees, you lean against the headboard. You stare ahead. Moonlight drizzles through your carved window, casting shapes of silvery light against your walls. The same granite walls you have known since childhood. Usually so familiar, comforting. Today the sight of them reminds you how utterly alone you are.

Your thoughts churn, the storm of doubt and gloom within you grazing its peak.

Per custom, you are a disappointment to both your mother and the Sisterhood. The Voice. The Weirding Way. No matter which skill your mother and the myriad of Bene Gesserit teachers you had over the years attempted to drill into you…you failed to master every single one.

It’s not for lack of trying on your part. You wish you knew why. Why your voice always cracks. Why your hand always falters. Your mother has never given hope to lure a steel-mindedness out of you that was simply…never there. No part of you wishes to bend others to your whim or cause harm. You don’t crave control or power. Only serenity and peace. 

The next day springs forth in a haste, the blinding light of the sun arriving too quickly for your comfort. There is a deliberate languid nature to your motions as you get dressed, fussing with your hair and dress. A pointless attempt at delaying the inevitable.

Gom Jabbar. You mulled the words over and over in your non-sleep. Mighty oppressor or mighty enemy. The translations from Chaksobar to Galach are plentiful. While you don’t know what awaits you on the other side of the door, from your mother’s pinched expression the day before…unpleasantness is guaranteed.

You trudge inside the dark room, a chill shooting through your spine at the sight of the still figure of Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam sitting in the middle. Her pale, weathered features, wrinkled and creased like ancient parchment, stand out amidst the unsettling gloominess ahead. Even behind the black veil, the older woman radiates an aura of ancient, mystic power, her presence both fascinating and intimidating. 

No word unfurls from her tongue at first, her keen, bird-like eyes assessing you. Despite the urge to cower, you hold your chin high and stiffen your spine.

“Your Reverence,” you greet, bowing so low your nose almost grazes the tiled floor.

“Come closer, child.”

Your feet move on their own before you even register the command. Shock pulses though you as you approach the Reverend Mother. The Voice…She used the Voice on you. No Bene Gesserit ever did that before. None would even dare. Not on a Count’s daughter.

You land in front of her, stunned and shivering.

She collects a viridian metal fox from beneath her robes, its eerie light glowing ominously in the darkness. Your heart stutters as you note the chasm inside the box, a lightless void reflecting nothing but complete blackness.

“Put your right hand in the box,” she orders.

Her tone is bereft of the thrall of the Voice now. Willing compliance... you realize this is what she wishes from you. You stare at the pitch blackness inside of the box, the sight alone stirring your unease. Hesitation limns your fingertips. 

“I…”

The Reverend Mother’s firm voice booms across the air like thunder.

“Is this the respect you show to your elders?” she roars.

You flinch. Shameful heat lurks its way inside your cheeks. Mother would be embarrassed if she saw you now, denying the Reverend Mother herself, the Emperor’s Truthsayer.

You inhale a wide breath and place a tremulous hand inside the metal box. As the darkness engulfs your appendage, a cold wave creeps over it. The prick of a needle on your fingers follows closely. Sensations vanish from your hand, only an odd numbness remaining.

The old woman’s gaze sharpens. Her wrinkled hand shoots upward with a quickness that leaves you speechless, halting right beside your neck.

A glimpse of metal beckons you from the corner of your vision. Temptation to turn your head simmers within you but an instinct set deeply into your bones screeches at you not to move. 

You yield to to the second hunch.

“I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar,” she informs. “The high-handed enemy.”

“Poisoned needle?” you absently wonder.

You catch the shadow of a smile through the black veil.

“Your mother did say you were a clever one.” She tilts her head slightly, reminding you of a vulture circling its prey, gauging the right moment to swoop down and sink its claws. “A soft heart with a sharp mind.” Dread coils around your heart. “The test is simple, girl. Your hand must remain in the box. Keep it in the box, you live. Withdraw it, you die.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Pain.”

Tingles begin to spread.

Your breath snags, needles starting to dig across the back of your hand. But unlike before, the sensation lingers this time. Growing and growing. Uncomfortable at first, then unbearable. Then, it turns blatantly hellish. Fire licks your flesh, the flames causing your entire body to break out in sweat and your breaths to come out labored and uneven.

Pain such as this cannot be of this world, you begin to think.

The kind that grows more vile and intense every second. You writhe, tears rushing to your eyes. Your free hand clutches your stomach, twisting the flesh in desperate need of an anchor amidst the unnatural agony. The room fogs around you, your quick, panicked breaths and the wild drumming of your heart filling your ears. 

The longing for death comes and goes, the impulse to withdraw your hand teetering over a precipice. At least, death would bring release from the unfathomable pain. 

Blessed freedom. You nearly surrender to that wayward instinct. Nearly.

In the end however, the acute, overwhelming awareness of the lethal needle less than an inch from your neck keeps your hand inside the box.

“An animal in pain would chew its own leg to escape a trap,” The Reverend mother says calmly, unfazed by your tears and sobs. “But a human would bide its time, suffer through the agony until he might remove the threat to his kind. This is a test of humanity. This is what us Bene Gesserit do. Set humans apart from animals.”

An eternity in the pits of hells seems to drag along before she gives you permission to withdraw your hand, her hand dropping from your neck. 

“Enough,” she says.

You tear your hand out of the box with a trembling exhale, astonished when your gaze tumbles upon smooth, unharmed skin. You turn it upside down, flabbergasted. It looks the same. Yet the furnace within the box made the burning feel so real, so vividly, terrifyingly real, that you were convinced the flesh and bones were devoured by the flames. You expected a lump of bleeding, smoking flesh. In disbelief, you fold your fingers several times. You wince. Phantom pain still sits in your hand, your nerves alight with embers of ache.

Suppressing a fresh surge of tears, you lift your eyes to the Truthsayer.

“Your tolerance for pain is sufficient,” she states. “Congratulations, child. You are human enough to serve our purposes.” She hums in thought, a sliver of satisfaction seeping through her solemn inflection. “You may not be a complete waste of genetic material after all.”

“You almost failed the test, I hear.”

You shift in the bench opposite your mother, her imperious tone ripping the wound of your glaring incompetence open once more.

Your attention wanders above the closing gate of the starship. You commit the luxurious plains of your planet to memory. Your chest twinges with preemptive melancholy. From what you heard, Giedi Prime is a dry, depleted rock where trees are replaced by rows of factories and metal skyscrapers which only blot out the dusky skies even more. A nightmare from the sounds of it. Though your mother insisted you join her on the trip, arguing your presence is key to the success of the treaty.

So you swallowed your reluctance and agreed to come.

“I thought I would lose my hand,” you mumble, your fingers clenching. The awe over the flawless state of your limb hasn’t left you.

“Her Reverence would never maim a prospect,” your mother argues.

You nod, gaze colliding with hers.

“Just kill them if they fail to prove their humanity?”

You still recall the sharp, poison-dipped tip pointed at your neck. The oppressive weight of impending death nipping at your flesh.

The line between surrender and success had been thin. Too thin.

Your mother’s stern brow furrows.

“Pain is always a possibility…One you must embrace.”

“Why? Isn’t the Gom Jabbar a singular occurrence?”

Instead of answering you, your mother lifts a black, oblong chest from beside her. You noticed it before but forgot to inquire about its purpose.

The metal and dark accents of the object mimics the Harkonnen style. Your fingers sweep over the symbols engraved on the box. 

“What is it?” you ask.

“Open it.”

You do as instructed. The inside of the chest reveals a set of knives, a long obsidian one and a short silvery one. The blades glimmer as you lift them, their sharp edges catching the artificial light of the cockpit. 

“They were forged from the finest steel on Alderan,” your mother says. You give a puzzled stare. Your mother elaborates, “You must gift them to the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen upon arrival. For his coming of age.”

Right. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s birthday celebration. You were told there would be a grand spectacle in the arena, that he was a great warrior, revered and admired by his people…perhaps even more than his uncle the Baron Vladimir. Day after day before the trip, your mother has impressed upon you the importance of attendance, of embracing the Harkonnen customs as if born into them. Every single one, however uncanny, crude or brutal.

So, much as the concept of spilling blood for entertainment repulses you…you shelf your disgust for now. Personal feelings must capitulate to diplomacy.

Your critical eye sweeps over the knives. These must have cost a fortune. Sinister beauty and artful skill fused in ominous synergy inside a finely made instrument of death.

“It’s fine craftsmanship,” you say. Your fingertip drags across the curved edge. A crease appears on your forehead. “But the edges…they could be sharper.” Your eyes light up. “I could finish before we land.” 

You sift through one the heaps of precious stones and minerals lining the walls of the cockpit. 

Victory floods your being as you find what you sought. A flat whetstone that shall serve your purpose well. You find a spot on the floor and begin your task. The knives shine brighter with every swift glide of your hand.

The frown on your face deepens.

“I hope the Baron’s nephew is pleased with our gift.” 

You know next to nothing of him. Though you surmise if your families are to start trading with each other, getting along would be wiser.

Your mother smiles at you though it fails to reach her eyes.

“I have no doubt he will be very pleased with all the gifts you bring him, daughter.”

The frosty, pollution-heavy winds of the lifeless planet whip your face as you set foot outside the car. Your eyes roam over the large building housing the Harkonnen arena. The imposing structure casts an intimidating shadow against the nebulous, gray sky above it. Dormant volcanoes peek through the horizon in the distance, the only remnants of natural landscapes.

Hopelessness surges through you. 

Despite having landed less than an hour ago, a fierce longing for Alderan’s endless green fields and snowy mountain peaks roars inside you. Every cell in your body screams to go back inside the ship and return home.

But you can’t. Such a display of rudeness would be a disaster for diplomatic relations. So you plaster on a smile and ignore the potent stench wafting around you.

You exert meticulous sovereignty over your expression when the Baron floats toward you and your mother. Nothing could have prepared you for this. The sight of the bald, massive man hovering towards you and your mother in his suspensor chair. 

The floating figure of the baron stops in front of you and your mother. A circle of servants, clad in black clothing, follows behind him. You note their bowed heads, the way their eyes never rise high enough to look directly at you or your mother. A brand marks their necks, one you recognize as the sigil of House Harkonnen. You’re reminded how ubiquitous the slave trade is on Giedi Prime. Your mother mentioned it but the harsh reality of it didn’t strike you until now.

“Welcome to Giedi Prime,” Baron Vladimir greets. His gristly tone surprises you, eliciting a chill across your spine you swiftly suppress.

“My Lord,” your mother says, sinking into a graceful bow.

You mimic her. The baron leers at you.

“She is even more exquisite in person.”

You recoil, the glint in his calculating stare stirring your unease.

Your mother’s gaze sweeps across her surroundings.

“The na-Baron isn’t in attendance?”

“My dear nephew is preparing himself in the gladiator pit. There are rituals we Harkonnen observe upon one’s coming of age.” Your mother nods. 

The baron smirks, his focus swinging to you. “Perhaps you could pay him a visit, little one?”

You clutch the small chest in your hands. 

“I…”

“Go on,” your mother urges, shoving you forward. 

You gasp, almost tripping in your shock. The baron’s commanding voice rises.

“Slave!” 

One the cowering servants leaps from the circle. 

“Yes, sire?” the boy mumbles.

“Escort the girl to my nephew at once.”

The servant approaches you. His gaze briefly lifts before finding the floor again. A pang of empathy twists in your chest as you note the fear etched in the servant’s eye. You find yourself wondering what these eyes have witnessed, what horrors lurk on the wretched rock.

“Follow me, my Lady,” he says. 

As you’re led away from the welcoming party, you toss a glance at your mother above your shoulder. The message written in her eyes and stern expression is clear as lake water.

Do not cast a veil of shame upon our house. Remember your duty.

Sucking a deep breath, you turn away.

You and your retinue of two guards and an attending maid are taken to the bowels of the arena. A horrid stench clings to the walls as you trudge through the dim walls. It grows more potent the closer you get to the pit. Your chest heaves. The urge to empty the meager contents of your stomach in the sand tickles your dry throat. You quell your disdain with a shake of your head.

You are here to present your house in a positive light, help Father’s treaty with House Harkonnen be a success. 

As you enter the room, you get your first look at Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Warmth finds your cheeks. He’s almost bare, his rippling, pale muscles on full display. Two servant girls paint broad, black strokes over his carved back. The dark color stands out against his alabaster skin. Not a stray hair covers him and you suppose he’s as smooth-skinned and hairless as the rest of his kind. 

When his dark gaze settles on you, you take tremulous steps forward. 

You open the chest and present the knives to him.

“This is a gift for you, Lord na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” you say, your voice cracking at the end. 

Silence hangs for what seems eons, Feyd-Rautha cocking his head as he gauges you. It takes every ounce of bravery inside you not to flinch. His presence alone has every hair on your body stand at attention. 

There’s a cold intensity in his glare, a tautness on his slender features. 

You feel as prey being assessed. The urge to run itches your flesh. Your mother’s quiet warning echoes in your head. Remember your duty. You dig your feet into the ground, willing your roaring pulse to steady.

You hear him speak for the first time. His voice is hoarse and deep. Like the scratching of a stone over a sharp object.

“Would you like some fresh meat, my darlings? Lungs, a liver, perhaps?” he offers, smirking at three women sitting in a corner of the room. Their inky, whiteless orbs and ravenous grins send a chill through your spine. 

His eyes fall on the knives inside the chest. His hand sweeps over the blades, an odd gesture almost reminiscent of a lover’s caress. He places the silver knife against his tongue, as if to taste the sharpness of the weapon. You shudder as you watch him, a foreboding feeling spreading across your flesh.

For a brief span of time, the well of your buried childhood memories tugs you to its depths. You recall a day when you were little. Your father took you hunting in the forests of Alderan. You chased a butterfly and got lost. You fell across a field. When you rose, you were nose to nose with a fierce predator. It stared at you a while, so still as its slanted, yellow gaze pinned you to your spot that you thought you were safe. You didn’t notice the calculated way it was prowling towards you, its maw opening slowly in anticipation of its next meal. The gift of tender, unsuspecting flesh. It’s not until your father speared the creature with his sword that you realized the jaws of death almost closed in on you. As it sprawled across the field, it unleashed an ear-piercing dying howl.

You were struck with shock that day.

A similar shock rocks you to your core when Feyd-Rautha slices the throat of one of the servant girls at his side and stabs the other repetitively. Time freezes as the lifeless bodies of the slave girls hit the sand with a loud thud. 

Speckles of dark blood stain the bottom of your light tunic.

Your wide gaze lands on the other slave girl, tucked in a corner of the room. You watch her shrink in fear, the quaking in her hands so intense she nearly drops the tray she’s holding. 

Horror fills you. She isn’t wondering if she’ll be next…but when.

Feyd-Rautha’s attention swings back to you. Dread coils around your heart. 

“Hm, these are shockingly adequate,” he purrs appreciatively, grabbing the other knife from the chest.

It’s hard focusing on his words. Behind him, the three bald-headed women are swooping down on the poor servant girls’ corpses like vultures ripping a carcass to shreds. One of them pulls out a knife and slices the girl open from neck to gut. They bury their hands inside the girl’s body and grab fistfuls of her soft insides that they greedily shove into their mouths. Pieces of guts and dripping flesh jut from their pale lips, trickling down their chins and necks.

One of the women catches you staring and flashes you a blood-drenched, black grin. 

You shudder. The maid at your side chokes on a sob, her hand flying across her mouth. Even your guards are appalled by the display, one of them averting his eyes.

A whispery croak slips through your lips.

“I s-sharpened them myself this morning,” you say, your fingers tightening around the chest. 

A crooked smile unfurls on the na-Baron’s lips.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, pet.” 

His smile expands. “How rude of me,” he says, tossing a casual glance at the ghoulish spectacle behind him. The women are still gleefully feasting on the slain slave girls. “Would you like a bite as well?” His mirthful gaze flicks over your heaving chest. “Fresh heart, perhaps?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing a placid smile onto your face.

“I-I’m quite alright, my Lord. I already ate.” The chomping noises of the cannibalistic women rises, one of them tearing into the slave girl’s side with her sharp nails. 

Sickness spreads through your being. You avert your gaze.

“I shall leave you to get ready for your entrance, my Lord,” you stammer as you give a quick bow. 

“I look forward to our next meeting, my Lady,” Feyd-Rautha says, the amusement never leaving his face as you scurry out of the room.

A tremor still lingers in your hands as you join your mother in the golden box above the triangular arena. The moment you sit at her side, she questions you.

“So, what did you think of him?”

“Who?” you reply, feigning ignorance.

She sighs. “Feyd-Rautha.”

You press your lips. The crowd chants his name as he steps into the arena, clutching the blades you gifted him at his sides. He walks slowly, with purpose. Yet there’s a hint of tedium in his haughty gait. As if today was no different than any other day for him, and the taking of more lives were nothing more than a mere footnote in his long list of tasks for the evening.

Sadist. Psychopath. Deranged. 

These are some of the few choice words that surge inside your mind in response to your mother’s inquiry. 

You utter none of them.

“Why does it matter? Our stay on Giedi Prime will be short, will it not?”

You peer through the binoculars your mother hands you. There’s a gut-wrenching brutality to the na-Baron’s practiced motions. 

You watch him cut down two Atreides gladiator-slaves with ease. It’s clear something has been done to the men, their wobbly, confused steps through the arena a painful scene to witness.

Your chest seizes every time his blade tears into the poor mens’ flesh. He snarls after a series of successful strikes, seeming more beast than human when he bares a row of black teeth.

A shiver ripples through your spine.

“You must keep an open mind,” your mother heeds.

The last gladiator-slave is different. You note it right away. There’s a lethal precision in his movements that was amiss in the other Atreides soldiers. Panic swarms the golden box. Baron Vladimir’s advisor begs him to cancel the fight.

“This one isn’t drugged,” he says, fear lacing his tone.

“This will spoil my nephew’s birthday,” the baron rumbles, dismissing the man with a withering glare. He remains disturbingly calm. “Show me who you are, dear nephew.”

You take a deep breath. The rest of the fight veers to an unusual route. Feyd-Rautha removes his body shield, welcoming the challenge the Atreides soldier offers with open arms.

A psychotic smile decorates his lips as he fights for his life. For the first time since the fight began, he comes alive in the arena. 

The vicious trading of blow after blow has bile rising to your throat. Unable to stomach it any longer, you bolt to your feet and mumble a rushed apology to the Baron.

“I shall retire to my chambers,” you say.

As you exit the golden box, the excited clamor of the crowd as they scream Feyd-Rautha’s name follows your hasty steps.

You sneak a glance through the high, blue doors. The sight inside the vast hall has your blood curdling. Debauchery the likes of which you have never witnessed unfolds before your eyes. A  peculiar blend of orgy and slaughter occurs in the hall. You’re failing to comprehend what you’re seeing, relief coursing through you that you refused the Baron’s invitation.

Once more, you are stunned by the vast cultural differences between your people and the Harkonnens. Sickened, you step away from the doors. Twisted curiosity led you there, and blatant disgust will take you straight back to your room. 

The dusky, barren walls of the Harkonnen keep are a stark contrast to the colorful tapestries that can be found all over Castle Alderan.

Homesickness tugs at your heart strings. This alien world is hostile, wretched. You long for the familiarity of your bed and the warm, soothing winds of your planet.

As you roam the hallways, a prickling across your nape has you whirl.

Your sight fills with Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Your chest clenches. Your head whips around, a fresh urgency livening your steps.

“Should you not be celebrating your grand victory, my Lord?”

“Frivolous pleasures do little to sate me,” he says, easily keeping up with you. His gravelly baritone ripples across your spine. “This isn’t for me…It’s for them. And my uncle knows it.” His arm brushes yours. You bristle. Amusement bleeds in his tone. “Where are you running off to, pet?” 

Pet. You tense at the belittling moniker, the one he forcefully bestowed upon you. 

“To my chambers. The evening has exhausted me.”

“You left early.”

You cast a puzzled frown upon him.

“In the arena," he specifies.

Your fingers curl into fists. The unfairness of what you witnessed still staggers you. The Atreides soldiers weren’t given a chance. Pigs led to their inevitable slaughter. And Feyd-Rautha plucked joy from their misery, seeing every slave as a tool to satisfy his unquenchable thirst for blood. 

“I have no stomach for violence, my Lord.”

A humming sound pours from his throat.

“Perhaps it was careless then.”

Confusion flutters through you.

“Careless?”

A wicked smile tilts his lips skyward.

“Of my uncle to hand me such a delicate flower…one whose petals are bruised so easily.”

You let out a hollow laugh, dread gripping your insides. Loathing the way his dark gaze slides over your frame, you set your eyes forward.

“You say such strange things, my lord.”

“Do I?” He adds casually, “After all, you were promised to me.”

Your heart falters, missing a beat. He must be drunk, you ponder, in a feeble attempt to placate yourself with reassurance.

“Perhaps you ought to sleep the evening off, my lord. I believe victory may have gotten to your head, warped your perception.”

His sinister chuckle bounces against the walls.

“A pet with a sharp tongue. How fortuitous.”

It’s the only warning you receive before he snatches your wrist and slams you into a nearby wall. 

You gasp. He pins your wrists beside your head, trapping you between him and the wall. You squeal, eyes bulging at the abrupt impact. You can already feel bruises form beneath his steely grip.

You fight to get free but he doesn’t budge. Sadistic enjoyment contorts his features as he admires your fruitless struggle.

He leans close to you. Your pulse soars.

“What are you doing?”

His lids sag as he drinks you in.

“Well…sampling my other gift, of course,” he whispers, lust oozing in his voice.

His mouth crashes over yours. You go dizzy. The kiss is bruising, staggeringly possessive. A brutal, sloppy clash of lips, teeth and tongue. You give his lip a harsh bite but it only draws a cheerful laugh from Feyd-Rautha. The acrid tang of metal coats your tongue. He moans against your lips and starts exploring your curves. 

As his hands pluck at your soft flesh, fear surges through you. 

“Let me go,” you scream, trying to use the Voice. There’s a flicker in his eyes and you feel hope…but it swiftly vanishes. One of his hands fastens around your throat while the other charts a dangerous path under your tunic. His fingers crudely poke and prod the apex of your thighs.

Your panic swells. 

“Unhand me this instant!” you shout, a trickle of power rushing in your words. 

Feyd-Rautha shakes his head, your thrall only seeming to last a few seconds. Mirth shimmers in his inky orbs as he studies you. 

“Are you trying to use Bene Gesserit tricks on me?” The hand around your throat tightens. You claw at his arms, your vision flickering as he taunts, “Why don’t you try again, little witch?” He sinks two fingers through your dry entrance. Tears swim in your eyes at the aching, sudden stretch. His cruel voice flows against your temple. “Perhaps I ought to slice your tongue and shove it down your throat for our wedding.”

The hammering of your heart grows deafening. You swallow your tears and look into his eyes. You gather a thin breath to speak.

“Back away…” you croak weakly, desperation flailing inside your chest. 

He gives a slow blink. To your surprise, the hand around your throat slackens. His eyes narrow as he leans away from you, a dazed expression on his face. You don’t take time to bask in fleeting relief, racing to your mother’s room as soon as his hands aren’t on you anymore. 

Once you reach your mother’s chambers, you fling yourself into her arms.

Her arms wrap around your shuddering frame. She caresses your hair, gently whispering, “Daughter, the hour is so late…Is something the matter?”

You release a shaky breath, sinking further into her embrace. 

“May we return to the ship? Go back home?”

“Why?”

You cast a tearful gaze towards her. 

“Haven’t we done our duty, mother? Is it not enough?”

A long weary breath flows from her lips. Her hands curl around yours. She takes a deep breath before speaking again. 

Her face becomes stern, impenetrable.

“Apologies, sweet child. We cannot.”

You search her harsh gaze. A heavy silence settles between the two of you. You retreat, horror clogging your airways as unsaid words hang in the air. 

“Mother…What have you done?” you mumble, a fresh wave of tears breaking past your lashes. 

“You are to marry Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen in three days’ time,”she bluntly announces. Your jaw drops as you take another step back. “All the arrangements have already been made.”

Your voice trembles.

“And Father agreed?”

“It was his idea, approved by the Reverend Mother herself.”

The deepest pits of hell welcome your plummeting heart. You sink to the floor, the weight of your kin’s treachery growing too heavy to bear. 

“And you did not speak against it?” you mutter, disbelief confining your breath. 

Your mother falls to her knees, joining you on the floor.

She cradles your face. “It is your destiny. We are Bene Gesserit. We exist only to serve.”

“He is a monster.”

“I’m afraid it’s irrelevant.”

A sharp breath spills from your throat. Your head snaps up.

“Is this all I am to the Sisterhood?” You unleash a dry laugh. “A broodmare to be sold and used to further their plans? To you and father…”

Her mouth wobbles. “Our way is not to question, but to answer when duty calls.”

You bring a quivering hand to your throat. You can still feel his harsh fingers crushing your windpipe. 

“Do you see what he has done to me?”

“Mother, please…”

A flash of regret appears on her face. It barely lasts a second before a mask of indifference drapes over her features again. 

“You should rest,” she says, cupping your cheek. “You will need your strength for the days ahead.”

You take in your mother’s blank expression. The blatant lack of emotion despite her knowing what Feyd-Rautha did to you. You swallow a shivering sob. It might have hurt less if she struck you across the face. Or drove a dagger through your chest.

The room chills around you as you reach a sinister conclusion. 

You are completely alone. 

Packing your scarce belongings takes little time. You didn’t bring a lot with you on Giedi Prime. The trip was supposed to be short after all. A mere courtesy visit to honor your father and the Baron’s alliance. How naive you were.

In the end, you are just a pawn for the Bene Gesserit and your father to move around. You always knew marriage would come eventually. It is what you have been prepared for your whole life. But you harbored the faint hope that your future husband would be kind, or at least a decent man.

As you recall every instance of Feyd-Rautha’s cruelty, horror clutches your insides.

There isn’t a sliver of kindness in him. You venture he may even draw sick pleasure from others’ misery. The smile that touched his lips when you struggled against him still chills your veins.

It stuns you that someone like him, who seems more animal than man, even passed the Reverend Mother’s test, that he somehow withstood the pain, and maybe even embraced it. 

Logic dictates that he must have however. Otherwise the Reverend Mother wouldn’t ratify the crossing of your two bloodlines.

The mere thought fills you with dread. He is dangerous. A monster who thinks, who plans, who schemes, who gathers joy from pain.

You come to a decision. You will not be Feyd-Rautha’s bride. 

You must find your way back home. The sisterhood can find another sacrifice to fulfill their prophecy. It will not be you.

You wait for the keep to be quiet, not a sound lingering in the cold, blue hallways. You conceal a few belongings beneath your cloak. Another set of clothes, a compass, some jewelry and other valuables you’re hoping to trade for safe passage on a starship. Doubts wander inside you. 

Where will you go? What will you do? Will you survive the weather conditions and atmosphere of a completely different planet? You still remember your brief visit on Salusa Secundus for the Princess Irulan’s coronation day. How you couldn’t move without fire rushing to your lungs. How every single step felt like you were taking a hundred. You could die. 

Still, the prospect scares you far less than what awaits you in the Keep.

Uncertainty lies in your future. But you do know one thing. You must run as far away as you can from Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Getting past the guards is easy enough. 

You use what you remember of your Bene Gesserit training to sneak outside the fortress. 

Harko city welcomes you in all its dull, somber rotting glory. You cross past discarded piles of rubbish and large oily puddles as you race through dark alleyways. Everywhere your gaze rests, it’s assaulted by sheer decay and putrefaction. Unlike the clean, cold, pristine interior of the Keep, the city is crumbling. 

The putrid stench rising from the streets almost causes you to turn back. In the end, you refrain, steadfast as you rush through the busy streets. Every second is precious. You could get caught, dragged back to the Keep.

The back of your neck prickles. Your pulse escalates. The presence of three men hovers at the edge of your sight. Pretending you didn’t notice them, you subtly hasten your strides. 

They catch on quick, too quick. 

One of them pounces on you. You keel over and collapse on the harsh, dirt-covered ground. You try to crawl away, fright engulfing your senses.

Another of the men grabs your ankle and yanks you towards them.

Leering smiles float above you in the dim light of the alley.

“Hm, we could fetch a good price for that one,” the last man says. “Such a pretty little thing with pretty, pretty hair…”

The man who caught you barks a derisive snicker.

“An outworlder. How exotic.”

The second one bends closer to sniff the air around you. Your throat constricts as you turn your head.

“Not just any outworlder,” he says, his head tilted in curiosity. “This one smells like royalty.”

Elated chuckles burst in the darkness.

“That royal bitch will make us rich.”

The man who smelled you licks his lips. 

“But shouldn’t we sample the goods first?” Fear shoots through you. “Never had me a highborn gal before.”

“Me neither.”

“This is a once in a lifetime-”

The man chokes mid-sentence. Your mouth drops as a blade is driven through his neck from behind, practically beheading him. Blood rains over you. Wet spots drip onto your face and dress as each of the men is gutted by a swift, ruthless opponent. You watch one pull a knife. He doesn’t get to use it, unleashing a blood-curdling scream when his hand is sliced at the wrist. The fingers of his severed hand twitch as it hits the floor. He sinks to his knees, wailing while cradling his bleeding stump against his chest. He meets his end with a brutal smash of his head into the stone wall. Gray matter spills from his skull as his eyes roll back and he falls in a dark puddle lifelessly.

The last one tries to run but is dealt with in the same merciless fashion. 

Your wide, horrified gaze sweeps over the massacre. The speckles of blood on your face are still warm with the heat of the dead men’s bodies.

A shaky breath spills from your throat.

Your head rises. You come face to face with Feyd-Rautha’s expressionless stare. He picks up your trembling frame from the ground and tosses you over his shoulder. He strolls over the men’s corpses as if they weren’t even there, huffing a deep sigh of annoyance.

“You should be glad I found you in time, pet,” he says.

He throws you inside a car. The door slams and you huddle in a corner. Feyd smirks at your shrinking form.

“Truly? Nothing to say after all that fuss?”

Tremulous words trickle through your lips.

“Just let me go home.”

He slants his head, the corners of his lips lifting slowly. “No.”

“You could say that you didn’t like the look of me,” you insist. “That I repulsed you.”

Feyd-Rautha snorts.

His hand shoots out, moving too fast for you to comprehend. He leans over you, fingers squeezing your throat. “Pet…you were mine before you even set foot on Giedi Prime.” His dark gaze drags over you. You get a glimpse of black teeth as he grins. “The only place you’re going tonight is my bed.”

Once the car reaches the Harkonnen keep, you’re roughly pulled from your seat. Your chest tightens as you note the severed heads of your guards and maid lined in a neat row near the gates. Their lifeless eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. 

You stumble back, hands flying to your mouth. 

Satisfaction twinkles in Feyd-Rautha’s dusky orbs.

“I had to kill these incompetent fools, of course. They let my precious bride slip away.”

You gawk at him in shock. Guilt presses inside you. If you hadn’t tried and failed to escape, those poor people might still be alive. Tears swell beneath your lashes.

The na-Baron exhales, gripping your arm and tugging you along when you refuse to move. He smiles. “Do not worry, pet. We will find you new servants. Better ones.”

You end up in a large room inside the Keep. A tub filled with water sits in the middle. Feyd-Rautha’s concubines flash black-teethed smiles at you as you crash into a heap on the floor.

“Get her ready for me,” he says.

“Yes, master,” the three women reply in concert.

Your eyes swing upward in alertness.

“Ready for what?”

His inflection is chillingly matter-of-fact.

“Well, our wedding ceremony, of course.” You unleash a whimper as his fingers twine in your hair, twisting your neck backwards. His feral gaze seems to peel the layers of your blood-soaked tunic. “Why wait a few days when I can have you as my birthday gift tonight?”

His hand coils around your jaw, forcing your head to pivot. Your gaze falls on a slave girl standing fearfully in a corner of the room. You’re struck with recognition. She was in the arena before his fight, tending to him along with two other girls. Two girls who are now dead. Courtesy of Feyd-Rautha. She glances at you before her eyes tumble to the smooth black tiles again.

“Do you see her?” he whispers, his chest brushing against your back. 

Feyd-Rautha beckons the girl with two fingers. She staggers forward. 

“Speak, slave,” he orders.

The girl opens her mouth. However, instead of uttering words, only distorted whimpers come out. Horror twists your insides as you realize something crucial is missing inside her mouth.

“W-What happened to her?” you ask, dreading to hear what you already suspect.

His dark chuckle resonates in your ear.

“She can’t talk anymore. Do you know why?” His lips graze your cheek, his raspy tone lowering. “Because I took her tongue.”

Your stomach sinks.

When you attempt to turn away, his grip on you becomes harsher. He forces you to keep your eyes on the girl.

“I want you to take a good look at her.” His hand spreads over your chest, right above your hammering heart. “Try any of your Bene Gesserit tricks on me again…and I will feed your tongue, and perhaps even other parts of you to my darlings here.” He snorts. “After all, I only need one part of you intact to make me an heir.”

“Do you understand, my love?” he inquires, his husky bass dripping mockery upon the last two words.

You swallow a large gulp of air. “I-I understand.”

He storms out of the room and you sink to the floor. His concubines dive upon you. They nudge you to the tub and remove the clothes off your quivering frame.

The blood, grease and dirt is scrubbed off your flesh. Scented oils are massaged into your skin and hair. A dress is wrapped around your body. 

You numbly let it all happen, defeat sinking its hooks deep inside your soul.

The farce of a wedding ceremony flies by in a blur. 

Baron Vladimir and your mother are both in attendance, the two wearing satisfaction on their faces, albeit in different manners. While the Baron is smug, your mother is attentive. Not a single emotion betrays her face and you feel thoroughly abandoned. 

Before the ceremony, she mumbles in your ear that the Reverend Mother requested a girl-child. You know the process, have been taught how it’s done. But it’s a cruel reminder…that you are nothing more than a tool in the larger schemes of the Bene Gesserit. 

And that perhaps, your entire life you have simply been your mother’s mission. Maybe she even feels relief to be delivered from her duty. 

The thought overwhelms you with sadness. 

You stand before Feyd-Rautha in a flowing white dress while he dons black from head to toe. 

He astonishes you by uttering his vows with the utmost seriousness, swearing to protect and cherish you until death forces the two of you apart. Death...In that moment, you find yourself silently wishing for its swift, imminent arrival.

When the Harkonnen priest whirls to you, the words stick to your throat, refusing to unfurl from your tongue. 

“Does the bride consent to the match?” the officiant repeats.

Shell-shocked, you shiver in your spot. Feyd-Rautha’s mouth quirks upward.

“Oh, she consents. She is simply too overwhelmed with happiness to speak,” he replies on your behalf, openly taunting you.

You grimace as he slices the inside of your palm with a dagger and brings it to its lips. Your blood coats his mouth and his tongue flicks out. He hums at the taste, a smile blooming on his face. He does the same to himself, digging even deeper in his alabaster flesh. You flinch as he presses his bloody palm against the bottom of your face. 

The Harkonnen wedding ritual concludes with him planting a rough kiss on your lips. He shoves his tongue inside your mouth, pulling you against him. 

When the ceremony ends, he hoists you in his arms and takes you to his bed. 

As promised, he lays his claim on your body right away. 

Your wedding dress is ripped open with a few precise slashes of his knife. Your insides coil, the fear of him driving the weapon through your soft flesh keeping you docile underneath him. You don’t say a word, your tongue shackled by his earlier threat. He takes a moment to drink you in, relishing the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he drags the tip of his blade across your skin. He savors your fear like the sweetest offering, growing harder against your thigh as you tremble beneath him. 

His black-toothed grin freezes the blood in your veins. 

“My pretty little pet…all mine to play with, finally,” he rasps. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he explores your body, scratching and nipping at your flesh as if to make sure no one dares doubt whom you belong to when you leave his chambers. Every plea for him to slow down is met with renewed ferocity. He tastes and fondles every inch of your quivering flesh. Your nipples pebble under his palms. Your core ignites below his tongue. Pleasure and pain mingle in sinful, twisted harmony. 

Your back folds and your eyes roll back as a myriad of confounding sensations assaults your senses. 

As he buries himself inside you to the hilt, he frees a satisfied grunt. 

Pain clamors through you when he starts to move. Your walls catch fire at the aching, brutal stretch.

Holding your wrists above your head, he pours every ounce of lust and aggression inside you. You feel it in every stab inside your core. 

His pale, muscular form pins you to the bed as he thrusts deeper inside you, reaching a tender spot that has you releasing an ear-splitting scream. You squirm over the soaked sheets as he takes you again and again, the mix of blood and arousal coating his length easing his blunt intrusion. Your helpless wails mingle with his feral moans. 

Raspy words in the coarse Harkonnen tongue are heatedly whispered into your ear. You don’t understand any of them and it makes your terror grow.

You feel as if you will break, shatter at the seams beneath his rough, careless touch.

The agony seems to stretch into eternity. 

Feyd-Rautha’s lips skate across your bruised cheek. 

“Do not fret, pet. I shall aim not to break you just yet,” he teases, sinister promises lurking in his lewd inflection. “Not when our fun has just begun.”

A single wayward tear traces a slow path down your cheek. 

He greedily licks it, purring at the taste of your misery. 

You feel him strain against you as he nears his peak, his thrusts getting slower and deeper. He comes with a deep roar.

The na-Baron spills his seed inside you. Your eyes shut. Power flows inside your womb as you conjure the right outcome.

A girl they desired. A girl they shall have. As you writhe beneath Feyd-Rautha, forced to bear his rough, bruising touch, you wish your daughter fierce and strong.

Strong enough to pluck the stars from the heavens. Strong enough to unweave the tangled threads of time.

Strong enough to twist the arm of fate itself if she wills it.

[mcromwell]

I must not feel shame. Shame is the art-killer. Shame is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my shame. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. Where the shame has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

[abearinthewoods]

Hey man. I’m a transgender teenage boy (16, pre-t) coming from that one post of that trans girl radfem tweaking over you reporting someone for saying they want to bomb all transmascs. This ask isn’t trans related though, I just wanted to provide context.

Have you (or anyone seeing this) experienced being shamed by “feminists” for being attracted to women? Maybe men too?

I get eye rolls from my female friends when I admit I find a girl attractive or have a crush on her. They will even change the topic because I probably “ruined it.” Two of them are wlw too, so I would think that they’d understand or agree. I don’t even say anything that sexual most of the time, though they took it that way once when I said I like short girls when they were talking about tall guys. I tried to say it in a nice way to say that the feeling is probably mutual but they looked at me like I’m a weirdo.

And it’s not like they’re uncomfortable with discussions like that. When I talk about guys instead they agree or give their own opinion on the matter. When one of the girls talks about how hot her crush (a girl) is, they don’t seem to have a problem with that so I’m pretty sure it’s because I identify as male.

I do think that sexualizing women is bad, but being attracted to them shouldn’t mean the same thing as sexualizing. It’s kind of the same logic as what homophobes say to gay people so I’m not sure why they would be like this around me. I’ve started to hide my attraction to women more around them seeing how they react to me which sucks a lot. I think I should be allowed to say that stuff when they can thirst over attractive male actors. I wondered if I’m a creep and if I should work on that, but remembering most of my statements I can’t see how I could sound creepy at all.

Ya, as i'm pretty sure you can tell: They clearly don't have an issue with what you are saying, just the identity saying it.

I’ve started to hide my attraction to women more around them seeing how they react to me which sucks a lot.

Fuck no! Every time they thrust over a male actor, agree, and then compare his hotness level to a female actor. Morph it into a ship out of nowhere. It is not your job to cater to their bigotry.

More importantly, if you allow catering to that anxiety to become a habit it will become a deep seed that keeps you from being able to build deep intimate emotional connections later in life. infecting not just this expression of your sexuality, but all expressions of it.

You *have* to face the fear of their reactions head on until you just stop getting affected by the reactions. Until you can just see their reactions for what they are, a shameful expression of (trans)androphobia and bigotry that should not be given much head space.

Allow yourself feel the hurt of the double standard, validate the pain of it even, but not the fear, not the anxiety. They are the mind killer. the little-death that brings total obliteration. You will face you fear. you will permit it to pass over you and through you. And when it has gone past you will turn your inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only you will remain.

Two of them are wlw too, so I would think that they’d understand or agree.

They very likely do, they just don't want to face the social consequences of speaking out. I bet every time their friends call you out for feeling something they too feel, they subconsciously feel a little uneasy. Ask them about it privately. Talk about how it makes you feel.

[thequeenskeep]

Knowledge is Power 📚

Gain Consciousness through Observation

Thinking is composed of 4 cornerstones interconnected as a square. The negative space enclosed within: observation - aware of and engaging with each pillar simultaneously. As the mirror we are set to observe our reflective surroundings; to ponder and experiment with our own understanding of life. Look at the gif above, that is an explosive amount of energy, happening infinitely every moment we’re alive. That energy is directed into every habit, thought, and feeling we experience. If we are unconsciously aware of ourselves we are unaware of where and how much of our power we are giving away to various vices.

Our power resides within our purpose. Everything in life is programmed to support the ecosystem down to a quantum level. Our internal ecosystem is constantly feeding us energy per its programming facilitating things like breathing, mobility, functionality, etc. We as the “players” manipulate and direct the energy with our actions. To become aware of our actions we begin with our thoughts. We have nearly absolute control with what we think and this dictates our actions. As I’ve said we are not here to suppress when we experience self sabotaging thoughts refrain for shaming or punishing yourself for them. Scientific observation requires a lack of bias for accurate calculations. Allow yourself to think them and see how your behavior mirrors it.

Now that we’ve discussed our due diligence on observation I’m sure you’re left wondering, “So what are the 4 cornerstones of thinking?” There are 4 chronological elements of thought that are built in sequential order. They are also observable in the laws of scientific experimentation. These are knowledge, education, wisdom, and intellect. To be knowledgeable is to know information about a subject. To be educated is to understand a subject with a nuanced encapsulatinglens. To be wise is to have experience with information. Intellect is the ability to learn using these pillars interchangeably. Intelligent people are occasionally referred to as “squares”. They possess a high level of thinking achievable through practice and patience.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Executing intentional actions is a complex skill developed through a strenuous process called life. Our thoughts influence our actions and our actions influence our thoughts. In awareness our conscious mind is our controller. The controller resides in the subconscious. Humans’ power lies within our ability to interpret, calculate, and strategize. It is up to the individual to recognize and utilize this power. If you’re interested in understanding the mirror metaphor I made earlier I suggest reading:

[wanderestless]

i must not shame-delete my posts. shame-deleting is the mind-killer. deleting posts out of self-consciousness is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face my desire to delete. i will permit it to pass over me and through me. and when it has gone past, i will turn the inner eye to see its path. where the desire to shame-delete is gone there will be nothing. only i will remain.

[laezely]

honestly i have had bg3 for like 10 days now and ive restarted almost 8 times and lowkey might restart my current one even though im 11 hours into it. i have like 60 hours of me just playing the first map bc i keep restarting fdkgfls no shame on not getting it right first or eighth try

i must not feel shame for restarting video games. shame for restarting video games is the mind-killer. shame for restarting video games is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face my embarrassment over something that means literally nothing. i will permit it to pass over me and through me. and when it has gone past i will turn the inner eye to see its path. where the shame has gone there will be nothing. only my twelve thousand screenshots of new characters will remain.

[mental-matters]

Motivational Quotes for Daily Inspiration

For when you need a little pick-me-up.

Life can be tough sometimes. We all experience challenges, setbacks, and disappointments. But it’s important to remember that even on the darkest days, there is always hope. A few words of wisdom can help us to see the light at the end of the tunnel and remind us that we are not alone. In this article, we have compiled a list of motivational quotes for daily inspiration. No matter what emotion you’re experiencing. We hope that these quotes will inspire you to keep going and never give up on yourself or your dreams.

Motivational Quotes for when you’re:

Feeling lost:

The only way to find out what you’re capable of is to try.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.

Follow your bliss and the doors will open where there were no doors before.

Don’t wait for the right opportunity: create it.

Feeling scared:

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Courage is not the absence of fear, it’s the ability to act in spite of it.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” 

Do you feel discouraged:

Fall seven times and stand up eight.

Never give up on what you really want to do. The person with big dreams is more powerful than one with all the facts.

It always seems impossible until it’s done.

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.

The only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle.

Don’t let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do.

For when your’e feeling happy:

Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions.

The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.

Happiness is a state of mind. It’s not something you find; it’s something you create.

Happiness is not something you postpone for the future; it is something you design for the present.

Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.

Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions.

When you’re feeling sad:

The only way out is through.

This too shall pass.

There is no shame in feeling sad.

It’s okay to not be okay.

Sadness is a natural human emotion that we all experience from time to time.

It’s okay to cry. Crying is a way of releasing your emotions.

Feeling lonely:

You are never alone. Even when you feel like it, there is always someone who cares about you.

Loneliness is a feeling, not a fact.

The best way to conquer loneliness is to connect with others.

Reach out to someone you trust and talk about how you’re feeling.

You are not alone in your loneliness.

Do you feel stressed:

Take a deep breath and let it go.

One day at a time.

You are stronger than you think you are.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

It’s okay to take a break.

Focus on the things you can control.

Feeling angry:

It’s okay to feel angry.

Anger is a natural human emotion that we all experience from time to time.

Find a healthy way to express your anger.

Don’t let your anger control you.

Take a deep breath and count to ten before you say or do anything you might regret.

Talk to someone you trust about how you’re feeling.

Let these motivational Quotes be your Daily Inspiration

Envision a daily dose of positivity with our motivational quotes for daily inspiration. Let these uplifting words be your guide, infusing each day with motivation and resilience. Embark on a journey where every quote sparks joy and empowers you towards a brighter, more inspired path. Your daily inspiration awaits.

Find additional resources:

[natjennie]

honestly that "were you raised protestant or catholic" ask has altered my brain chemistry because I was about to feel ashamed for finding something in a fanfic hot but then I remembered.. that anon gom-jabbar-ed me. i must not shame shame is the mindkiller shame is the little death that brings total obliteration.

[themattress]

My Top 11 Least Favorite MCU Characters (Infinity Saga)

11. Pietro Maximoff - I don’t dislike Pietro, but he failed to leave much of an impact on me in the one film he had a big role in. He just didn’t click with me the same way that Wanda did. Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s Eastern European accent is laughable, he’s not as impressive as the version of the character Evan Peters plays in the X-Men movies, and his death seemed like it was there just for the sake of having a major death in the film - afterward, he isn’t really spoken of again in any of the other films, not even by Wanda or Clint! He’s just kinda lame.

10. The Ancient One - Look, I love Tilda Swinton, but changing this character from an elderly Asian man to a young white woman who is still slated to die in order to advance the male hero’s story is all kinds of sketchy. Also, she’s a major hypocrite. So I can’t say I’m a fan.

9. Valkyrie - Take away Tessa Thompson’s charismatic performance and you’re left with a nonsensical, badly-written mess of a character who sends several unfortunate implications and is so transparently a weak-ass replacement for Sif. She doesn’t even have a name!

8. Flash Thompson - OK, I commend them for trying something different from the jock bully archetype for this version of Flash...but a “mathlete”? Who calls Peter “Penis Parker”!? What’s worse, the acting and writing does him no favors: this little twerp seems more like the kind of person who’d be bullied. Peter could probably take him even without his powers!

7. W'Kabi - So T’Challa fails to bring back W’Kabi’s parents’ murderer (through no fault of his own, I might add), then Killmonger does, and that’s enough for this asshole to betray his best friend and pledge loyalty to a clearly unstable guy? How petty can you get? Fuck W’Kabi!

6. Korg - Not only is this a complete misrepresentation of the character from the comics, which is jettisoned in favor of Taika Waititi playing himself as a big golem alien, but he just keeps getting less and less funny as the movie goes on because he ruins scenes that should be dramatic, including the fucking destruction of Asgard! He’s the MCU’s Jar Jar Binks!

5. Senator Stern - I really hate these kind of political strawman characters who only exist to obstruct the heroes, and this is a particularly obnoxious example. The only saving grace was the later revelation that he was a HYDRA operative, so now you hate him for better reasons.

4. Thaddeus E. “Thunderbolt” Ross - Another political strawman type, but in this case it’s even worse because Ross was a pre-established character before taking on this role! He was never particularly likable, but why bring him back at all only to make him that much worse?

3. Odin - The Allfather’s character just degraded further and further with each passing appearance. At first, it looked like the emotional abuse he was putting his sons through was because he was being misguided and foolish, but not malicious. But then in The Dark World, he did become malicious, serving as more of a brutal antagonist to Thor than either Loki or Malekith ever could. Finally in Ragnarok, he was posthumously revealed to have been a genocidal, imperialistic madman who covered it all up, including the existence of his equally vile daughter, which obliterates any moral highground he previously tried to claim. And yet he totally gets off scot-free and is apparently still to be revered? Fuck that, and fuck Odin too!

2. Carol Danvers - This version of Captain Marvel is a boring character who is painfully shoehorned in to the end of the Infinity Saga when she clearly has no business being there. It’s a shame since Brie Larson does actually look the part, but the stiff direction she’s given does her no favors. Despite this, she is not the worst character to come out of that film...

1. The Skrulls - Why? What was Marvel thinking here? The dastardly Skrulls, who are famous in the comics for their villainous shape-shifting antics, are turned into an innocent group of intergalactic refugees who are being oppressed by those fascist Kree. Rumor has it that an adaptation of Secret Invasion still may happen in the MCU, but how is that going to make any sense given that they derailed the Skrulls’ whole characters just to score woke political points? And for that matter, the Skrulls showing up in the 90s totally retcons the point made in The Avengers that it was the Asgardians in Thor that first alerted S.H.I.E.L.D to there being powerful alien life out there. Nothing about these guys work, and I hate them for it.

[cameronomicon]

Becoming Robin

I’m standing at the top of a carpeted staircase in the house where I spent my earliest years. The long sunlight of a Texas morning pours in through a window high above me, and I have shit my diaper. I’ve done something bad, and I know it. I’m in tears and I’m ashamed. This is my first memory, and it’s the moment that I become Robin.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this,” I said to my brother, “and I don’t think I could tell many people without getting a negative reaction. But I’ve thought many times that it would be better if she were dead.”

I was talking about my mother, from whom both my brother and I are estranged. The ebb and flow of rapid deterioration and chronic decay that lasted the better part of two decades has forced us to remove our alcoholic mother from our lives. It’s an act of self-preservation she has often labeled as cruel. 

Everyone, it should be noted, is guilty of this cruelty. My mother, the great victim that she is, has cast the rest of the players in her life’s story as irredeemable villains who took advantage of her, set her up for failure, or outright betrayed her. This is after the countless half-hearted attempts at sobriety, the multiple treatment centers, the interventions, the third, fourth, and fifth chances. Those who have loved my mother have given her much. And it should always be noted in the same breath that she has also given much to those she has loved. But through the insane cataract of her disease, she now sees only villains. She has become twisted by resentment and fear, anger and self-pity. I think this must be a survival mechanism of her own, to reframe the narrative as “Robin vs the world” or else she might not be able to find the strength to wake up every morning in a reality where everyone she loved is gone. We are all of us, as it happens, just waiting this thing out now.

Robin stalks the perimeter of our lives like a predator just beyond the throw of the campfire’s light. We know she’s there, we’ve seen evidence, but she moves unseen the in darkness and shadows. She is a hungry ghost, as Gabor Maté would say. She haunts our lives, the ghost of who and what she once was, her unknowable but undeniable existence emanating from the howling void at her core. 

It would be better if she were dead. Then at least we would know where she was and what she was doing instead of dreading the infrequent but crushing calls from strangers, nurses, EMTs. And it would be over. That would be better. 

*

It’s impossible for me to separate myself from Robin, because I am her. Like my mother I have a passion and talent for the arts, and I share in her very dark but brilliant sense of humor. I am quite intelligent but fragile, and proud to a fault. I am aloof to the point of seeming arrogant, and insecure to the point of self-destruction. I hold others at arms length for far longer than necessary, but those I allow into my heart I hold there incredible fierceness, just like her. 

Most obviously, we share in disease: I am an alcoholic just like her. I’m also a drug addict, having been addicted to nicotine, prescription amphetamines, and cannabis. Some of these things I used together, and towards what I hope is the end of my own history of alcoholism, I was regularly mixing alcohol, benzos, and weed. I drank in the morning to silence the shakes. I could hardly eat. I felt like I was dying. In fact, I spent most of 2018 thinking about my own death, and wishing I had the courage to bring it about. A few times, in my booze-fueled despair, I held a knife to my wrists. I thought about buying a gun. I believed I was doomed, and there was no point in delaying the inevitable. 

This had all happened before, in the early 2000s, when I went to rehab for the first time, and then lived in a halfway house, and sank to unprecedented depths before finally resurfacing to join the world again. And since then I had been coasting in relationship and lifestyle which permitted and encouraged daily alcohol use, until that itself met its inevitable and cataclysmic end. And then I climbed into a time machine back to 2005 and began to self-destruct once more.

And it is impossible for me to not compare the sorry state of my decline with that which I have found my mother in many times. Her passed out on the floor of her apartment was me passed out in a doorway outside. Her vomiting in public and the deterioration of her physical appearance were my own. Her leaving friends and loved ones baffled, heartbroken, and confused was the look of bewildered pain on the face of my friend Stephanie when she came to my apartment to help me get to rehab this past summer. The anger and white hot resentment churning at the core of her engine spun its revolutions within me as well. I have seen her claw her way back from the edge of total defeat in brilliant and heartbreaking flashes of sobriety, only to let the people of this world fail her and give her the excuse she was desperate for to try her hand at drinking again. I have been there, too. 

I think that, ultimately, I am lucky that I came to learn my truth at a young age. Even when still active in my addiction, I knew. My ex-wife knew. There’s no way to arrive at a conclusion other than “I am an alcoholic” after going through everything I’ve been through and to still have been a daily drinker. This is where my mom and I begin to differ. 

Along with lacking her tireless ambition, her work ethic, raw talent and the many, many successes she achieved by my age, one other major thing sets us apart: my mother has always denied that she is just like me. She has never admitted she is an alcoholic. 

*

“No human being is empty or deficient at the core,” Dr. Maté writes, “but many live as if they were and experience themselves primarily that way. Attempting to obliterate the sense of deficiency and emptiness that is the core state of any addict is like laboring to fill in a canyon with shovelfuls of dust.”

Something that my therapist told me, that I had never realized before, is that human beings aren’t born with shame. That’s why little kids are so free and charmingly weird, untethered by the conventions adults place on them. Kids learn shame. They are taught to feel it. Shame isn’t the same thing as feeling guilt, shame is something much more insidious, something that can eat away at a person’s sense of self. Shame is not feeling bad about what you’ve done, but about who you are, is I think how my therapist distilled it. Shame is my first memory. That’s how my story begins.

And I can point back to feelings of shame, and trying to erase or cope with shame or any other strong emotion, as a core motivation for my drinking and substance abuse. That is my original damage, the flaw in my life’s marble.

The writers of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous say “bottles were just a symbol” when describing their malady. And I agree. If I hadn’t found alcohol first, and if it hadn’t done for me what I desperately craved—the silencing of my inner dialogue, the obliteration of my self-hatred and insecurities, the soothing of pain and freeing of emotion and desire, that utter freedom to feel and to destroy feeling—then I would have found something else to do the job. Hell, Adderall did that, too.

When I say that my first memory at the top of the stairs is when I became Robin, it’s because I believe that there’s also something missing in my mom, some perceived void as Dr. Maté said, that is at the core of everything she is and has become. I believe there was a fundamental ruination, perhaps similar or entirely different from my own, that snapped off a part of her brain that she’s been scrambling to find, fix, or obliterate the memory of ever since. I believe that she stood at the top of her own staircase and sustained her own mortal wound. She has been laboring to fill in her own canyon with dust, yet cannot see the futility of the effort.

I don’t remember much of what my mom told me about her childhood, other than my Nana made sloppy Joes and her older sister was a bully about two things: The Rolling Stones (mom was a Beatles fan) and Star Trek (mom liked Star Wars). Knowing what I do now about my mom—and myself—I would not be surprised if she chose these diametrically opposed favorites just to needle her sister. But my takeaway now from this lack of knowledge, and the fact that we were never particularly close with either her family or my father’s, is that the damage she experienced lies somewhere therein. Something happened to her in childhood that formed her: some great pressure exerted upon her formed the diamond of her unbreakable will, and ultimately, the poison in her heart. 

She had some moment in which she became Cameron, which she never could have recognized at the time. She may not remember it, and she would certainly deny that anything like this could have had such an effect on her. But I believe strongly in my heart it was there. 

Of course, I may be wrong about all of this. I’m not an expert on addiction, I’m just a drunk like Robin. But I’ve gotten honest and looked deeply at myself and that itself has tremendous value; I’ve held up the mirror, and in it I’ve seen my mother there looking back at me: a little girl in Arlington, Texas, crying. Afraid. Ashamed, even. I would hug her if I could, and tell her everything will be ok. That no matter what happens, she is loved, and she is enough. 

[vishers]

Day 8: Silent Prayer and Protest Walk Through Jenkintown

Lord willing I'll be going out for another prayer and protest walk through Jenkintown today along my usual route. I'll be leaving from the SEPTA Parking Lot between Greenwood Ave, Ralph Morgan Park, and the tracks at 5:30 PM.

I was so blessed by T J and her daughter's company yesterday. T J: make sure you tell her how impressed I was that she kept up with us in that heat! It's so encouraging to have people drop in and take the time to support this cause locally right here in our own neighborhood.

I will be camping with my family over the weekend so I won't be able to go out during tomorrow or over the weekend. Don't be afraid to take up the cause and take the walk in my staid! I think that would be amazing.

I don't have anything fancy to say today. I was having a conversation with a friend the other day and they were talking about the guilt/shame they feel about having been largely unaware of this issue until now and how it discouraged them from taking action. I get it. I wasn't writing something every day for the past 35 years. I wasn't even taking part in the Black Lives Matter movement until these past 2 weeks. I didn't demonstrate after Trayvon Martin. I didn't demonstrate after Michael Brown. I didn't demonstrate after Eric Garner. I didn't demonstrate after Philando Castile. After Breonna Taylor. I tried to have conversations and I wrung my hands and I did my research but I wasn't publicly and persistently speaking out about this issue that I truly do care deeply about.

And yeah. I'm ashamed of that.

But this is a moment for all of us to take courage, face our shame, and press past it. If you're ashamed (as I am) of your relative or complete lack of action until this moment, act now so you won't continue to be ashamed tomorrow. Do what you can with what you have where you're at.

I'll end this with a the Litany Against Fear from Dune which I've taken endless inspiration from. Maybe you'll find inspiration in it today.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Let justice rain down.

Jeremiah 6:14 They have healed the wound of my people lightly,   saying, ‘Peace, peace,’   when there is no peace. (ESV)

[animelife58-blog]

And then there was light: How Architects are taking their next steps

Eighteen months prior, Architects endured an unbelievable catastrophe that took steps to crash them for good. As another year first lights, they get ready to at last push ahead

 (Miami, Florida is booming with new architectural projects within most prominent Miami Architect. This city converturing to most recent architectural designs through Miami Architect & will lead to a citable mark american architectural economy very soon. We have provided you top 50 Coastal Miami Architects whose are most expert in the USA by Oceans Home Magazine for the past five years - 2015, 2016, 2017 , 2018 and 2019). And most of them achieved Eleven national (AIA) American Institute of Architects awards. If you want to design & develop your multifamily residential properties, restaurants, hotel, private clubs, galleries, retail spaces, condominium projects, stadiums, community centers, conference centers then contact us. )

Sam Carter is calmly hurling a parachute flare into the air, as his bandmates in Architects look on with sickening apprehension. The flares we've found for the present photoshoot were made in 1983, which means they're more established than the vocalist himself, and nobody's very certain what will occur on the off chance that he touches off one. Perhaps nothing. Or on the other hand perhaps a burst of fire will obliterate the studio, causing a quick clearing and landing Metal Hammer with a robust bill.

"I urgently need to set them off!" the artist smiles fiendishly. "This is on the grounds that I've been advised not to. It's similar to when you're advised not to press a catch and you right away need to squeeze it… "

He's peppy today as we talk in Architects' main residence of Brighton, where the band have been working diligently composing new material – something fans didn't know would occur, given guitarist Tom Searle's terrible demise from malignant growth in August 2016.

Be that as it may, a year on from their misfortune, the band reported an European visit, coming full circle in a show on February 3 at London's 10,000-limit Alexandra Palace – double the horde of their greatest UK show to date. Murmurs started to flow about whether music would before long pursue. Under about fourteen days after the fact came the amazement arrival of Doomsday, an independent single that sincerely and wonderfully nitty gritty the agony of distress. It was joined by a moving video including Tom's twin sibling, drummer Dan, suspended in the territory of the universe. The message was clear: Architects were striding unhesitatingly into a brilliant new future.

"I'm mitigated and satisfied individuals associated with Doomsday," says Dan, talking honestly and submissively as he sits close to Sam for our visit. "It's exceptionally important for us, and it was decent to feel like we were pushing ahead, and that things would have been OK."

The band posturing for pictures in our studio today, finished by bassist Ali Dean, and guitarists Adam Christianson and Josh Middleton, have still stretched out beyond them. However, off camera, and away from the glare of fans and web-based social networking, they've been making strides each day. Dan specifically started composition verses for their eighth collection following his sibling passed away.

"I didn't have even an inkling how to manage myself, I assume, yet additionally part of me felt like I should report what this feels like," he clarifies. "Since sooner or later, everybody loses somebody, and perhaps other individuals would hear these words and it would impact them. What's more, in the event that it's, at that point put into setting of a record that is reporting an entire year of lamenting, possibly they could see that they may move into a space in their life where they feel increasingly positive."

Dan was not ready for the injury of losing his twin. Energized by his significant other, he had treatment during the last days of Tom's life, is as yet going at this point.

"My first session was extremely hard. Clearly the prior days Tom kicked the bucket were extremely unusual and dreamlike and troublesome, yet I was kind of in stun somewhat too, only deer-in-the-headlights," he recalls. "I had required it for quite a while, however. Since I was dealing with Tom, and I was certain to the point that he would be OK, I sort of… I sort of get fixated on things as a method for not managing my issues. The issue was Tom was wiped out. Be that as it may, my fixation was showing signs of improvement. So I never truly managed the way that he was wiped out."

After Tom passed away, Dan moved his fixation to the band, and onto composing.

"Something like your sibling kicking the bucket, you can't generally understand all that in one breath. You have to chip somewhat off that subject overall, and look at that smidgen," he reasons. "Regardless i'm working through it."

Sam had gone into treatment in the wake of account All Our Gods Have Abandoned Us in 2016. Shouting verses about death and annihilation had left him with stress cerebral pains and a substantial feeling of mortality, apparently aggravated by Tom's ailment, which was stayed discreet from the outside world at the time. He hasn't had the option to confront treatment since Tom passed on, yet is going to begin it once more.

"There were focuses on the last visit, and around Doomsday, where I was totally copied out," he concedes, withdrawing into the solace of the dim hoody pulled firmly around his face. "I don't think I understood the heaviness of the things I was saying in front of an audience consistently regarding Tom, and I went into autopilot. I was bringing stuff up that I wasn't generally discussing with anybody, and in front of an audience was not the simplest spot to do it."

As of now additionally managing a separation from his long haul sweetheart, he's grappling with the idea it's not unexpected to experience harmed, and it's fine to transparently confess to battling with your sentiments.

"There's a ton of stuff going on in my life and head, however it's not all to do with Tom," he says. "I think one thing I've learned through our little Architects family is to simply be straightforward with one another, and it's OK to not be glad constantly. The manner in which that I constantly used to manage everything is to attempt to be the joker of the pack, and in the event that I'm not kidding, at that point I'm feeling terrible. It's OK to not be OK."

"I believe that will be an emphasis on the record," grabs Dan, tenderly defensive of Sam all through the discussion. "We all folks have endured a ton since Tom kicked the bucket and before Tom passed on, so the record is tending to that. What it is to endure, and how you utilize that. Do you simply feel frustrated about yourself, do you simply be a casualty of life, or do you take a gander at it and use it to rouse yourself to be a superior individual – to live. Some portion of the procedure is to recognize that you've experienced a bad dream. What's more, you're going to need to cry, you're going to need to sit with that agony and recognize it, and not imagine it's not there."

At the point when Architects went to visit Australia with Bring Me The Horizon three weeks after Tom passed on, and only two weeks after his burial service, feelings were unstable. As yet attempting to process their loss, there were detaches in front of an audience just as. Sam and Dan stress the need to demolish the social boundaries that stop men communicating feeling before individuals, to break the emotional well-being shame and to shed the alpha male character acquired from their dads' age.

"It's entertaining," says Sam. "Speaking in front of an audience about Tom, I would prefer not to cry. I would prefer not to demonstrate that side of me. Be that as it may, it's a human feeling. I'm looking at something so legitimate."

Dan concurs, "guess what? What I've realized, again and again since Tom kicked the bucket, each time a man is straightforward and demonstrates his feelings, it's not disparaged ever – it's constantly praised," he notes. "However despite everything we oppose it. 'God, what are individuals going to think?' 'Gracious, that person's crying since his sibling or closest companion has kicked the bucket. What a screwing failure!' Who's going to imagine that? Individuals get it.

Notice

"Individuals will say I shouldn't talk about it since I'm not a specialist, yet I see a great deal saying there's a psychological well-being emergency. What's more, I think an enormous piece of it is down to gulping our feelings. And afterward when those feelings do come up, we don't have the foggiest idea how to manage it. So we get alcoholic, or take drugs or whatever, since we'd preferably do that over feel torment. Also, some of the time I simply need to feel 10 minutes of torment and after that I'll be OK. I think individuals like us have to exhibit that to ages coming in front of us."

Despite the fact that Dan unreservedly emptied his contemplations into verses during those early days, endeavoring to crystalise his experience of anguish to support himself as well as other people, question bothered at his psyche. Standing in front of an audience at Brixton Academy for an enthusiastic gig before 5,000 individuals, a quarter of a year on from the greatest preliminary of his life, he didn't know whether the band had the capacity to compose music together any longer. At that point Josh, the band's long-lasting companion and previous Sylosis guitarist, who was gotten to take up Tom's position, sent through a few tracks that were "only a pack of riffs". Dan discovered he had the option to cleave them up, rebuild them, and include a greater amount of Architects' character – much like he had finished with Tom on a grip of tunes from 2016's All Our Gods Have Abandoned Us. The strain lifted.

"It was a comparative procedure, yet working with an alternate individual who I have an altogether different association with," Dan says. "What's more, Josh has figured out how to team up, in light of the fact that with Sylosis he had territory over the entire task. He's developed into that job, and showed signs of improvement and better as he's discovered what works best for Architects."

They chose Doomsday from 10 unpleasant tunes, and after that additional the vocals, attempting to strike a harmony between remaining consistent with their sound and "knocking some people's socks off" with new thoughts – something they're going for in their future music.

"Tom needed to accomplish something else on the following record," uncovers Dan. "There was an inclination that on the last two collections, we could have expanded more. We were truly satisfied with [2014's] Lost Forever/Lost Together. The interesting thing is, we simply needed to compose an extremely substantial collection, we didn't do it to get enormous, so we had a feeling that we struck gold, since it was somewhat of a hit. Thus with All Our Gods Have Abandoned Us, it was extremely about refining that. Yet, at that point it felt like… OK, well we've done that now. On this one, there are a ton of entryways that are available to us; there's a ton of variety and various thoughts."

Promotion

"I think a great deal of the experimentation truly is vocally," includes Sam. "It's an entire diverse ballgame now, from Doomsday and pushing ahead."

Regardless of the new course, Tom's inheritance will consistently pose a potential threat over Architects. In the midst of the strong responses to Doomsday were some little voices

"Individuals' view of Architects with Tom, and Architects without Tom, is an unusual thing," starts Dan. "I've seen individuals state they don't care for Doomsday since Tom didn't compose it, and after that they discover that Tom wrote some of it, and after that they choose they like it. Despite the fact that it's the very same melody. So there's continually going to be this loyalty to Tom, which I comprehend, as it were."

The band are additionally thinking that its intense to adjust their faithfulness to Tom with the items of common sense of composing music. They've recently revealed to us how the weight of creating Doomsday, of fixating on everything about ensure it was flawless in his respect, "made them crazy". Presently they must guarantee that doesn't occur once more.

"The irritating thing about Doomsday is that it set the bar for the collection a smidgen – a tone that we at that point needed to coordinate," recognizes Dan. "What's more, it's hard, on the grounds that you can't put as much exertion into 12 or 13 melodies as we put into Doomsday, since you would get sick."

It's something Dan and Sam have been aware of while demo-ing material as of late.

"I need to compose a great record, and I'm certain it's actually the equivalent for every other person in the band, since I need to do it for Tom," clarifies Dan. "Which seems like an extraordinarily rousing helper, and it is, however the issue is that it could push you over the edge, since you don't have a clue when to stop, and it goes into franticness and fixation."

On the off chance that the immensity of composing another record wasn't sufficient to fight with, Architects are likewise confronting their greatest featuring show to date. On February 3, 10,000 fans will look as they step in front of an audience before a sold-out Ally Pally.

"It will be 90 minutes fit of anxiety!" snickers Sam. "I'm going to must have a great deal of tequila to remotely even wanna stroll close to that organize, not to mention be up there singing."

At the point when the gig was considered, the band thought they'd perhaps sell 7,000 tickets. A thousand more, on the off chance that they were fortunate. Dan concedes they feel qualified for attract great groups the UK since it's their home, however are still combat scarred from a grievous visit in 2012 off the back of their melodic fourth record, The Here And Now, which was gravely gotten by their fanbase. It left them with a waiting trace of uncertainty.

Commercial

"Having that snapshot of shakiness in the UK years back has given us a tad of uncertainty," he concedes. "We sold out Brixton Academy on the night, it wasn't care for we pissed it out a very long time ahead of time and it was easy. So then doing twofold the measure of tickets… hand on heart, we're shocked."

It'll likely be their solitary UK show of 2018, as they focus on increasing more energy in the States. It might be their littlest market, however regardless they're playing 1,000-limit scenes: an uncommon accomplishment for a band who have pushed on through variances in prominence, line-up changes and individual catastrophe. As additional evidence of their developing status, Dan focuses to their ongoing work with Labor pioneer Jeremy Corbyn.

"That feels like the greatest marker of where the band is at, that we can have exchange with a possibility for Prime Minister," he says. "It possibly says all the more regarding Jeremy Corbyn and the manner in which he works as a government official and needs to draw in with the adolescent than it does about us. And yet, I can't resist the urge to feel like, 'Ridiculous heck, our band has an immediate line to the pioneer of the Labor Party.' That feels insane."

Approach what Tom's aspirations were for Architects, and they raise his desire to play the late openings of European celebrations. Shifting back and forth between pride, incredulity and trouble, they portray his last appear: Germany's Rock Im Park, June 4, 2016.

"It was a full field, and that felt like a truly pivotal occasion for our band," reviews Sam. "That day, I don't consider any us thought he would have been ready to play the show, and afterward he did, and that was… "

"… it was a supernatural minute for me," completes Dan.

"I've never encountered a feeling that way, ever," Sam says.

YouTube film demonstrates the band crushing out tunes, for example, Phantom Fear and These Colors Don't Run, while the group shout along. At a certain point, the scene of thousands pulls off the stunt of jumping on the floor and bouncing back up. Tom was there in light of the fact that he had marked himself out of clinic in England to go out and about.

"He was sick to such an extent that he could scarcely get in front of an audience, however nobody knew it," Dan recalls. "What's more, he was simply stopped, in light of the fact that he didn't have the vitality to do whatever else. Be that as it may, doing that in private and not knowing on the day whether he was going to play, and a couple of days after the fact he was in a state of insensibility… it just felt like, 'What the hell is going on?'. We're on visit, I don't have the foggiest idea if Tom will get by as the night progressed, in his bunk. It was an absurd encounter."

Promotion

"To watch out around the stage and into the group, you wouldn't have known," includes Sam. "It was the point at which you looked past that, to where our specialists were or Dan's better half was, and afterward you'd see them crying. You couldn't take it in. It resembled… 'I'm simply going to appreciate playing music with my companions at this moment.'"

Nobody can comprehend what it has been similar to for Architects, however Dan offers an understanding into what Tom was experiencing in those last months, as he changed from day by day life in the band to being aware of death.

"Every one of Our Gods… accomplished everything Tom needed to accomplish as far as the sort of demonstrates the band is playing. However, you know, those things kind of broke down away for him, and confronting his mortality he ended up unengaged in cash and shows," he says, unassumingly bringing an immeasurable encounter into sharp alleviation. "It's everything simply smoke. You can't grasp it. It doesn't give you any kind of continued satisfaction."

He stops, downplaying the circumstance: "I'll continue enjoying it until the day I bite the dust, however he just… "

"… it was more kind of this vibe, this air – bliss, I think," grabs Sam.

"I think he simply needed to compose cool tunes, and wasn't generally an excessive amount of worried about whatever else," Dan finishes up.

Modelers are proceeding with that desire at this moment. As they sort out their eighth record, they're getting a handle on at another character that will accommodate where they've been with where they need to go straightaway. They're placing their confidence in the obscure. In the expressions of Lost Forever/Lost Together's C.A.N.C.E.R, Tom's words, it's a chance to 'Locate somewhat light and hold it close'.

"Tom getting malignant growth was an impetus for Lost Forever… and All Our Gods… , so we've had remarkable conditions for the last two records. What's more, presently we have distinctive remarkable conditions for this record," says Dan. "I trust that we can transform what has been an entirely ghastly encounter into an extraordinary record that we're pleased with, however Tom would have been glad for too."

Past the "dull, realistic sound" Dan guarantees, it will bear a message to gain from hardship and live with reason, conveyed with the crude earnestness felt inside Doomsday's dire bedlam.

"I trust that individuals will discover it causes them work through whatever torment they're experiencing," says Dan. "I trust that it draws out an adjustment in context on managing these things, and the reality you need to respect the distress and the torment. Or on the other hand you don't push ahead."

[hrjerry-me-blog]

For GOD’s Sake, Just Try Something New!

I really admire successful people. And over the years, I’ve studied many of them, read their biographies and books and tried to emulate their strategies.

These books have helped me, but it wasn’t their strategies that gave me the most valuable insights.

I discovered the one thing all successful people have in common, a trait that all of them have practiced without exception:

They try new things. Risky things. Innovative things.

Their progress and success is based on breaking the mold, and doing the things very few people are willing to do.  

And I’m stating it so simply because it is that simple and that difficult.

Sure, we all try things in our business:

We read articles and books

We put together a website

We try new software and online tools

We participate in social media

We ask for referrals from existing clients

We get out there and network

But with most of these, we’re just going through the motions. We’re doing what everyone else does to just survive in business.  

Most of these activities are safe and don’t challenge us, let alone lead to breakthroughs in performance and results.  

This article is an attempt to help you understand what it takes to successfully try new things.

Why do we settle for doing the safe things that everyone else is doing? Why do we hold back and play small more often than not?

It’s very simple, really.

Trying new things is scary!

If it wasn’t, we’d all be outrageously successful at everything we attempted to accomplish.  

And clearly, we’re not.

Instead of trying new things we delay and procrastinate. We get stuck in perfectionism. We judge and second-guess ourselves. We are paralyzed by analysis. Or we hope things will change.  

The first thing we tend to do is make a whole lot of excuses. We convince ourselves that we’re not ready yet.

We don’t try new things because we believe…

we don’t have good enough ideas

we’re not smart enough

we don’t have enough information

we are lazy

we’re not committed

we don’t know the right people

we don’t have enough time

we are disorganized

we don’t have the right resources

we don’t have the experience

we are not creative

we are inherently weak

we don’t know where to start

we have bad habits

we can’t get a break

All of these are just delay tactics. And none of them is legitimate.

The one and only reason we don’t try new things is:

FEAR.

Many people, much wiser than me, have a few words to say on the subject: “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.” – Frank Herbert

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.” – Paul Coelho

“When we are afraid, we pull back from life.” – John Lennon.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords.” – George R.R. Martin.

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” – Plato

“Men go to far greater lengths to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they desire.” – Dan Brown

“I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life.  – Yann Martel

“Fear kills everything, your mind, your heart, your imagination.” – Corenlius Funke

“Fear defeats more people than any other one thing in the world.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

“One is never afraid of the unknown; one is afraid of the known coming to an end.” – Krishnamurti

Yes, the only thing that stops us from trying new things, from success, from living our dreams, is fear.

Therefore the only way to succeed is to face our fears and try something new anyway.

And this is a lifelong process, an everyday process.  

Thankfully, many wise people have even more to say about going beyond your fears.

“Fear is inevitable, I have to accept that, but I cannot allow it to paralyze me.” – Isabel Allende

“I believe that every single event in life happens as an opportunity to choose love over fear.”– Oprah Winfrey

“We meet fear. We greet the unexpected visitor and listen to what he has to tell us. When fear arrives, something is about to happen.” – Leigh Bardugo

“Find out what you're afraid of and go live there.” – Chuck Palahniuk

“I have learned over the years that when one's mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear.” – Rosa Parks

“There's no shame in fear, my father told me, what matters is how we face it.” – George R.R. Martin

“It's better to die laughing than to live each moment in fear – Michael Crichton

“Don't fear failure. Not failure, but low aim, is the crime. In great attempts it is glorious even to fail.” – Bruce Lee

“Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.” – Marie Curie

“He who has overcome his fears will truly be free.” – Aristotle

“Courage is feeling fear, not getting rid of fear, and taking action in the face of fear. – Roy T. Bennett

Face your fears. Find your inner courage. Take action.

This is really the only strategy we need to remember and come back to over and over again, no matter what we want in life.

Don’t be distracted by a million strategies that everyone tells you are the answer to success:

– Develop a perfect 10-step morning routine

– Read one book every week

– Exercise 30 minutes every day

– Write down your goals and look at them daily

– Meditate before you take on a big challenge

– Write a step-by-step action plan before you start

– Make sure your goals are aligned with your purpose

– Keep lists of every task and project important to you

– Write down all the things you’re grateful for

– Pursue excellence in everything you do

Forget about all that stuff. It only clutters your mind.

There’s nothing wrong with any of these, except that we think they hold the key to our success.

Instead, they just distract us from taking action now on that new idea or project that’s important to us.

We don’t need to be perfect or make things perfect and organized before we take action.  

Nothing, absolutely nothing, trumps trying something new that we fear. And then simply doing our best.

Everything in our lives neatly falls into place when we make that our primary success habit.

All the ideas, strategies, tips, people, and resources that we need will come to us naturally and easily when we face our fears and take action.

If you don’t believe me, believe these people:

“Do one thing every day that scares you.” – Eleanor Roosevelt

“Everything you want waits on the other side of fear.”  – Lisa Wingate

“On the other side of fear is your breakthrough.” – Jeanette Coron

“Feel the fear and do it anyway.” – Susan Jeffers

Cheers, Robert

P.S. You’ll find some wonderful quotes (more than 6,000 of them) about overcoming your fears on Goodreads.

Action Plan Marketing helps self-employed people attract more clients through action-oriented marketing strategies that get you in front of prospective clients. Get our free report on how you can attract more of your ideal clients at this link: http://actionplan.club/free-stuff.

[that-sci-fi-nerd-blog]

Doomsday

Series: 2

Episode: 13

Writer: Russell T. Davies

Director: Graeme Harper

Plot Summary: Everything kicks off in the series finale, as the Doctor, Rose, and her family are faced by both the Daleks and Cybermen. Cracks between worlds are getting worse, and the Doctor has to try seal the Void to trap all the monsters.

Review: Here we are; ‘Doomsday’, named appropriately considering it is one of the most emotionally harrowing Doctor Who series finales of all time. But let’s start from the beginning…

Similarly to the start of the previous episode, Rose narrates from her perspective, although this time she starts with “this is the story of Torchwood” before repeating “this is the story of how I died”. Despite the persistent ominous tone, this opening arguably gives the audience a slight sense of hope, as we see a shot of Rose on a beach, assumedly after the events of the story have taken place, suggesting she does somehow survive. However, Rose’s emotionless stare into oblivion in said shot implies something truly dreadful is about to occur.

In relation to Rose, ‘Doomsday’ is really the epitome of her character development. Here, we see her at her best and her worst. The former is shown in her total badassery, of which there are a few examples:

 ·    She stands face-to-face with one of the Daleks after it orders her to place her hand on the Genesis Ark and tells it that she destroyed the emperor single-handedly, laughing in its face.

·    Her reaction to the Doctor’s plan to send her to the parallel world and get trapped there is instant refusal – “that’s not gonna happen” – she doesn’t allow other people to make decisions for her.

·    When she returns to the ‘regular’ world using the yellow medallion, some of her first words to the Doctor are “what can I do to help?”; she keeps her cool and focuses on what’s necessary.

·    The very action that causes her to nearly get sucked into the Void is pushing the lever that saves the world by allowing all the Daleks and Cybermen to get banished.

However, the latter is shown in the tragedy which occurs to her, and her inability to do anything to prevent it. It bothers me that the Doctor makes the plan to send Rose into the parallel universe and Pete goes along with it without her consent – I understand that they’re trying to protect her, but she has a right to her own decisions. It’s absolutely awful when Rose is giving a speech to Jackie about how she isn’t going to let the Doctor be alone, but the Doctor sneaks the yellow button on her and sends her into the other world. 

These actions by those who are supposed to care for Rose could have potentially caused a huge rift (pardon the pun) between them, and she is certainly isolated in more than one way; there’s the obvious physical isolation from the Doctor, but also emotional isolation from her family, as is represented in the shot of her sobbing after getting trapped in the parallel world while her family looks on, holding hands. This is mirrored by the shot of the Doctor walking away from the wall that separates him from Rose, utterly alone. Despite this, Rose’s family are still extremely supportive of her, as they pack up and travel to Norway based on a dream Rose had without questioning it, and they stick together as a unit.

Speaking of Rose’s family, let’s discuss their individual roles in this episode. Firstly, we have Jackie, who gains autonomy much like her daughter does, as she manages to escape from the Cybermen by herself, taking advantage of a distraction. She is still a comic character, shown through her continued banter with the Doctor, but experiences her fair share of tragedy in momentarily losing Rose and coming to terms with parallel!Pete.

Jackie and parallel!Pete’s first meeting is equal parts emotional and hilarious. Pete saves Jackie from the Cybermen, and Jackie initially believes he’s another ghost that’s come back, which is simply heartbreaking to watch. However, it’s amusing when Jackie shuts the Doctor up when he starts babbling a scientific explanation, and I love this bit:

Pete: “All those daft little plans of mine, they worked. Made me rich.”

Jackie: “I don't care about that. […] How rich?”

Pete: “Very.”

Jackie: “I don't care about that. […] How very?”

Jackie claims she did nothing with her life, but Pete thinks bringing up Rose was achievement enough – slightly problematic view here with reinforcement of the maternal role, but I appreciate the sentiment. Although Pete thinks it’s a bit weird since they’re not technically husband and wife, he still can’t resist wanting to be with her. 

Parallel!Pete is interesting, because he generally lacks the caring and humble nature which original!Pete had in ‘Father’s Day’. He immediately degrades the Doctor’s authority by making him obey his commands, claiming the parallel universe is “[his] world” (hence the phrase “Pete’s World” which the Doctor later coins), and is apathetic towards the Doctor’s world, saying he’s protecting his world and his world only. Pete cares deeply about Jackie, as his first reaction when the Doctor plans to send the Daleks and Cybermen into the Void is to protect her by sending her to the parallel universe. In contrast with his feelings towards Jackie, Pete consistently rejects Rose as his daughter like he did at the end of ‘The Age of Steel’; it’s incredibly painful when Pete stops Jackie from following Rose and pulls the “she’s not MY daughter” shtick again. Despite this, he’s the one who saves Rose from the Void at the end.

The final person I would consider part of Rose’s family, despite not being a direct relative, is Mickey. He has a more equal relationship with Rose now, as they share a mutual appreciation without either of them being dependent on each other. Rose also tells Mickey that he’s “the bravest man [she’s] ever met”, and looks kind of upset seeing how attached Mickey is to her when she realises he’d “follow [her] anywhere”. Mickey’s relationship with the Doctor has improved too, since they seem to respect one another; he’s even pleased to see the Doctor, calling him “boss” and fist-bumping, and he says to Jake “I told you he was good”, showing that he’s contributed to the Doctor’s shining reputation even though he could have remained bitter.

As for the Doctor, we get evidence of his character development in this episode in addition to Rose. The Cyberleader claims that the Doctor is “proof… that emotions destroy you”, which the Doctor agrees with quite candidly, seemingly aware of his flaws but also not finding shame in emotion. Although the Doctor represses a great deal of his feelings and history, he now appears more open with his affections towards Rose. This obviously culminates in the final scene, which I’ll discuss at the end. However, his actions in deciding Rose’s fate without her having a choice in it are incredibly problematic as I previously mentioned.

The main antagonists of this episode are the Daleks and Cybermen, although the Daleks get a bit more attention considering the focus was on the Cybermen in ‘Army of Ghosts’. The inclusion of both enemies gives opportunity for this tense yet kind of hilarious exchange:

Dalek: “Identify yourselves.”

Cyberman: “You will identify first.”

Dalek: “State your identity.”

Cyberman: “You will identify first.” […]

Dalek: “Daleks do not take orders.”

Cyberman: “You have identified as Daleks.”

They spend this entire scene using insults until they eventually shoot at each other, and after such a short space of time interacting, the Cybermen claim that the Daleks have “declared war” on them. Their battle inside Torchwood just proves how formidable the Daleks are as they mow down lines of Cybermen without being touched.

I’d say the main difference between the Daleks and Cybermen is that the Cybermen want to make everyone look like them, whereas Daleks want to obliterate anyone different to them, although both these methods are ways of removing individuality. However, the Cult of Skaro all have names, which contradicts the Cybermen’s opposition to individuality within their own race. As the Cyberleader says, “Cybermen will remove fear. Cybermen will remove sex and class and colour and creed.” They condone the removal of everything which makes people human and unique, although this does lead to a kind of twisted equality amongst them. On the other hand, Daleks have a strongly elitist attitude, as they kill anyone who isn’t “necessary” to their cause, and they select Rajesh to kill by asking “which of you is least important?” – this shows their lack of regard for any form of life and focus on status. This isn’t such a surprise when considering the Doctor’s description of the Daleks: “Sealed inside your casing. Not feeling anything ever, from birth to death, locked inside a cold metal cage. Completely alone.” 

And so we reach the final scene of the episode, one of the most infamous scenes in New Who: Bad Wolf Bay. The Doctor and Rose’s last meeting, or so it seems, but the rest is yet to come. Firstly, I think it’s sweet how Rose’s biggest worry is the Doctor being alone, not that she’s without him, as this shows how selfless and caring Rose is as a companion. However, she does have a life and a purpose outside of travelling with the Doctor, since she has decided to join Torchwood in the parallel world, which I think is a good use of her skills, and shows that she has gained her own agency now as “Rose Tyler, Defender of the Earth.” It was fitting for Rose to say “I love you”, as it’s just a very human thing to do in that situation, and the Doctor’s reaction was relevant to him being alien; the fact he didn’t have enough time to say it in return also made sense, what with the constant sense of urgency and lack of time (ironically) in his life of travels, although it was absolutely heartbreaking to watch.

Finally, the very end of the episode leading into Christmas special is first of its kind in New Who; Donna ending up in the TARDIS in her wedding dress was nice as a teaser and good for breaking the emotional tension from the previous scene. It was a rollercoaster of a finale, but things always have to move forwards.

Quote: “I’m burning up a sun just to say goodbye.” - The Doctor

[ladycagebird]

Hi.

I know I haven't written much lately, to you nor to my physical notebook. My attention has been pulled in one and the opposite direction. I'm finally making a little bit of progress with work, while trying to fight off the constant thoughts of shaming and guilt in my head that make me bow my head down in anxiety. I read the other day that the emotions farthest away from enlightment and transcendence are shame and guilt. The knowledge brought me more of the same, unfortunately, but I was surprised to learn that they were worse than fear! I thought fear was the worst emotion to move forward through spiritually, but it may not be so. My belief that fear has kept me from doing many of the things I wanna do in life has maybe given me the illusion that everything is to be accepted as out of my control, while at the same time feeling anxious if things go a little different than what I expected. What is fear but anxiety over losing control? What greater illusion is there but the one sustaining the belief that our material world is all there is and that it's under our sturdy, manipulative control?

I have been through periods of my life where I have wanted to be beautiful, smart, and loved, yet courage was not in my top to-feel list in life. "Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration." If fear equals death, then I have died every day over and over again without knowing. I have stared at death in the face while sitting alone in the bathroom floor facing a knife meant for my wrist, but death just teases and lets go. It lets go of the gift we are to receive sometime later in life. It lets go knowing that sometimes we are better off with him than without. So as the bird atop my roof spins from left to right over and over again, so we spin around in existence. Cycling from life and death continuously while hoping that aliens don't catch us*. I think I have talked about death with you before. 

Man, I zoned out for like 15 minutes there, took a power nap right before lunch haha. Or maybe that's why I'm sleepy. Anyways, Im a little disconcerted that my birthday is coming soon. Imma be one year from turning 30 and I don't know how I feel about that, I just know that it makes my abdomen nervous. Do you know any birthday rituals? Or praps I'd like a celebration to death on the anniversary of my birth. The Egyptians had a Book of the Dead for the living and a Book of Life for the dead. More recently, Sabina Spielrein (a Freudian close to Jung) wrote a lengthy paper titled "Death as the Cause of Coming into Being" explaining, in meta-spiritual language, the way death of the self can turn into birth and vice versa, be it in this physical world or another.I suppose death is a way, not an ending. Perhaps I am looking for a means, and not an end.

Sincerely,

Little Voice

*At this part, I was just about to sleep, I don't even remember why I wrote this alien sentence hahaha Left it there for farts and giggles. 'Ta.