#the cycle continues and i am here to witness its entirety

[hermitsandcrafts]

Casually thinkin' about Boat Boys' dynamic again

[the-great-bbe]

How about something with Rhaenys/Garlan?

Setting: Regency Era!AU, “I have nothing to give but my heart so full and these empty hands.” “They're not empty now.”

Note: Marei of Oldstones is the Westerosi version of Marie de France, a 12th century poet whose work influenced the Arthurian Cycle. And yes, it was a common pastime for learned ladies to discuss the phallic imagery ever present in medieval romances lolol the tumblr instinct has been around for centuries

--

It begins as simple admiration. He is Margaery’s favorite chaperone, as Willas can’t keep up with her merry chases and Loras enables her chases to become proper misadventures. So he is the one that Mama sends to court when Margaery becomes lady companion to Crown Princess Rhaenys. And what a court it is—Queen Regent Elia rules with grace and glitter, and all the courtiers gossip enough to make dear Grandmama herself lean in. Here Garlan can train with the finest of knights, read from the royal libraries, discuss with like-minded lords and ladies about the progressive new laws that the Queen Regent is putting forward...

And then there is the Princess herself. 

Tall, with rich olive skin and black ringlets cascading down her back. Her face is soft and round, balanced by full lips and large eyes—oh, her eyes! Garlan has never seen such eyes outside of paintings, an impossible shade of black-violet. And when he first sees those eyes, she is smiling at him. He cannot help but smile back.

--

It’s not just that she is beautiful, of course. Her mind is a treasure beyond words. One day she and Grand Maester Tyrion have a three hour long debate about the origins of dragons in the courtyard. Garlan nearly swoons like a green maid to hear the strength of her arguments, the logic she wove like silk in a loom. And even Tyrion concedes defeat to her, as most people end up doing to the Crown Princess. When Rhaenys takes her leave to give her mother company, Garlan bows. “An excellent battle, Your Highness. I’ve never seen a Field of Fire through words alone before and yet we all are blown away.”

“Thank you, Ser Garlan.” She smiles and there’s faint dimples in her cheeks; the sight nearly makes Garlan swoon again! “Care to escort me to the Queen’s apartments?”

Of course. Her hand is a warm weight in the crook of his arm and truly, Garlan is surprised she is not betrothed yet. She is eighteen, of age to take the throne in her own right were it not for her father in the sanitarium on Dragonstone, and easily the loveliest creature on the gods’ green earth. Perhaps she will marry Lord Robb Stark for his bloodline, or Ser Joffrey Baratheon for his riches. Had Willas not eloped with Leonette Fossoway to Braavos he too would’ve been a contender. Grandmama will probably throw the Tarly girls at Garlan, or perhaps a girl from the Riverlands...

“Your eyes seem far away, Ser. Does anything trouble you?”

Garlan shakes himself. “It’s nothing, Your Highness. I’m simply wondering when I shall become an uncle.”

“Yes, I hope my wedding present to your brother Lord Willas and his wife Lady Leonette survived the ship to Essos.” Her gaze flickers away for a moment, then she squeezes his arm. “Join my lady mother and I for tea? Perhaps you can give your perspective on elopement, as my dear brother Aegon intended to run off with Shireen Baratheon in their “doomed romance” when we’d much rather just give them Summerhall.”

--

“Ser Garlan! Do join us!” Rhaenys sits on a large picnic blanket with Marg, a gaggle of other ladies and Rhaenys’s fearsome cat Balerion. Prince Oberyn, Rhaenys’s uncle and practical second father, keeps watch over them and nods at Garlan. They are in the shade of a gigantic plum blossom tree given as a gift from the Emperor of Yi-Ti, and there’s a few petals fallen into her hair. Unthinkingly, Garlan sits by her side and brushes them loose, and he shivers from the feel of her hair between his fingers. Rhaenys asks, “Tell us, have you read the words of Marei of Oldstones?”

“Yes, her poetry influenced the Arthurian Epic did she not?” Epic tales set in the Dawn Age of heroes and fair maidens and wretched monsters. Garlan remembers being still in leading strings, listening to Papa read him and his siblings a passage before bed each night. 

“We were discussing some of the themes in in the Epic and other tales of its kind.” Marg gives him a grin that sends a shiver down his spine. Gods, what is she up to now? “About the imagery of a knight rescuing a princess from a tower. What do you make of it?”

“I...”

Sansa Stark hides a giggle behind her folding fan. “It’s always a giant tower, so very large and impressive.” Then she and little Allyria Dayne dissolve into giggles.

Garlan tugs on his collar. Rhaenys is looking at him expectantly and he can’t ignore his future queen. But really! Marg is still grinning and Garlan narrows his eyes at her. Oh, he’ll get her for this. “It is quite a juxtaposition of imagery. As Lady Sansa said, the tower the knight must handle is always a tall and imposing one. Yet...”

“Yet?”

Garlan prays to the gods for guidance. “Yet the knight must enter the tower. So truly, what function is the imagery in this context?”

Walda Frey—Loras once called her Fat Walda at a feast and she gave him a split lip and a black eye, so now Garlan defers to her as the very best of Waldas—whispers to Marg, “Better than just scaling up and down its walls in its lonesome.”

The ladies giggle and Garlan wants to sink into the floor. Then Rhaenys laughs. “Well put! Thank you for indulging us.” She pauses, then cocks her head and Garlan wonders when the mild spring day got so warmer so quickly. “Indulge us again: do you prefer the sword, or the joust?”

“I prefer handling two swords at once, although I am no green boy when it comes to the joust.” Marg might just choke to death on her stifled giggles and Garlan hopes that she does! But there’s a hint of red to Rhaenys’s ears, and what mild flirtation ever hurt anyone? “At the next tourney, I’ll do my best to impress you.”

“Perhaps I’ll give you my favor as a good luck charm. We can’t have me being unimpressed, can we?”

Indeed, they can not. Garlan would love nothing more for her to admire him, as he admires her.

--

“Your Highness,” Garlan licks his lips, as they are as dry as a Dornish desert. His words catch in his throat. Then Marg in the stands motions at him to continue, Prince Oberyn himself sends him a wink...and he says, “I crown you, Princess Rhaenys, as my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The crowd erupts into cheers. It was a very hard joust won, as Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard nearly dislocated Garlan’s shoulder and Lord Robb was no one to be trifled with. But at the end he threw even his brother Loras down to the dirt—as if his trick of using a mare would work on Garlan! Not after the tourney at Longtable where Garlan broke his nose!—and won the crown of jonquils and morning glories. They look so beautiful in Rhaenys’s hair, almost as beautiful as Rhaenys herself.

Rhaenys’s reply is nearly lost beneath the deafening roar, but Garlan hears it all too well. “I am honored and delighted to be crowned by such a noble and true knight as you.” And her favor, tied neatly around his arm beneath his armor, seems to catch alight.

He has nothing to offer her, other than this crown of flowers and his hand in the dances to come. He is a second son of a family with many mouths to feed, with no kingly descent or heirloom sword. She shall marry someone worthy to take his place at her side as Prince Consort, and he...he shall content himself with the feeling of her hand in his.

He bows over that lovely hand and kisses her knuckles. 

Later that night, after hours of dancing and feasting and laughing and chasing, he kisses her knuckles again. And again, and again, and again. Until Rhaenys pulls him up from his knees and kisses him with lips as soft as spring and rich as wine. Beneath that plum blossom tree with no one to witness them other than the moon and stars reflecting in her impossibly beautiful eyes, no other sound than their shared breath against each other’s lips and Garlan whispering “I think I’m in love with you.”

He kisses her before she can tell him they cannot be. He cannot bear it.

--

“Do you love my daughter, Ser Garlan?”

Garlan can hardly breathe before the presence of the Queen Regent Elia Martell. So much of Rhaenys’s bold beauty is from her mother, and the Queen Regent has decades of power behind her piercing gaze. But he is no liar. He jerks a nod. “With all my life, Your Majesty.”

She nods, as if it were a foregone conclusion. She is not wrong in that, as the entirety of Kings Landing must know that Garlan would gladly die for Rhaenys, and live for her as well. Even Papa knows, and Papa hardly knows anything! After an eternity of being sized up and raked over the coals of the Queen Regent’s eyes, she sighs. “You are not my first choice, but you are not my last. If my daughter consents to it, I give my blessing to officially court her.”

Truly? Truly?! Garlan gapes like an idiot, or perhaps some ill-bred fish. And the Queen Regent laughs; she sounds so much like Rhaenys. “I encourage you not to make that same face when you ask for her permission.”

Garlan, after bowing and scraping as much as he can without fainting, eventually leaves the royal solar. Marg immediately tackles him and cackles that her hopes have gone swimmingly, and her best friend shall be her sister. Then she pulls him along to gods know where while Garlan’s head reels.

He? To court Rhaenys? To hold her hand in his and not let it go? Garlan’s knees nearly give out, especially when Willas and Loras both clap their hands on his shoulders. “Grandmama will finally be proud of us, I think,” Loras boasts.

“Her Highness has not even consented yet!”

Marg rolls her eyes “Garlan, I love you, but you are as thick as molasses. Now go confess your love to her!” She practically shoves him towards Rhaenys’s plum blossom tree. “And kiss her! With tongue!”

He stumbles into the tree and nearly into Balerion. The cat blinks up at him to say he is a fool, then slinks away to a laughing Aegon’s arms. “Ser Garlan! Are you alright?”

“Y-Your Highness, I...” Garlan peeks around the tree to see Rhaenys on the other side, standing with something hiding behind her back. She catches his questioning gaze, and flushes a pretty red before revealing a knitted scarf. “For your brother, my princess?”

“For you, actually.” She bites her bottom lip before puffing herself up. “I intend to ask my lady mother the Queen Regent if we would be allowed to court. With your consent of course! I would never presume that you would wish to—”

“I was just given permission by Her Majesty to ask for your permission.”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Rhaenys giggles into her palm. Garlan melts, and finally asks, “Would you like me to court you, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” She presses the scarf into his hands, and leans up to murmur in his ear, “And please, call me Rhaenys.”

He shivers. “Rhaenys.” All is right with the world it seems, just from the sound of her name on his lips.

--

Garlan smiles despite the tears in his eyes. “Rhaenys, are you sure? I have nothing to give but my heart so full and these empty hands.” 

“They're not empty now.” Rhaenys squeezes their hands together.

Then she cloaks him in her house colors, and Garlan is hers, hers forever and always, just as he was always meant to be.

[ourshyartcollection]

Humans Are Weird: Battle Junkies

I just rewatched this kick-ass anime called drifters and it inspired me to write this

throughout history, there have been individuals who revel in the sheer carnage and high adrenaline action of wars and battlefields; Napoleon Bonaparte, Oda Nobunaga, Hannable of Carthage, Shimazu Toyoshia, Vlad “the Impaler” Tepes, and many others. All have one thing in common, their love for fighting; and in truth its humanities most defining feature, the instinct to fight and its alluring thrill. And I’m pretty sure that's why most aliens don't wanna go near us

I am regiment general of the Borshalva royal guard; ten solar cycles ago my people's planet was invaded by the Koloksa war legion. For the entirety of my military career, my people have fought against the Koloksa to free our Queen and our people from their vial slavery, but sadly to no avail. I pleaded to the acting matriarch Princess Vasha to continue the fight, but my voice fell upon deft ears. 

“Our armies are not strong enough,” she said, “We need aid from others,” she said; it was blasphemy! to not follow our ancestor's doctrines of combat and seek aid? our people have never sought aid in times of war for thousands of years! But what was worse she had gone behind the collective backs of her royal cabinet and formed an alliance with the primitive human race! Their sniveling species had only recently entered the galactic stage, I held them in no regard and showed them no ounce of respect, their technology was no more than jumbled masses of metal and wire and their military might was no more than one solar system how could any of there mud larvas aid; like many others I thought Vasha was mad, but my loyalties to the matriarchy restricted both own objections and the objections of the royal cabinet. I still held to my soul that these humans would never amount to anything considered “aid” that is until I saw them in action.

It was several months after the humans came I was tasked with another rescue run to reclaim my peoples captured queen, my entire regiment was able to storm the castle with surprisingly no resistance, I figured this was some sort of trap laid by the enemy commander; I urged everyone to proceed with caution as we made out way into the stronghold. In all of the horrors, I have witnessed throughout my combat career, none have shaken me to the core more than the gruesome scene that hath been wrought before me; the corpses of enemy soldiers scattered across the walls and halls all mangled, cut apart, and rend asunder. we ventured further into the compound, the trail of carnage as our guide; at its end, we found the chamber that held our captive queen, I and my men braced ourselves for the horrors that lay beyond that door. What we didn’t expect was a small squadron of blood-soaked humans nestled behind a makeshift blockade of furniture, “What is transpiring here? I demand to know!”

At this point one of the humans walked towards me, “I am Lieutenant Harkens, of this squadron, your queen is unconscious but safe.”

“Good, now we must leave before whatever caused such carnage outside befalls us as well.”

“No need to worry about that, we’re the ones that caused the carnage.”

At this point, I froze in place, “You did what?!”

“Yeah, turns out the enemy were kinda push-overs, so we kinda went little nuts with the fighting.”

The queen was escorted without incident and I learned a valuable lesson, when a human starts to enjoy the fight, there is no enemy that can survive.

this took a long-ass time to make sorry if it gets a little sloppy in the end

[thegooddoctorsthoughts]

Amalgamations Of Matter

“Are you okay?”

No, I don’t really think so.

“What's the matter?”

I’m alive and aware, an amalgamation of matter which is capable of placing itself in reality and grasping the finality of its own oblivion. 

“Found the rot again?”

Not quite, there's something all too violent to this feeling. It’s the horror of knowing one day I will simply blink out of existence and there's next to nothing I can do about it. Something crushing, almost claustrophobic about how utterly final it is. The entirety of reality as I know it will end with me and continue on long after I vanish.

“You’ve gone all the way to the core of it all haven’t you?”

I was looking for something, can’t remember what exactly. Then I found its root, the core of that thing I’ve come to call my humanity. Vibrant and full of life, a flame of whose manner I put to words in any form that would do it justice. It stands in harsh opposition to the nature of who I choose to be, unrefined and raw, not even the metallic ore dug out of the ground but the rushing of iron through blood, iron left resting in a bog for thousands of years, preserved yet also eroded by time. There is life to it in a manner I cannot describe. I found it hardly acknowledged me at all, only going in search of more fuel to keep itself going, not stopping, not thinking, alive yet hardly living, only concerned with staying alive at all costs even for a few seconds longer. I pitied it in a way.

“You pitied it?”

Why wouldn’t I? It strove only to gather all the nutrients and kindling it could in the area around it, eventually it will break down and burn out. Going from raging inferno to dull warmth to dying cinders and then amongst the ashes of its life and it's time somewhere the last cinder will go out without any fan fair and no heat will ever come from those ashes ever again. It’s life was in all reality slight and realistically meaningless.

“Yet that is the nature of what you are, you are down at your very core human, or at the very least you came from us.”

Do I look like I care? Do you think I give a flying fuck about my heritage, I am conscious, I’ve been given the single greatest pleasure and punishment reality could realistically level upon me, knowing that one day the crude biological machinery that maintains me will break down even if I do everything in my power to maintain it and I will simply collapse in on myself and cease to be, no void, no darkness, no sight, no sound, no thoughts, nothing. A blink from a hospital bed and consciousness comes to an end and I will fall asleep, with no dreams to keep me idle, just a blink that never ends. Perhaps this is hell? Perhaps Limbo? Do you understand? Reality as a concept, the sense of progression, the sense of flow and regularity of it all. The narrative of the concept of reality as we know it you and I and everyone else, means fucking nothing the moment that light goes out. For all I know I am the only sentient thing in existence and everyone I’ve come to care for is simply a construct of matter following similar logic to me yet they at no point are actually sentient, a perfect simulacra, fuck knows most of the people I meet seem to be little more than glassy eyed automotons.

“Well don’t you think you are so high and mighty? What? Is the average person suddenly so far beneath you you hardly consider them aware of themselves?”

Do you have any idea I would give for the ignorance of the average person? Do you know what I would give to be free of this knowledge? So many people live happy lives blissfully unaware of this, or perhaps with the capacity for faith! Oh what I would give to find faith, genuinely, to find a deity to pledge my eternal soul to and have the comfort of an afterlife to work towards. To live well and be successful, to make this world a better place for one and all with the promise of it bringing me to something greater.

“You can still make the world a better place you know, even if it doesn’t promise you an eternal paradise.”

Oh but I am, in my own little quite way, I wake up in the morning in more pain than most people can imagine, my life mired by a silent suffering most can scarcely quantify in their minds. I work to make my life a better one, to make the world I live in better not only for myself but for others as well. I live in the constant fear that this is the only life I and everyone I care about will ever have and because of that I do whatever I can to make this world a slightly better place to make this world a place where people do not vanish into that void or become consumed by the rot long before their time to escape a suffering brought on by the very nature of reality. If there is a god out there, if there is anything greater than ourselves I intend to kill them with my bare hands, to march upon their throne and melt those pearly gates to nothing but molten slag and brandish it as the armor and weapons fit to slay whatever intelligence condemned me and everyone who possesses this level of awareness to this suffering. If there is anyone out there, I hate them for what they’ve done to me. I hate them for cursing me with this knowledge. I adore them with every fibre of my being for twisting me into existence and giving me the drive to hate them. I love them for giving me the time and space to learn to love myself, to cherish the life I have and to give me the determination to want to destroy them. They created me and should I have my way, should I ascend to this sense of immortality I strive towards, should I drag humanity up with me to this sense of godhood and bend the very fabric of creation to my will, I hope any being I curse with consciousness hates me for doing so as well because I will never do it willingly.

“I will be honest...I don’t know what to say to that. I mean, I don’t know if you’re right, but, I don’t know what to say to you.”

Don’t say anything, don’t think, just live, don’t reach whatever insane plateau I’ve reached because there only seems to be down from here yet the only satisfaction from this is to climb beyond the mountaintop and into the heavens themselves. Nothing short of godhood would satisfy me now and all I would do with it is witness reality as a dead husk, with no sentient life in it at all, only glassy eyed machines. Perhaps this is all some great joke. Perhaps I am some vast alien consciousness caught in a machine by my friends outside of this and they will mock me for growing attached to everyone in here because none of it was real. Perhaps this is what hell really is and I am being punished from crimes against reality itself. Perhaps the goal of all of this is to forget and live until oblivion devours me and there is no more consciousness to care whether I lived or died.

“...”

Perhaps one day I will ascend to the godhood I desire, only to create more beings such as myself now so as to have someone to talk to, something to play with, to simply play the infinite cycle as it is now and one day they will rise up and fashion their own godhood from my mangled corpse upon its throne of metal and machinery. I don’t know any more and frankly I wish I didn’t care. All I know is that I’m afraid...and I don’t even know if I should be any more.

[danipaniniwrites]

Black rectangles

It's been a while since I started feeling this—this void that lets me spiral into its never ending cycle of instant gratification and constant validation. Believe it or not, social media used to be a safe space for me; it was a place where I could freely express myself when real life just couldn't cope with the entropic mess of a person I could be.

It was a more blissful time when liking something meant you genuinely liked something, comments were not harvest fields of trolls and influencers, and sharing was done with real thoughts and people in mind. Stories were told face to face in more animated ways than stickers and gifs, and my days intertwined with others' days because more time was spent interacting with what you have and where you are rather than longing over everyone else's what's and where's and who's that you can now seemingly grasp in the palm of your hand.

Years ago, I remember when my dad asked me what kind of phone I wanted for what I think was my 13th birthday. I asked for a phone with those QWERTY keypads. Remember those? My dad asked me why when touchscreen phones were looking to be "the next big thing."

I used to think smartphones were just solid black rectangles and squares—mirrors that endlessly reflected what you wanted to see right back into your own face. 

To finish my short story, I said—and I quote, "I don't want to be one of those people with black rectangles," unquote.

But here we are. Funny and exponentially enough, these black rectangles were suddenly in everyone's hands.

Suddenly and exponentially, everyone could see what I could only see before. Not only see, but also feel, hear, taste, smell, sense. Freedom of speech boomed, freedom of choice minimized, and freedom in its entirety was both emancipated and incarcerated.

I could sense it in myself. I could literally feel the pull into the void of selfies and colored circles and fake news. I could see myself from the third person point of view, as if standing from a pedestal of my own doing, with everyone in my line of sight doing the exact same thing: thumbs endlessly tapping on a screen and thumbs moving down to up and down to up and tap and up then up and down in a thoughtless act of violating non-violence.

The worst part I feel toward this is the fact that in this case, I play every single role. Suspect, witness, accomplice, adjudicator, and the overall judge hammering down the gavel on my own grave because at the end of the day, we're all victims of the black rectangles.

And the cycle continues. I finish whatever I'm typing on my very own black rectangle, share it on whatever platform I can, and sit impatiently for it to rack up likes and comments and shares that, quite frankly, never really arrive.

I admit I'm also guilty of this—again, I play all the roles in this spiraling case. Yet still, I cannot fathom how to pass the final judgment and close it for people to squeeze into a digest. You may even call me naïve for wishing back a simpler time, I know. And I know, deep in my gut where I know a lot of things to be true, that I'm not alone in these thoughts.

Man, honestly it's 7.21-am-too-early-in-the-morning for this. But my mind's alive making me alive and that's what matters the most.

Indeed, and I quote one of my favorite composers and lyricists, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now. Personally, I'd take that quote in this context with a deserving grain of salt.

[creamypudding]

Combo story sneak peek

I sort of finished the Clack/AkuRoku combo story I started in 2017, waylaid for The Two Penguins, and picked back up this year to complete it for a Big Bang, which died before it ever took off. I say sort of finished because I haven’t written the very last chapter yet, which is an epilogue set several years after the end, and which I am not very invested in writing at the moment (if at all). I haven't read through the entirety of this story yet. It’s still in first draft. I’m going to put this to bed for now and get going on some other projects I’ve yet to start/complete. The break will let me come back to it with fresh eyes and opinions and I hope a feeling of wanting to refine it. 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I don’t feel very satisfied finishing this story. Well... ok, thinking about it, I think I do know why I feel this way. In part, it’s because this story isn’t satisfying. It’s not got a happy end. But I suspect the main reason is that I don’t feel like the emotion I wanted to transpose from my own experience into this story is adequately portrayed. At least that’s how I feel not having read the whole thing in one go, nor even the last chapter in one go. Maybe I need to be kinder on myself. Maybe the story isn’t even so bad. And if the story does lack the emotional punch like I suspect, it’s probably something I can fix in the subsequent drafts. Anyway, for anyone interested, you can have a sneak peek at the first chapter. May it pique interest. If anyone wants to be a pre-reader for me please get in touch with me. I would appreciate at least one person to read through this and give me feedback on the story, pacing, character development, and relationships. Title: Fleeting Moments (working title) Chapter: 1/(possibly)7 Fandom: FFVII/Kingdom Hearts - Modern AU Pairing: Cloud/Zack and Axel/Roxas Rated: Mature (drug use -smoking and drinking-) Word Count: 8,170 Summary: Cloud and Roxas meet Zack and Axel in a laundry, of all places.

CHAPTER 1 -

The mechanical whir and swish of the washing machines was almost hypnotic, and drowned out the dripping of a leaky faucet somewhere within the laundry room. Cloud, with his back pressed to the wall, sat on the wooden bench lining the side closest to the door.

The laundry was wholly unremarkable. It smelt of washing detergent and liquid softeners. Garish lights above only served to wash out the drab, peeling paint of the walls even further. The cold, gray concrete floor had lost all its polished sheen, and the change and vending machines had all seen better days.

Yet this was one of Cloud’s favorite spots. Winter was dismal up in the mountains, with long hallways and wide open expanses lying between the laundry and his temporary residential housing. So Cloud chose to sit, cocooned in the underground warmth of this room, while he waited for his clothes to be washed so he could move them into the dryer.

He got a lot of reading done down here, which was a definite benefit. Most sane people chose to go do other things than hang in the laundry while their things got clean. So it was mostly quiet and empty in the laundry, and for Cloud this spelt sanctuary from society and his own rather busy life.

People came and went, and Cloud took no notice. He only looked up whenever a machine beeped, checking if it was his one announcing the completion of its cycle. It was never his, so he continued on with his book, an auto-biography. He found himself deeply engrossed in it when eventually a beeping did faintly register. He looked up again, like so many times before, searching out his machine. From where he sat he could make out the LCD display. There were still ten minutes left.

“Hey. Whatcha reading?”

Cloud jumped with a start and then frowned. Eyes darted to see where the question had come from. He found the source in seconds. A man stood by one of the machines facing the opposite wall. He was hauling clothes out of the toploader but looking directly at Cloud. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” came the apology, along with a smile, which lit up the man’s whole face. 

Cloud couldn’t fathom why he was being spoken to. “It’s fine. And, um… it’s a auto-biography of Ferdinand Papora.” Cloud flashed the front cover up, so the man could see it.

“Who’s that?”

“A racing car driver.”

“Pretty famous?”

“Obviously not famous enough if you’ve never heard of him.”

“Well he might be. I’m completely oblivious to that sort of thing. You like racing?”

“Not particularly.”

A confused look was followed up with the question, “So what’s with the book then?”

Cloud inspected the paperback cover before he spoke. “I just like to read biographies. Doesn’t really matter whose it is. And the library here has tons of different ones.” The man continued smiling. “That’s a cool way of expanding your horizons. I might take inspiration from you, if that’s all right.”

Cloud shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s not like I’ve got copyright over reading books on subjects I’ve no interest in.”

“Well, you must have some interest, right? I’ve been here for five minutes, trying to ask you a question but you were totally engrossed in that book.”

He felt slightly taken aback and said, “Oh. Sorry.”

“No worries. So the book’s a real page turner?” The man hoisted up a collapsible laundry basket and moved toward the dryer section.

“Mmm. It has its moments.”

“Think you’ll finish it?”

“Of course. I see things through to the bitter end.”

The man laughed. “That sounds dire. You a perfectionist?”

Cloud hummed thoughtfully. “Nah, I’m just a completionist.” “I stand corrected.” The man dumped his load of laundry into the dryer, inserted coins and pushed some buttons. “So this Ferdinand—ah…”

“Papora,” Cloud assisted.

“Yeah, him. What are some of his more notable moments?”

“Well,” Cloud inspected the book, to help jog his memory, “He survived three near-fatal crashes. Went through some pretty hefty rehab in hospital, and continues driving even to this day, despite the peg-leg.”

“Woah, seriously?”

“No. I made up the peg-leg, but the rest’s true.”

The man laughed loudly. It shook into Cloud a little. “What a shame. That would have made even me read the book.”

“It’s still a worthwhile read. The guy’s pretty… driven.”

Another laugh and a great big smile lifted and turned the other man’s rather tanned complexion a little darker. “Nice one.”

Cloud cracked a smile. He wasn’t usually this chatty, particularly with a stranger but… well he put it down to being in a relatively good mood.

The man closed the lid of the machine and leaned against it, looking across the room at Cloud. “I’m Zack, by the way.”

“Cloud,” he responded.

With raised eyebrows Zack said, “Nice name.”

Cloud gave a small sigh. His mood was about to go south. “Here we go,” he muttered.

The raven-haired man tilted his head to the side. “Go where?” 

“The weather related puns. Go on. I’ve heard them all.” He resigned himself to the inevitable. Cloud opened his book again to give a clear indication that he was done communicating.

“Really? That thought didn’t even cross my mind.”

Cloud laid eyes on him without lifting his head. “What was with that look, then?”

“What look?”

Cloud imitated what he had just witnessed.

Zack shrugged and pushed off the machine, walking toward Cloud. “It’s just how my face works. I think Cloud’s a cool name. They’re my favorite things about the sky, you know.” He came to a standstill a few steps away from Cloud.

Cloud skeptically scanned the man before him, dressed in dark jeans and a dark wool-knit turtleneck sweater. This close the man looked rather tall. It wasn’t even the thick heeled boots. He was probably really tall even without those on. Cloud wondered if he should he believe him. The man looked sincere enough; that soft smile plastered on the rather handsome face—broad cheeks, pointed jaw and nose—spoke of gentle earnestness. But with distrust in his voice Cloud questioned him, “Even more than stars?” Because everyone loved stars. It was a fact of life.

“Yeah. Even more than the stars and moon. Give me fluffy altocumulus or wispy cirrus clouds in a wide blue sky any day of the week. Even these nimbostratus clouds around here, bringing all the snow, are nice. But I do prefer the other ones. If I had to choose.” Zack tapped at lips, thoughtfully.

That response took Cloud by surprise. “Well, I’m impressed. Look at you, totally nerding out about clouds. You a meteorologist or something?”

“Nup. Just an amateur cloud fancier,” Zack grinned.

Cloud’s heart thumped a bit at that wording. He paid it no mind and returned a small smile of his own. Both men stayed like that for way too many moments. Cloud grew uncomfortable, desperately searching for something to say. He didn’t like people just looking at him. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, right,” Zack slapped the side of his head. “I wanted to know if you’d have a drink with me this Saturday. I’ll be at the Clay Bar. Eight til late,” Zack positively beamed.

Cloud blinked, not comprehending. “What?”

“I mean, if you’re into it. If not then don’t worry.” The man’s toothy smile simmered down.

Had he heard right? Was he being asked out? By someone he just met? No way. Cloud opened his mouth to say… he knew not what.

“Cloud!” His name rang out several times, down the hallway, getting louder and louder by the second. 

Both men turned their heads to look at the source of the tumult. 

Roxas flew through the open doorway, “Cloud! Guess what! Sophia Tiller will be giving a symposium right here in the center!” By the time Roxas had finished that sentence he had slid with great force along the bench and was now in Cloud’s face, with hands resting on Cloud’s thighs.

“She is?”

“Yeah,” Roxas nodded eagerly.

Disbelief melted and excitement bubbled inside of Cloud. “We gotta get tickets.”

“Already sorted,” Roxas grinned.

“Nice one.” Cloud put his closed fist up and Roxas completed the gesture by fist bumping him.

The sound of a slight cough drew both men’s faces up and over.

Roxas frozen. The bubbling warm excitement gave way to overwhelming and sheer dread. Who was this guy? How long had he been there for? Had Roxas just embarrassed himself completely before a stranger? He looked to Cloud for a minute second.

Cloud saw the tension which seized Roxas. He gave him a quirked lip and a slight eyebrow raise to encourage him and let him know it was alright. That seemed to snap Roxas out of the panic. 

“Oh. Hey! Uh—” Roxas glanced between Cloud and the stranger. Could he regain some dignity? Could he just… avoid? “Did I… interrupt something?”

“Ah… this is Zack. Zack, this is Roxas. We were just…”

“I was just leaving. But it’s nice to meet you, Roxas,” Zack said with a big smile.

Cloud was relieved, because he didn’t know how he would have finished that sentence had he been left to his own devices.

“Ah,” Roxas let out, half in relief, half in reply.

The room was quiet other than the sound of the clunk-clunk-clunk of the dryer going around. The men all looked between each other. The whole situation felt unnaturally awkward.

A loud beeping startled everyone. Cloud saw that his load was finally done, so he got up and made his way over to the machine, thankful that it alleviated the weird tension. He walked right past Zack. It was unavoidable and made Cloud full aware of the man’s height. He barely came up to his shoulders, and in no way was he short, not like Roxas. 

“Do you need some help?” Zack asked as Cloud squatted down and pulled open the front loader door

“No, it’s what I’ve got Roxas for,” he said without looking up. “Roxas,” he commanded.

Roxas snapped out of his panicked thoughts which circled around telling him how he had embarrassed himself and how he was to blame for the absolutely stifling awkwardness which was in the room. “Coming,” he muttered and slid off the bench and shuffled over to Cloud, with his head bowed so as not to be seen by Zack. But Roxas still felt the towering presence. He reached Cloud, held out his arms and received the dumping of wet clothes. He then scurried over to the dryers, relieved to have his back to the source of his embarrassment.

Cloud stood up and followed Roxas with his eyes, but was brought back to himself as warmth radiated next to him. He turned and looked up at Zack out of the corner of his eye.

“Cute kid. He yours?” Zack nodded toward Roxas.

Cloud glowered. Roxas froze, somehow even more embarrassed. Kid? Roxas looked down at himself, dressed in his big blue Cookie Monster hoodie. He winced. 

“We’re brothers," Cloud almost growled.

“Oh.” Zack laughed and rubbed at his neck, “Shit, sorry for assuming. That’s embarrassing. Sorry. My mistake.”

Exasperated, Cloud said, “Can you just leave?”

“Oh.” The way Zack’s face fell felt a little comical to Cloud. “Yeah, sure. But.. before I do… are we… okay?” He looked at Cloud with concern, and then throwing his head in the direction of Roxas said, “Hey, Roxas, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Roxas was focusing all his energy on putting each individual item of clothing into the dryer separately. He waves with one hand, not turning to look at the other man, and said, “All good.” His face was burning up. He wanted to strip off his hoodie and dump it in the trash.

Cloud looked over at his brother; the tension in his shoulder, his slow movements. He could feel Roxas’ discomfort and embarrassment. Why was Zack still here? Maybe Cloud wasn’t being tough enough? He needed the other man gone. Cloud pressed his lips together, leaned against the washing machine with his arms folded across his chest and gave the other man a pointed staredown.

Zack took a step back as if Cloud’s stance had put up a physical barrier. “Uh-oh. I’ll leave, no worries. Bye, Roxas,” he said loudly, and then more quietly, “See ya around, Cloud, yeah? I hope we’re okay. Clay Bar. Eight to late on Saturdays.” Zack gave Cloud a little smile and a casual two-fingered salute and hurriedly left the laundry. His hasty footfalls echoed and faded down the hall.

Cloud let out a deep breath, peeled his eyes off the doorway and onto Roxas who turned around to face Cloud across the way. His cheeks were a deep, splotchy crimson. Cloud felt terrible for him.

The two brothers stared at each other for a few beats and then the smiles grew and the laughter started out of both of them.

“You really let him have it with your Cloud-stare-of-death,” Roxas giggled madly, feeling so good to have the anxiousness replaced by a different sensation.

"Well, he was making everything really uncomfortable."

Roxas stopped laughing. "I think that was just me."

"It wasn't."

"Oh." Roxas left it alone. They argued way too much about what was and wasn't his fault. Roxas supposed life would be easier if he could believe Cloud, but they were brothers, so Cloud would always say stuff to make him feel better. "Was that a friend of yours?" he deflected.

Cloud returned to the bench to collect his discarded book. “No. He’s just a random guy I literally only met about ten minutes ago.”

Roxas chuckled. “That’s so unlike you; making random friends in the laundry.”

“We’re not friends.”

“But he said something about going to the bar?”

Cloud didn’t want to think about it. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh… yeah… okay, I guess? Now anyway. Do you think I dress like a little kid?” He pulled at his sweater, looking down at Cookies big smiley face.

“You shouldn’t worry about it. There’s nothing wrong with liking Cookie Monster.” “Yeah, but I’m twenty and a guy. I had to go to the women’s section to find all the cute stuff.” 

“Stop doubting yourself.” “You know I can’t do that. I wish it was easier.” Cloud sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. Is it getting better at all?”

“Little by little, I guess?” he shrugged.

Cloud smiled at his brother. “I definitely see the improvements you've made since you've been pushing yourself.”

The smile that should be on Roxas’ face never came. He just looked down at his sweater some more and frowned harder. “I still feel like I fall apart when you're not around.”

“Keep practicing. Worst case scenario; pretend I’m behind you, giving you this look—” Cloud gave him a dead serious and slightly angry scowl.

Roxas broke into a smile then and laughed. “Got it. The disappointed-dad glare. You do it so well.”

“I got it enough times to have mastered it.” Cloud rolled his eyes.

“He only looks at you like that because he loves you the most and expects the most from you.”

“Why couldn't you have been the older brother? It's all your fault,” Cloud threw out with a dismal and exaggerated sigh, ribbing Roxas.

Roxas stuck his tongue out as way of reply. “Hey, but that guy; Zack.”

Cloud sat down, trying to cast his mind back on that weird encounter. “What about him?”

“I think he’s got the hots for you.”

Cloud gave a startled cough. “Huh?”

“He was totally checking you out when you got the laundry out.”

“No.” “He did. I was stressing out but I still noticed. He totally was.”

Cloud groaned. “How about you get the dryer started or our clothes’ll never dry.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Roxas remembered what he came down here for. He turned back to the forgotten machine and inserted the coins.

Having Roxas’ eyes off him gave Cloud some reprieve to acknowledge what he was trying to deny himself. “You really think so?—about Zack?” he asked tentatively.

“Yup.” Roxas smacked the machine and felt it jolt to life with a loud rumble. He turned back around and walked over to where Cloud was sitting.

“Damn.” Cloud wrinkled his nose and looked at the floor. “What’s up?” Roxas returned to Cloud’s side giving him an inquisitive look.

“If you’re right then he also totally asked me out on a date before you came in.”

Roxas’ eyes and mouth sprang open. “Ooooo,” Roxas sing-songed and giggled. He snappily sat down next to Cloud and nudged his side with his elbow. “So I did ruin the mood, huh.”

“There was no mood to ruin,” Cloud denied and stood up. He hadn’t even been sure of what it had been before Roxas had bombarded him with his observations.

“You gonna take him up on the offer?”

Cloud pressed his lips together, thinking about it

“Hmm? Well?” Roxas grinned up at his always too serious brother.

Cloud grimaced and turned away from Roxas a little. He wasn't used to people asking him out, preferring to keep to himself as much as possible. But… “He is sort of… attractive,” he understated with a mutter. 

“Only sort of?” The tease was unmistakable.

Sexy chiseled jaw, tight jeans, cool leather jacket, and did he already think of those tight jeans? He had smelt really nice too as he had passed him. Cloud merely grunted and then conceded with a small, “Maybe.”

Roxas sniggered and wore a satisfied smirk. “Attaboy.”

“Shut up. When’s this Sophia Tiller thing happening?”

“Oh right. Two weeks from now. I left the flyer with all the info on the kitchen counter.”

“Okay. I’ll go email it out to both our groups and then I really need to get ready for work. Don’t forget to take the clothes out.” “No worries. I’m on it, and thanks!” Roxas waved as Cloud took his leave of the laundry room. --------------

Roxas sat in the laundry, fiddling around on his phone to pass the time. He played some mindless games, trawled through online message boards, and checked the clothes, separating and pulling out the items which were drier than the others and putting them in a plastic bag he had pulled out from his pocket.

Dark hair and a somewhat familiar face popped through the doorway at some point, attracting Roxas’ attention.

“Hey, Roxas. Is it okay if I come in? I need to get my stuff out of the dryer.”

Roxas felt his stomach drop and butterflies kicked up a storm. His heart jolted into an uneasy pace. He pulled his arms around himself, trying to hide his sweater. Heat prickled his chest and cheeks. “You don’t have to ask me. It’s a public space,” he got out, trying to shut off his thoughts.

“I just thought… if I make you uncomfortable I can always leave and come back later.” 

That offer took Roxas aback. “N-no, you’re fine to come in.” 

“Oh, cool.” Zack grinned and he strode into the warm room. “I didn't mean any offence.”

Roxas just nodded, hoping Zack would leave him alone, and he pulled his phone out again, hunching in on himself with his feet up on the bench, knees up and slouching against the corner wall. But apparently Zack took Roxas’ silence as something entirely different— 

“I'm sorry, really. I just wanted to figure out who you were to Cloud. I didn't wanna overstay my welcome if you were… well, you know.”

Roxas didn't, but figured he had to make conversation if he was ever going to have Zack believe that he wasn't angry at him. He tried to picture Cloud’s disappointed-dad face and told himself it was fine because he had already made a fool of himself once. He took a deep breath and then, “It’s all good. All fine. Really. A lot of people assume I'm much younger than I am.” And no wonder with the way that he looked and often times acted. If he wasn’t running away from social situations he ended up saying dumb shit which made him look like a complete imbecile.

Zack advanced further towards Roxas’ position. “Well, I’m sorry anyway.”

“You don't have to keep saying that. You're not in Cloud’s bad books or anything,” he muttered, wondering—hoping—that this wasn't really about himself.

“Well, he does love reading,” Zack chuckled to himself. “Ah… hey, Roxas,” Zack sat down and slid across the bench toward him. Roxas pulled his knees closer to himself. “You think I'm in with a chance? With your brother, I mean.”

The tight coil of panic eased a little bit and he felt breathing to be a little easier. It really was all about Cloud. Thank god! Zack clearly didn’t care about him at all. Such a relief! He shrugged by way of reply. Cloud would definitely hurt him if he told Zack what they had discussed earlier.

“Got any tips for me?”

Roxas shook his head. He wanted to be left alone, so he looked back down at his phone.

The hint seemed to finally be received. Zack sighed and got up. “It wasn't supposed to be an interrogation. Just came to get my stuff.” He walked to a dryer and started pulling clothes out.

Roxas would have felt relieved… if he didn’t feel so bad. He wished for Cloud to be around to make him feel more at ease. But he wasn’t, and Roxas was stuck in his own anxiety-riddled skin. He stared blankly at his phone, tapping the screen to keep it from going into sleep, while all his senses were trained on Zack, without directly looking at him.

He worried and wondered what Zack thought of him to an unreasonable extent. Why should it matter to him? He didn’t even know Zack. But no amount of reasoning ever seemed to do him any good. He wanted to leave a good impression though. He didn’t want Zack to hate him, especially if he would be around for a while. The fact that Cloud had apparently engaged Zack enough for them to have talked for a bit was significant. Unless it was for business, or a close friend or family member, Cloud didn’t give people so much as the time of day. For some weird reason this felt weighty, in his chest and limbs, and especially in his head.

Lid slammed. Roxas tore his unfocused gaze away from his phone and up toward Zack, who walked carrying his load of washing in a cloth bag. His unhurried but determined footsteps echoes around the quiet space. “Later, Roxas.” He gave a wave and a congenial smile.

Roxas was totally leaving a terrible impression right now. He could feel it. “Peanut butter,” he burst out as Zack vanished through the doorway.

Footsteps ceased and seconds later Zack leaned backward through the doorway and looked at Roxas, confused. “Huh?”

“Cloud. He loves peanut butter. Smooth. Not crunchy.”

Gray-blue eyes lit up and Zack’s smile stretched wide across his face. “Thanks, man!” and with that Zack was gone, his steps fading off into the distance of the long concrete hallway beyond.

Roxas was left alone once more and he breathed out his nerves. He had managed to not make a fool of himself this time. But what if Cloud got angry with him? Should he really have given the man any information about anything pertaining to his own flesh and blood? Had he become some sort of an accomplice? Roxas tried to take a deep, calming breath. And another. And another. “Fuck!” He got up, poked his head out past the doorway to see if anyone was around. The coast was clear. He went toward the back of the laundry, around a corner where the wash basins for handwashing were situated. He went to the very back corner, squeezing in between the end of the washbasin and the corner wall to where a ventilation grate sat recessed in the wall. He loosened the screws which held the vent grate in place. A bit of jiggling leant itself to the metal coming out of its wall fitting. It revealed a hollow and dark cavity, leading out of the building. Roxas reached into the void, expertly finding what he had put there himself; a ziplock bag with a stage of cigarettes and a lighter inside. He looked at the bag and swore. He only had one left. 

Without thinking about it he took the lone smoke and lighter out and shoved the empty bag back in the hole. He’d have to bum a few smokes off someone when he got another chance. That thought made him feel even more stressed out. 

His hands jittered a little but he got himself lit up after two tries. He took a deep dragging suck of the heavy smoke. It delightfully hit that spot right at the top of his throat and instantly soothed his nerves. He took a few more longer drags, exhaling into the vent and then stubbed out the cigarette and returned it into the bag. He wasn’t a heavy smoker. It was just a vice to help soothe his nerves. If he could save this cigarette he’d be spared the anxiety of having to ask strangers for a new one. 

“Blowing-fucking-hole-of-motherfucking-shit!”

Roxas jumped with fright and snapped his attention to the main part of the laundry. He quickly worked at securing the vent and quietly walked over to the corner, to peek around and see what was going on.

He saw the source of the profanity and it certainly wasn't hard to spot; a lanky redhead, sporting hands on hips, staring at the detergent vending machine which was mounted on the wall near the first row of washing machines.

Roxas slunk back around his corner and took deep breaths. The few puffs he had of the nicotine still calmed him. He could stay hidden here. He could go over to the dryer and check it to make himself look busy. There was no need to be shy or nervous.

“Why’re there so many Goddamn brands to choose from in this metallic piss pot?” A loud metallic thump sounded through the space. 

Roxas felt his heart sink. He probably should help. No one else was around after all and the longer he lingered in indecisiveness the worse his embarrassment would be if the guy realized he had been in here all along. Roxas pictured Cloud’s stern stare. He told himself to play it cool, took a deep breath, clenched his trembling fists, and stepped out of his hiding nook, saying, “You need a hand with anything?”

The man jumped and yelped. He whirled around, squeaking slightly, “Oh geez. Where’d you come from?”

Roxas stared at piercing green eyes, high cheekbones and pointed chin. An overwhelming sense of inadequacy rushed through him. This stranger was completely handsome. Roxas shrunk in on himself, crossing his arms in front of himself, trying to hide Cookie Monster. He screamed at himself for still wearing the sweater. 

“Eh…” the man said.

Roxas blinked rapidly. Shit. What had been the question? “My mom and dad?” 

The redhead’s eyebrow rose as did the corner of his mouth.

Roxas screamed internally at his stupidity. He was aiming for cool - not complete dork. “I-I mean I’ve just been here,” he gave a vague shrug towards the dryers. Had he saved it? “Need help?” he tried to deflect walking closer and calling himself names.

The amusement the other man wore melted away, “Yes! I don’t normally do laundry. I have no idea which of these to use.” He pointed at the dispenser and stuck his hands deep into his jean pockets.

Roxas' heart raced uncomfortably, his palms sweat, but he could handle the topic of laundry. He’d just focus on that instead of vivid green eyes. He walked over with a bit of confidence as he fixed his gaze onto the vending machine. He tried to ignore the fact that the redhead was very tall. He hugged himself tighter, really wishing he had worn something cool today, instead of childish. “Well,” he began, “most of these are all the same. You can have liquid or powder—not that it really matters. The only thing you might need to watch out for is if you’ve got sensitive skin. Then you’d want this one or this one,” Roxas pointed and looked ever so briefly at the other man. “And don't even worry about all these at the bottom. No one needs fabric softener in their lives.”

“But what if I hate scratchy fabric on my delicate skin?”

Roxas looked up and studied the man next to him then, not sure if he was being messed with or if the guy was sincerely concerned. But he couldn’t tell because he got too distracted by porcelain skin which accentuated and drew out the color of the green eyes and the red hair and Roxas had never seen someone like this before, and he hung out with artists all the time, but still nothing compared to that color palette and what was he looking at the man for again?

The mesmerizing green eyes flicked onto Roxas. Thin lips quirked up into a smile.

Roxas quickly looked away and pulled his stupid mouth shut. How long had he been slack-jawed for? Washing Powders! “Ah—” he cleared his throat and tried again, “Then maybe do buy the softener?” 

“Nah. Think I'll manage without it.” 

Whether on purpose or by accident the man's arm brushed Roxas'. He hardly heard the next part because he was so focused on inconspicuously shifting away from the redhead. 

“I’m pretty easy. I could wash my clothes in dish soap and I’d be fine. Why don’t we use dish soap for clothes?”

Roxas shrugged, trying to catch his breath and tell his head to shut up and to not say anything more embarrassing. “Wouldn’t want your clothes squeaky and sparkling, right?” An internal groan followed. He couldn’t pull off cool in a million years. Dork it was always destined to be.

A small laugh came out of the other man and then he said, “Right.”

Roxas’ heart pounded. His cheeks were so definitely red and hot and fuck he wanted to vanish. ‘Just focus on the topic,’ he told himself. “Anyway, you’re better off using this one,” Roxas pointed to the brand Cloud always used. “That seems to work best with these old machines.” “Cool. Thanks.”

Roxas gave the briefest of smiles to the stranger, not daring to focus too hard on his face. He turned his back and walked to his machine where he was definitely going to throw himself into it and disappear from view. He got to his destination, opened the lid but determined he wouldn’t fit. Instead he checked on the clothes, especially the jeans; checking the hems to see if they were drying properly.

“Yo, guy—dude—you. Cookie!"

Cookie! Roxas was mortified and absolutely wanted to die. He turned his head to take a look and saw flailing hands, beckoning him over.

“Roxas,” he offered, shutting the lid of the dryer to let it continue its tumbling. He reluctantly walked toward the redhead, still trying to distort Cookie Monster on his chest by bunching the fabric up.

“Sure. Sup. I’m… Axel. So this machine… what gives?”

“Whaddya mean? Have you never used one of these?”

“No. Well, yeah. But usually there’s like one button to push and I walk away. These things are ancient.”

That made Roxas huff with a small laugh. “Yeah. Their almost like lost relics from another dimension.” Roxas’ smile fell when he saw Axel give him a confused look. He kicked himself. Why couldn't he stick to simple yes and no answers? He didn't know, but he grew determined to be helpful and just focus on the machine, and not the man. “Ah… you just set the cycle here, hit this, spin that and you’re done. Oh and don’t forget to put the detergent in there.” Roxas pointed to all the things he mentioned.

“Awesome. Thanks, man.”

Roxas gave a small nod and turned to get distance between himself and Axel. He barely made it back to his machine before he heard a frustrated grumble.

“I did what you said. So why isn't it starting?” A metallic thud echoed.

Would this troubleshooting nightmare ever end? Couldn't Roxas be left alone? How much more help did he have to give? Clearly, this was a cruel test on his determination for self-improvement. Roxas turned back around. “Kicking it won't help.”

“Maybe. But it's fun. Wanna try?” Axel grinned.

Roxas’ nervousness died a little bit. He shook his head and returned to Axel's side, checking all the settings, redoing them himself and then they both stood around, hands on hips, looking at it.

Axel gave a loud groan and bowed his head. “I’m not cut out for domestics.”

“I don’t know why it’s not working. You put money in, didn’t you?”

Axel raised his head, stared at Roxas and suddenly looked behind Roxas and pointed, “What’s that over there?”

Roxas snapped his attention behind himself. Was it a fire? A large bug? Another person having walked in? He saw nothing bar the empty doorway. Had he just been made fun of? Roxas turned back around fully prepared to get laughed at but saw the other man slip two coins into the coin slot of the machine and push the start button. 

The machine sputtered to life.

Axel side-eyed Roxas, and Roxas quickly looked away. 

“Oh look, magic! It works now!”

The smile grew and Roxas tried to stifle it but he laughed anyway and Axel let out a small laugh as well. They looked back at each other, smiling.

“Amazing magic,” Roxas remarked, nervous tension sliding off his chest.

Axel nodded. “Hey, uh… Roxas?”

“Mm?”

“You seem like the kind of guy who would know where to get a smoke around here.”

The good mood froze inside of Roxas. “Why?” he asked as he stared.

“Well, I can smell it on you.”

Shit. Roxas frowned and snapped at himself for having been so careless. He was so fucking lucky that Cloud wasn’t around right now. “And?” he asked, hesitant of where this would lead.

“I could really use one right about now.”

Roxas could relate. He debated with himself whether or not to give Axel directions to the tobacconist down in the town or if he should keep Axel around. He heavily leaned toward sending Axel away but… “Well—” He looked around, making sure the coast was clear, and then beckoned Axel to follow him around the corner to where the handwash basins and his hidden stash were.

This was unprecedented, but Roxas thought they had shared 'a moment' so maybe it would be all right. He walked with purpose to the corner of this section of the room and squeezed into the gap between the washbasin and the wall. Axel was right beside him, squeezing into the small space as well.

Their sides were pressed together. Roxas could smell a hint of musk and feel the other man’s radiating body heat. He really hoped he wasn't going to say something stupid as he began talking, “Can you keep a secret?” he asked in a hushed tone.

Axel leaned down. “I’m master of secret keeping.”

Roxas swallowed down the lump forming. Axel’s warm breath brushing against his face was caught and detected by every fine hair on Roxas’ cheeks and caressed his lips. Nervous butterflies swirled around inside himself. “Ah… normally I wouldn’t do this but—” The tremble and buzzing radiated outward from the pit of his stomach. Roxas really needed to calm his nerves. A smoke would help. He shifted, turning toward the wall, and swiftly got the grate undone and his half-smoked cigarette and the lighter out again.

“Ooo, a secret stash!” 

Roxas heard the excitement in Axel’s voice as he slotted the grate back into place, without redoing the screws. He pressed his back against the opposite wall, trying to get an inch of space between himself and the other man, before offering up the nearly half-smoked cigarette.

"Sorry, this is all I've got left."

Axel took it, but not without dragging a finger down the length of Roxas’ hand. "Thank you for sharing it with me." 

The touch nullified all of Roxas’ thoughts and sent his heart racing. He looked up at green eyes, which looked down at him, half closed. Roxas didn’t know what to make of it. He simply watched long fingers holx and push the cigarette against thin lips in a well-practiced manner.

"We'll share the rest of this one?" Axel mumbled past the obstruction in his mouth and leaned towards the lighter which Roxas held up.

Roxas nodded and flicked the lighter a few times. He could hardly breath. Green eyes kept looking at him in a way that was too sexy for Roxas to comprehend. He needed to smoke a whole packet if he was ever going to recover from this.

Roxas kept flicking the lighter, hating himself that he couldn’t get the blasted thing working. He never had a problem doing this in the past. The one time someone was watching him—someone insanely hot, no less—and he couldn't get the blasted thing working. Well, of course, it figured.

“Here.” The other man's warm hand clasped over Roxas’, steadying him enough so the flame could be lit.

The touch was almost electric with the jolt it sent through Roxas and the flutters it caused. He felt so embarrassed that it made him nauseous.

“You don’t do this very often?” Axel leaned the cigarette into the flame and took a few drags to get it lit.

“Only sometimes—blow into the vent,” he instructed. “Stops the place from stinking, and the fire alarm from going off.” 

Axel hummed in appreciation. Whether it was from the nicotine hitting him or from Roxas’ instructions he couldn’t tell.

Smoke was exhaled into the ventilation system. “Clearly you've done this enough times to know the ins and outs of the place. A real veteran at doing the sneaky sneaky, huh” Axel grinned and winked before passing the cigarette on.

Roxas took it, trying his best to ignore the way their fingers touched and connected. The longer he was pressed up against Axel like this the more in need of a smoke he was. He took a drag, and pulled thick air into his lungs, where the nicotine could do its magic. He let out a shaky breath into the ventilation system and coughed a bit at the end.

More embarrassment welled, counteracting the calming effect the smoke was supposed to have on his nerves.

Roxas passed the cigarette back and saw the way Axel barely held laugh at bay.

“Go on. Let it out.”

“Nah. Couldn't do that. Not after your generosity.” Axel took another puff. “Ah… what about the ashes?”

“Tap them into the sink behind you. We’ll wash them down after.”

Axel did laugh at that. “Nice. You got this all figured out. But why the covert operation? Last I checked smoking wasn't illegal—outside that is. Pretty illegal us doing it in here. You doing it for the extra buzz?” Axel chuckled, passing the smoke once more and as it got smaller and smaller their fingers grazed and connected more and more.

“My brother would lose his shit if he found out.” “Why’s he such a busy-body?"

“Our grandad and uncle died from lung cancer. So it’s probably a genetic predisposition and probably in my best self-interest to not smoke. But… you know,” Roxas shrugged, feeling more relaxed in his own skin even as he could feel himself trembling and feel his cheeks oh so hot with the flush he was experiencing. “Once in a while won't kill me, right?”

“I hope not. Would be a waste.” Axel smiled and Roxas chose to look at the wall instead.

They passed the cigarette between one another for a few more pulls before it was all used up. Roxas was glad when it was all over. Having to reach his arm around the guy so he could ash was wearing on him. As was all the body contact, if Roxas was honest with himself. He tried to ignore it because he could feel his heart race every time he noticed the sensation of legs against his own and the man's pelvis and hips digging in. He shifted as discreetly as he could because he was getting hard and he would die if Axel could feel.

Roxas turned away a little and pulled the grate off the wall once more and disposed of the butt in there and replaced the lighter. He really lamented the fact now that he would have to try and bum another smoke off someone in the near future. That activity alone was so nerve-wracking that he really considered forking out the cash to buy a whole pack for himself. But that seemed too risky for the once in a while medicating relief the cigarettes provided. He sighed to himself in resignation and Pulled out a packet of gum.

He turned back to face Axel, pressing himself tight against the wall to create some space between his groin and the warm delicious and ridiculously hot man before himself and held out the packet. “You want?”

Axel laughed and took a stick. “Thanks. What else you got hidden in there? Drugs?”

Roxas took a piece of gum, popped it in his mouth and threw the packet back in the vent. “Um… just this,” he reached in and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. What the hell. He figured he might as well go all the way with incriminating himself. 

“Oh my God, Roxas!” 

The look of surprised mirth, coupled with the laugh Axel gave, sent a tingle down Roxas’ body. “What?” he asked, trying to hide the smile. He figured his blush couldn't get any deeper so chose to ignore that, and instead focused on how maybe, just maybe, he was pulling off cool?

“Don't be giving me that cute little smile. You're way too badass for that.” Axel laughed some more.

Roxas let the smile spread. He totally was pulling it off. If it wouldn't have a detrimental effect Roxas would have cheered and fist pumped the air. “You wanna?” He held the bottle aloft.

Axel accepted it, unscrewed the top, took out his gum, and took a long swig. He passed it back to Roxas when he was done.

“I shouldn't have accepted the drink,” Axel lamented, popping the gum back in.

“Why not?” Roxas looked at him, confused, and took a deep gulp of his own. It tasted weird with the combination of cigarette smoke and minty gum freshness, but the taste wasn't the reason for drinking for Roxas.

“Well, now I can’t use my line of 'we should go out for a drink some time,’ on you, now can I?”

Roxas choked, coughed and sputtered, bending over a little, sending his forehead right into Axel's chest.

Axel's hand was on Roxas' back in moments, patting and rubbing, which only made Roxas sputter more.

“Take it easy.”

Roxas got control of himself, screwed the cap back on, replaced his gum, and thrust the bottle deep into the vent, closing it up. He was making a colossal fool of himself. His mood sullied considerably. “I can't go out for a drink with you anyway.”

“Why not? Do you need your brothers permission for that as well?”

“No. But I'm twenty, so legally not allowed in this dumb country.”

“I should probably be upset about you callin’ my country dumb—” Roxas suddenly froze, but then breathed out a small sigh as Axel continued, “but the drinking age is dumb. So I’ll let it slide. Do you really have a reason to complain though? You somehow got your hands on a red label,” Axel grinned. “You certainly are something else, Roxas, I'll give ya that.”

“Uh… thanks?”

“You're welcome.”

They were still wedged against each other, between the wall and the wash basin. Neither of them giving the slightest hint to the other that they should move. Well... Roxas couldn’t. He felt frozen in place, party by want and party due to sheer terror. He thought his legs would buckle and collapse under him. Axel was keeping him upright and as Roxas looked up at him he hoped he remembered to blink as he stared deep into pools of green. 

Those eyes were so damn sexy.

Axel’s mouth drifted open, his eyes widened a fraction and softened just as quickly. “Ah, thanks. Yours are gorgeous too.” He smiled gently.

Roxas tensed up and forgot to breathe. He swore he could feel all the blood drain away from his face. Had he said something? Shit. He stammered out, “S-sorry. I shouldn't have—they’re not—I mean you’re not—you are—but—just… sorry.” He quickly extracted himself from the tight corner.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” It came out too hoarse and harsh for his own liking. Roxas berated himself for being a massive idiot.

“Is there anything I can do to repay you for sharing your secret stash with me?”

At least Axel wasn’t teasing him about it. That made him feel somewhat relieved. Roxas, feeling a tiny bit more composed, turned around. Green eyes darted upwards, where they exchanged looks. Fuck! Axel had seen Cookie Monster. Thought Roxas had lied about his age. Thought he was a complete moron and a little kid. Roxas crossed his arms. He was going to burn the sweater, he swore he would. But first he needed this to end. His nerves were getting shot again and he felt like he might need to down the whole bottle if this went on for much longer. With a bowed head and a deep grumble he said, “Can you please just forget what a massive dork I am?” 

“Dork? I think you’re really cute… and a bit sexy.” Axel stepped out of the corner to stand right in front of Roxas.

That froze Roxas up completely. He stared at the black boots with a red trim. Swallowing down the tight lump in his throat he slowly lifted his gaze up over jeans, and the red and black sweater up to Axel’s face, where he saw a soft expression.

With hands deep in pockets, Axel said, “If I can’t buy you a drink at least let me take you out.”

“Like… on a date?”

“Mm. Not really but kinda?” he shrugged.

Roxas didn’t understand what that was supposed to mean. “No. Look, that’s not necessary. I didn’t share this with you ‘cause I wanted anything back.”

“Aren’t you nice.”

Roxas frowned and hugged himself tighter, looking away.

“Roxas?” “What?” he snapped, shooting Axel a grumpy look.

“I’d really like to hang out with you some more.”

It was bizarre and out of left field. Roxas looked around himself, half expecting someone to jump out and yell, 'Gotcha!' “Why? I suck.”

Axel chuckled. “Do you now?”

Roxas wanted to die to escape the embarrassment. “No. I…”

“It’s all right. I blow, you know,” Axel winked.

Roxas choked a bit on his spit. “What?” he croaked. What was even happening right now?

“I blow. I’m in this band and I play the sax. What did you think I meant?”

That cheeky smile said it all. Axel was teasing him. For good or for bad Roxas couldn't tell. “I didn’t think that. No.” He grumbled some more and hunched in on himself more.

“Shame, 'cause if you did, well—” Axel flashed his eyebrows up and a smirk bloomed while he flicked his tongue out to wet his lips.

A swirling hurricane of emotions and thoughts whirled through Roxas. What was going on? This stuff never happened to him. People didn’t hit on him. Axel was doing that, right? Or maybe he did just delight in making Roxas flush deeply and to make him uncomfortable? Roxas opened his mouth, but nothing bar incoherent sounds come out.

A low chuckle flowed from Axel. “It’s all right. Come and watch me blow—this Saturday. Any time after eight.”

Had Axel moved closer to Roxas? It felt like there was no space between them. He took a step back. “I ah—I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Good.”

The harsh beeping of the dryer was like a warm embrace from a dear loved one. “That’s me,” Roxas said with haste, turned and almost bolted to his station. As he pulled out the clothes with great speed and determination he heard Axel’s footsteps drawing closer.

“It was fun, Roxas. Don’t forget, this Saturday at the Clay Bar, yeah? You need to see me in action.”

“Yeah, I’ll… maybe.” Roxas slammed the lid shut and almost ran out of the laundry, the bag of laundry thrown over his shoulder. If he had left anything behind he wasn’t coming back for it.

That’s it for chapter one. Feedback appreciated. If you’d like to pre-read the rest for me get in touch on here or Discord or twitter. All my relevant contact info can be found on my AO3 Profile page.

[bookofdan]

Chuang-Tze, Idealist

The “return to Nature,” however, could not be so readily discouraged; it found voice in this age as in every other, and by what might be called a natural accident its exponent was the most eloquent writer of this time. Chuang-tze, loving Nature as the only mistress who always welcomed him, whatever his infidelities or his age, poured into his philosophy the poetic sensitivity of a Rousseau, and yet sharpened it with the satiric wit of a Voltaire. Who could imagine Mencius so far forgetting himself as to describe a man as having “a large goiter like an earthenware jar?” Chuang belongs to literature as well as to philosophy.

He was born in the province of Sung, and held minor office for a time in the city of Khi-yüan. He visited the same courts as Mencius, but neither, in his extant writings, mentions the other’s name; perhaps they loved each other like contemporaries. Story has it that he refused high office twice. When the Duke of Wei offered him the prime ministry he dismissed the royal messengers with a curtness indicative of a writer’s dreams: “Go away quickly, and do not soil me with your presence. I had rather amuse and enjoy myself in a filthy ditch than be subject to the rules and restrictions in the court of a sovereign. While he was fishing two great officers brought him a message from the King of Khu: “I wish to trouble you with the charge of all my territories.” Chuang, Chuang tells us, answered without turning away from his fishing:

“I have heard that in Khu there is a spirit-like tortoise-shell, the wearer of which died three thousand years ago, and which the king keeps, in his ancestral temple, in a hamper covered with a cloth. Was it better for the tortoise to die and leave its shell to be thus honored? Or would it have been better for it to live, and keep on dragging its tail after it over the mud?” The two officers said “It would have been better for it to live, and draw its tail after it over the mud.” “Go your ways,” said Chuang; “I will keep on drawing my tail after me through the mud.”

His respect for governments equaled that of his spiritual ancestor, Lao-the. He took delight in posting out how many qualities kings and governors shared with thieves. If, by some negligence on his part, a true philosopher should find himself in charge of a state, his proper course would be to do nothing, and allow men in freedom to build their own organs of self-government. “I have heard of letting the world be, and exercising forbearance; I have not heard of governing the world.” The Golden Age, which preceded the earliest kings, had no government; and Yao and Shun, instead of being so honored by China and Confucius, should be charged with having destroyed the primitive happiness of mankind by introducing government. “in the age of perfect virtue men lived in common with birds and beasts, and were on terms of equality with all creatures, as forming one family: how could they know among themselves the distinctions of superior men and small men?”

The wise man, thinks Chuang, will take to his heels at the first sign of government, and will live as far as possible from both philosophers and kings. He will court the peace and silence of the woods (here was a theme that a thousand Chinese painters would seek to illustrate), and let his whole being, without any impediment of artifice or thought, follow the divine Tao—the law and flow of Nature’s inexplicable life. He would be sparing of words, for words mislead as often as they guide, and the Tao—the Way and Essence of Nature—can never be phrased in words or formed in thought; it can only be felt by the blood. He would reject the aid of machinery, preferring the older, more burdensome ways of simpler men; for machinery makes complexity, turbulence and inequality, and no man can live among machines and achieve peace. He would avoid the ownership of property, and would find no use in his life for gold; like Timon he would let the gold lie hidden in the hills, and the pearls remain unsought in the deep. “His distinction is in understanding that all things belong to the one treasury, and that death and life should be viewed in the same way”—as harmonious measures in the rhythm of Nature, waves of one sea.

The center of Chuang’s thought, as of the thought of that half-legendary Lao-the who seemed to him so much profounder than Confucius, was a mystic vision of an impersonal unity, so strangely akin to the doctrines of Buddha and the Upanishads that one is tempted to believe that Indian metaphysics had found its way into China long before the recorded coming of Buddhism four hundred years later. It is true that Chuang is an agnostic, a fatalist, a determinist and a pessimist; but this does not prevent him from being a kind of skeptical saint, a Tao-intoxicated man. He expresses his skepticism characteristically in a story:

The Penumbra said to the Umbra: “At one moment you move, at another you are at rest. At one moment you sit down, at another you get up. Why this instability of purpose?” “I depend,” replied the Umbra, “upon something which causes me to do as I do; and that something depends upon something else which causes it to do as it does. . . . How can I tell why I do one thing or do not do another?” . . . When the body is decomposed, the mind will be decomposed along with it; must not the case be pronounced very deplorable? . . . The change—the rise and dissolution—of all things (continually) goes on, but we do not know who it is that maintains and continues the process. How do we know when any one begins? How do we know when he will end? We have simply to wait for it, and nothing more.

These problems, Chuang suspects, are due less to the nature of things than to the limits of our thought; it is not to be wondered at that the effort of our imprisoned brains to understand the cosmos of which they are such minute particles should end in contradictions, “antinomies,” and befuddlement. This attempt to explain the whole in terms of the part has been a gigantic immodesty, forgivable only on the ground of the amusement which it has caused; for humor, like philosophy, is a view of the part in terms of the whole, and neither is possible without the other. The intellect, says Chuang-tze, can never avail to understand ultimate things, or any profound thing, such as the growth of a child. “Disputation is a proof of not seeing clearly,” and in order to understand the Tao, one “must sternly suppress one’s knowledge”; we have to forget our theories and feel the fact. Education is of no help towards such understanding; submersion in the flow of nature is all-important.

What is the Tao that the rare and favored mystic sees? It is inexpressible in words; weakly and with contradictions we describe it as the unity of all things, their quiet flow from origin to fulfillment, and the law that governs that flow. “Before there were heaven and earth, from of old it was, securely existing.” In that cosmic unity all contradictions are resolved, all distinctions fade, all opposites meet; within it and from its standpoint there is no good or bad, no white or black, no beautiful or ugly, no great or small. “If one only knows that the universe is but (as small as) a tare seed, and the tip of a hair is as large as a mountain, then one may be said to have seen the relativity of things.” In that vague entirety no form is permanent, and none so unique that it cannot pass into another in the leisurely cycle of evolution.

“The seeds (of things) are multitudinous and minute. On the surface of the water they form a membranous texture. When they reach to where the land and water join they become the (lichens that form the) clothes of frogs and oysters. Coming to life on mounds and heights, they become the plantain; and receiving manure, appear as crow’s feet. The roots of the crow’s foot become grubs, and its leaves, butterflies. This butterfly is changed into an insect, and comes to life under a furnace. Then it has the form of a moth. The mother after a thousand days becomes a bird. . . . The ying-hsi uniting with a bamboo produces the khing-ning; this, the panther; the panther, the horse; and the horse the man. Man then enters into the great Machinery (of Evolution), from which all things come forth and which they enter at death.”

It is not as clear as Darwin, but it will serve.

In this endless cycle man himself may pass into other forms; his present shape is transient, and from the viewpoint of eternity may be only superficially real—part of Maya’s deceptive veil of difference.

“Once upon a time I, Chuang-tze, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly I awoke, and there I lay, myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming that I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming that I am a man.”

Death is therefore only a change of form, possible for the better; it is, as Ibsen was to say, the great Button-Moulder who fuses us again in this furnace of change:

“Tze Lai fell ill and lay gasping at the point of death, while his wife and children stood around him weeping. Li went to ask from him, and said to them: “Hush! Get out of the way! Do not disturb him in his process of transformation.” . . . Then, leaning against the door, he spoke to (the dying man). The Lai said: “A man’s relations with the Yin and the Yang is more than that to his parents. If they are hastening my death, and I do not obey, I shall be considered unruly. There is the Great Mass (of Nature), that makes me carry this body, labor with this life, relax in old age, and rest in death. Therefore that which has taken care of my birth is that which will take care of my death. Here is a great founder casting his metal. If the metal, dancing up and down, should say, “I must be made into a Mo Yeh’ (a famous old sword), the great founder would surely consider this metal an evil one. So, if, merely because one has once assumed the human form, one insists on being a man, and a man only, the author of transformation will be sure to consider this one an evil being. Let us now regard heaven and earth as a great melting-pot, and the author of transformation as a great founder; and wherever we go, shall we not be at home? Quiet is our sleep, and calm is our awakening.”

When Chuang himself was about to die his disciples prepared for him a ceremonious funeral. But he bade them desist. “With heaven and earth for my coffin and shell, with the sun, moon and stars as my burial regalia, and with all creation to escort me to the grave—are not my funeral paraphernalia ready to hand?” The disciples protested that, unburied, he would be eaten by the carrion birds of the air. To which Chuang answered, with the smiling irony of all his words: “Above ground I shall be food for kites; below I shall be food for mole-crickets and ants. Why robe one to feed the other?”

If we have spoken at such length of the ancient philosophers of China it is partly because the insoluble problems of human life and destiny irresistibly attract the inquisitive mind, and partly because the lore of her philosophers is the most precious portion of China’s gift to the world. Long ago (in 1697) the cosmic-minded Leibnitz, after studying Chinese philosophy, appealed for the mingling and cross-fertilization of East and West. “The condition of affairs among ourselves, “ he wrote, in terms which have been useful to every generation, “is such that in view of the inordinate lengths to which the corruption of morals has advanced, I almost think it necessary that Chinese missionaries should be sent to us to teach us the aim and practice of national theology. . . . For I believe that if a wise man were to be appointed judge . . . of the goodness of peoples, he would award the golden apple to the Chinese.” He begged Peter the Great to build a land route to China, and he promoted the foundation of societies in Moscow and Berlin for the “opening up of China and the interchange of civilizations between China and Europe.” In 1721 Christian Wolf made an attempt in this direction by lecturing at Halle “on the Practical Philosophy of the Chinese.” He was accused of atheism, and dismissed; but when Frederick mounted the throne he called him to Purssia, and restored him to honor.

The Enlightenment took up Chinese philosophy at the same time that it carved out Chinese gardens and adorned its homes with Chinoiseries. The Physiocrats seem to have been influenced by Lao-the and Chuang-tze in their doctrine of laissez-faire; and Rousseau at times talked so like the Old Master that we at once correlate him with Lao-tze and Chuang, as we should correlate Voltaire with Confucius and Mencius, if these had been blessed with wit. “I have read the books of Confucius with attention,” said Voltaire; “I have made extracts from them; I have found in them nothing but the purest morality, without the slightest tinge of charlatanism.” Goethe in 1770 recorded his resolution to read the philosophical classics of China; and when the guns of half the world resounded at Leipzig forty-three years later, the old sage paid no attention to them, being absorbed in Chinese literature.

May this brief and superficial introduction lead the reader on to study the Chinese philosophers themselves, as Goethe studied them, and Voltaire, and Tolstoi.

Our Oriental Heritage by Will Durant

Book Three: The Far East

Chapter III: Socialists and Anarchists

[lovehaswonangelnumbers]

New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/the-undoing-of-the-piscean-era/

The Undoing of the Piscean Era

The Undoing of the Piscean Era

By A Gift From Gaia

Well what a surf this is showing to be and we have only just begun.

Whilst we have now passed the Capricorn Council they still sit and watch and the energy is set to continue, throughout this year and beyond, Pluto doesn’t leave Capricorn until 2024 and he is sitting to welcome the initiates into the underworld to learn it’s secrets before passing through.

The undoing of the Piscean era is well underway and obvious as we witness the fallout of old and the breakthrough of the Aquarian way.

Truth is what is surfacing, however many do not understand that truth is also a spectrum, it’s a behaviour, a frequency, and in its lowest octaves it is opinions, beliefs, points and statements, its emotion, and this is why the Piscean race wear masks to cover it up. Truth in the highest of octaves is a path, of alignment that holds no beliefs, simply acceptance of the laws of light and it is followed just the same, as a path, however the baseline never changes, as the law is that of unconditional love.

What we see, once we leave these old octaves and data dump the Piscean beliefs, fully accepting the movement and expansion of truth is that those out dated beliefs create nothing but loops, suffering and pain, strangely also accepted in the Piscean belief programming. We witness, especially in the spiritual belief systems something so very stagnating. Each knowing deep within that the tools, the ways, really don’t work as the packaging told us, and once these octaves are removed from our being we see with ease the spectrum.

Like a rainbow, red would represent the most lowest of heavily embedded beliefs and blue being the enlightened ray, the most expanded awareness, and what do we find when we see this pattern? Many holding their belief of existing in a ray not held or even understood.

Speaking as a blue ray when in fact the truth of the person fully exists, in the red, here lays the twisted truth that the spiritual arena will teach about soul fragmentation, half truth, half twisted, due to the vibration translating the Divine Truth, the Divine Law.

Through this internal lie being told the ability to progress is impossible, it is true, there are fragments, a want and a need to exist in the blue ray and yet everything and all is held in a lower frequency, it’s a little like dreaming of a journey to a far away land, and telling everyone of your experience as though it was true and real.

One could liken it to the reincarnation process, the spirit caught between worlds, too heavy to pass into light through the attachment to programming, to regret, to judgement, to fear…..karmic looping to constantly come back to perfect into the most Divine, wholesome you.

There is no fake it till you make it, and the ability to experience fully the colours of the spectrum, the growth from red, to yellow to pink and green through to purple, orange and then blue can never be experienced until the truth of the frequency is owned, otherwise it’s like trying to chase and catch a shadow, it can keep you entertained for lifetimes, but you’re never going to catch it….science tells us this, sense tells us this, but still the chase continues.

The first major conjunction (yes there are so many more important ones this year, earth shakers, truth revealers) has begun to flip the poles, increasing the light, powering up the spectrum to reveal its truth, the laws, the cosmic laws of how this all works in the Age we are now moving into and to resist will heighten the dis-ease so that the new era can begin, individually as people this energy doesn’t give one iota, it’s not personal but as a race we are now to purify so that the karmic Age of Pisces can be dissolved in its entirety.

Each has a choice, to listen, to learn, to accept their truth, to own that the hocus pocus, separated teachings will rapidly highlight the death cycle they hold.

It’s manifesting now, it’s easy to see once the Eye is open to the cosmic patterns now moving through each beacon of light now established and grounded in their Aquarian wisdom.

Age, as you may have seen from a recent post has been shown to me and as the new age enters what we will see is the lower frequencies and beliefs held in the decaying fishes of the Piscean Age will mirror, as we speed up into the new, fresh baby face of the water bearer now making itself seen.

The death cycle, again a Piscean belief, the stop start idea of rebirth and death, is a reflection of the karmic wheel and this will now be released, through choice, or through the need to hang on so that the purification can manifest itself to show exactly it’s power of destruction, and fast.

The Aquarian energy is fast, super fast and the need to abide it’s laws is essential for the magic of rejuvenation to begin, physically a mirror, us as a race and our Earth. We can no longer say we support the earth when the truth is the destruction is still held in the physical body, all is a reflection, all is a pattern and all is One.

Lumps and bumps, rapid aging, cancers, unexpected passings, depression, suicides it’s all about to become loud. The medicine is to come back to the octave of the red, your truth, the truth that you know nothing other than what has been spoon fed from an era of just over 2000 years old and to accept the frequency that your physical is fully rooted into and unable to move from until each stops the ego desire to be in the ray of the blue and chooses to come back home to base and start again, which in fact, this release, this letting go, this false mask once taken off creates light speed which in fact takes you through the magical journey each has been trying so hard to exist in and super fast

This all may sound confusing, and in many ways it is meant to, those who have surfed the rainbow of Divine Truth will completely understand and will be smiling at these words, knowing the trickery of those slippery Piscean fishes, and those who’s eyebrow raise with a big “HUH?” Will soon realise the separation as it begins to play out and in time the “oh I get it” will come, don’t worry, I don’t share transmissions for ego minds, this transmission will hit the coding within the DNA and begin the activation…all will see, especially throughout these next 4 years specifically.

Your passcode for release this year is – Attachment

And if there is any confusion during your journey, any frustration at being or feeling stagnated then use the passcode to reveal your anchors.

This now leads me to some super exciting news, some long awaited news that I am just a stone’s throw away from sharing, that will assist in this transition should you choose to experience LIFE as it was intended.

There are soon to be many changes here at A Gift from Gaia and I will explain very very soon.

I may be a little quiet over these next few days as i prepare, but also more and more emails are coming in to join the SOUL-AR Alignment space, however what I would like to say here is if you do not value the gift of transformation, that these keys offer, if you are not prepared to invest in self with the exchange then may I ask not to email me asking for free.

Let me explain a little, these keys are my journey and they create momentous shifts for those who value light, however the light appears, my journey has been one very dramatic exploration around my globe, literally blood, and a lot has been shed, sweat and buckets upon buckets of tears, my life has been dedicated to the discovery of light, and not from outside but from within, those who know me, those who have been with me when the codes begin pouring through and I translate new keys, materialising the formless into form would happily tell you what it is like to experience the magic I have found, and each, who valued this light have all been experiencing the release of the old loops, miraculous healing and new fields of amazingness. There are also those who are not able to commit and they fall back to their old Piscean ways, I hold no attachment to anyone’s journey and I send so much light, however this most often begins to create more distortions to their resistance to what their soul requested…. keys.

Learning to value light is crucial, wanting it all the easy way, the free way will never bring the results as the ego will show.

So I ask with Divine repsect, please do not waste this precious time with requests of assistance with no want to invest in yourself or the light, I currently have so much moving now, expanding to share with the masses and if I spend any time with individuals then it must be those who understand the importance of valuing energy, light and love.

I will also let you know, that A Gift from Gaia will soon be moving away from Facebook, somewhat, the distortion here is the distraction and the addiction, how can I guide people through these phases when the work all exists in a space that many have become so attached too? I’m not prepared to contradict my keys.

So a website is the answer, there will be a space for free subscriptions in which you will receive by email weekly and monthly energy reports however the daily reports and extra gems will be moving to a paid subscription, where there will be so much more information, as you are aware the work I share takes a lot of time and my field will simply not allow me to put that amount of energy into a space that doesn’t support this, especially as it’s time for A Gift from Gaia to grow and expand the platform for so many more to experience the love and light I have to share. I am keeping this minimal at £7.77 per month, and, something a little different to most who offer these services, I plan to reduce this as the numbers grow to £5.55 once we reach a certain size.

The website will also be launching The Alignment Program which is the space where each receives ALL, and also provides a space, currently a private group on Facebook but in time, the space will move to the website, this kind of space of course will cost a lot which is where I will be focusing the paid subscription money so that I can continue to expand the website and deliver everything away from Social Media, which is perfect for those committed to their path as they have all found that the cocoon space of transformation happens much swiftly away from this field, less distraction and more focus.

The exchange for this ultimate life changing experience with me will be set at £33.33 again I am looking to place this on a sliding scale down each year that is spent with us, I say us because the space is already filled with 65 amazing light beings who have been surfing the SOUL-AR Alignment course, which is soon to dissolve and merge into the all inclusive Alignment Program.

So, during the remainder of this month, as you can imagine I am super busy getting all the finishing touches in place before the opening which is why I ask that all emails sent hold the responsibility and respect for how this all works.

However, during this merger and time I am holding the doors of the SOUL-AR Alignment space open and if you choose to migrate with us then I am happy to offer a year subscription at a super discounted rate and if you would like to find out more then please send an email to connect@agiftfromgaia.com, I have many to get through and answer so please bear with me, I will get to you all

I know there will be some who still don’t understand abundance blocks and haven’t discovered their value, and this kind of talk often brings ego debates, and so if this triggers you and you hold no wish to expand and open these stagnating beliefs then may I ask you hold the respect and responsibility and remove from this space, rather than spewing statements and opinions into this field, all are welcome to return, to come and go as they please, I hold no judgement for the journey and so let’s not make this personal.

Also, for those who left the space over the last two years, if you wish to receive the full 12 keys then please do stay in touch, key 10 has now been delivered and it’s called the Divine Union.

Thank you to all who have supported the page, there still will be content, but if nothing else I would recommend once the website is open to subscribe to the Sapphire Portal so you can continue to receive the energy reports you have all come to love.

I am sending so much love to All

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[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

Your pre Altissia Ignis fic was wonderful! I would love to read a part two for when he returns blind.

Anon, I hope you don’t mind if I hijack your message to give a shoutout to everyone who read and enjoyed that particular fic. I had reservations when I was writing it as to whether anyone would make it far enough through the setup to reach the steamy bits, but the response has been overwhelmingly positive. So, thanks for that!

Regarding your original suggestion, I loathe to start your morning off on a bittersweet note, Anon, but… the female protagonist in that story is probably dead. At least, in my mind, she is. I’m not saying I couldn’t ever be persuaded to spare her an untimely fate, but the final line of that fic—“I’ll be back in Insomnia before you know it”—was meant to interpreted ironically. Because, as anyone who has played Final Fantasy XV knows, things don’t go smoothly in Altissia, and the Chocobros don’t make it back to Insomnia—at least not for another ten years. The redhead most likely perished along with the rest of the citizens of Insomnia when the crown city fell; with that in mind, I feel like it makes Ignis’ reaction when he read the paper on that fateful morning in Galdin Quay all the more tragic, knowing he had left a loved one behind.

Now, if I haven’t already completely left you sobbing into your morning coffee, here’s a bit of good news: I am writing the origin story of how the redhead and the strategist met as we speak! I couldn’t very well mention the details of their arrangment without addressing how it all came to light, so it’ll eventually arrive here in the form of a multi-parter with a highly NSFW final act. Also, I do have a nugget of an idea as to what Blind!Ignis is up to after the events of the long night (complete with a new paramour to comfort his aching heart), so I foresee plenty of longer, juicier Specs fics in ISEB’s near future.

I was going to wait to post this origin story until I had finished it, but I’ll go ahead and throw up an excerpt now and share the rest of it in its entirety when I’ve wrapped it all up. (And to the Anons who are still waiting on their Ask prompts to be fulfilled—I’ll definitely be getting to those in due course. Thank you for your eternal patience!)

[ISEB Author’s Note: Just to clarify a subtle reference —> the color blue = blue joke = dirty joke. Happy reading!)

SFW

“I could go for an Ebony about now.”

Her temper flares and she sees red as she stumbles forward and down onto the crash mat. He had leveraged her own momentum against her to his advantage, parrying her lance deftly using—of all things—a paltry set of daggers.

But even through the unbridled rage that is currently clouding her sight, the redhead notices something… odd. In the two months since she had been promoted to the Citadel’s interior security detail, he had scarcely said a single word to her other than the usual introductions and academic formalities; her associates had warned her about the spectacled man’s habitual aloofness, so to hear him say anything beyond the customary Good morning—much less crack a wry quip at her expense—gives her pause.

She picks herself up off the floor and brushes a lock of auburn hair aside to hide her scowl. “It’s rather unfair for one of us to be switching weapons mid-strike, wouldn’t you say?”

He cycles through the arsenal of armaments he has at his disposal without glancing up. “If you are not content with what the lance has to offer, I’m sure Gladio would be happy to introduce you to the finer points of the broadsword.”

She doesn’t have his ability to summon weapons out of thin air; that privilege is reserved solely for the Kingsglaive, as well as the three individuals appointed as royal Crownsguard to the prince. Witnessing the crystal’s magic in the flesh never quite ceases to amaze her, but attempting to defend against its awesome power has admittedly been trying at times—like now, for instance.

She wrinkles her nose as she hefts her own weapon. “No thank you.”

“Too challenging? I’ll concede that broadswords can be rather unwieldy, but they have their advantages.”

“Hardly,” she scoffs. “Gladiolus would be a much better sparring partner if he could train himself to keep his gaze above my neckline.”

He settles back on the lance and tightens his grip around the handle. “All the more reason to approach him. If you know what his weakness is, you’d be remiss not to exploit it.”

She narrows her eyes as she readies herself against his next assault. “And what, might I ask, is your weakness?”

“I’ll throw you a bone,” he says, tapping the rim of his glasses with a gloved hand. “I can’t see worth a damn.”

She knows not to underestimate him; they don’t call Ignis Scientia The Strategist without good cause. He is deadly in the field of polearms—and daggers, and magic enhancement, and whatever bloody else he keeps up his leopard-print sleeve—even if he does have to rely on a pair of spectacles to correct his dubious vision. It’s the whole reason she sought out his guidance in the first place; she’d been recruited from the lower echelons of palace security thanks to the promise she showed with a spear, and if the rumors swirling around the fitness center’s locker rooms were to be believed, the man could skewer a Dualhorn and a Thunderoc in the same stroke without even breaking a sweat.

“Duly noted,” she replies, and meets his oncoming lunge with a fierce riposte of her own.

She ought not to have even bothered rising from the mat, because she’s back on the floor again in a half a heartbeat, and he’s standing above her adjusting his lenses with an infuriatingly blank expression glued to his features. “None the worse for wear,” he chides. “Shall we start again from the top?”

“What for?” she growls, and brushes aside the hand he has extended out to her. “It seems rather pointless to continue when I can’t even succeed at getting my blade past the tip of your nose.”

“Your mistake is treating a pike like it’s a sword. It’s designed to be a piercing weapon, not a slashing device—few people master the art of the lance without first learning how to properly thrust from the shaft.”

She rises to her feet and barks out a frustrated laugh. “If I thought you had an actual sense of humor, I would’ve taken offense to that.”

He dismisses his weapon and turns on his heel. “And if I thought you were capable of recognizing the color blue when you saw it, I would’ve been more subtle.”

His pointed barb leaves her speechless, and she stands frozen with her mouth agape for several moments as she watches him stride toward the edge of the sparring mat. “I suppose you’re the expert on handling shafts,” she finally manages to choke out.

It’s hardly a clever retort; referencing other, more… salacious palace rumors surrounding the strategist in a foolish attempt at getting under his skin is a disservice to her shrewd intellect. But gossip was often rooted in a seed of truth—the man was scarcely seen outside the company of his fellow Crownsguard—and she isn’t quite sure how she stumbled into this infuriating battle of wits to begin with.

Her insinuation has no discernible effect. “Mum’s the word,” he says, as he treads off toward the locker rooms. “Same time tomorrow?”

As she breaths heavily under the weight of her failed efforts, she ponders whether anyone else within the Citadel’s walls had borne witness to his tongue that was even sharper than his daggers.

[mredwinsmith]

Gender Equity and SotG: A Report from Mexico

Our story begins in the 2017 Panamerican Ultimate Club Championships (PAUCC) in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where our Mexico City club Cóndor Ultimate, competed in its first international tournament. At the tournament, my teammate Dani and I attended a particularly eye-opening conference about gender equity in mixed ultimate. At this conference, we realized the Mexican scene seemed so far behind compared to the international representations we witnessed at PAUCC. This stirred a feeling of urgency in us and made us more determined to work seriously on the issue, which led to a profound exploration of Spirit of the Game and a vanguard endeavour for gender equity in Mexican Ultimate.

Dani and I had the opportunity to get to know each other better as we wandered the picturesque streets of Buenos Aires and debriefed on the frustrating experience we had competing at PAUCC with our mixed team. Questions like “What did you think of the tournament? What would you like to change within our team? How would you compare mixed to men’s and women’s divisions? Where do you think the Mexican ultimate scene is going?” These became natural conversation starters throughout the remainder of the trip. We realized we saw eye to eye on many of these topics. The confluence of ideas, as well as the fervor of our frustrations, was too deep to remain as mere bystanders.

Shortly after we got back home to Mexico, Dani proposed that she and I become Spirit captains for the upcoming mixed season with the explicit objective of addressing gender issues and striving for equity from that position. We were beginning to play with the idea that SotG could be leveraged as a tool for social transformation and we felt it worthy to apply it to the gender narratives we had lived in ultimate, so I was very glad to accept Dani’s proposal.

Deeply inspired by the global movement being lead by the likes of GUM and EMU, we started holding conversations with Cóndor about equity in the mixed division. During these sessions we addressed questions like, “What is gender? What is equity? What does gender equity look like in ultimate? What actions can we take to work towards equity in our own team?”

One of the primary insights we reached in these team conversations is one that Dani and I had already chatted about: Gender oppression (namely, the patriarchy) is not unique or intrinsic to Cóndor’s culture. Rather, we are merely a subset within a broader social environment that already has established culture, norms, and practices. Machismo runs deep in our ultimate scene because it runs deep in our society and vice versa.

Sports in Mexico are not only male-dominated in general, they are a breeding ground for toxic masculinity narratives. While some communities in other parts of the Ultimate World were already leading inspiring ventures of empowerment, our team was still using phrases like “don’t throw like a girl” or “grow some balls” in time-out team huddles at tournaments. Building a healthy and successful mixed team in this noxious cultural context can be incredibly challenging. Several toxic macho behaviors become more highlighted, normalized, and even excused by the pressure of competition, making ultimate a space where the dynamics of oppression not only get played out, but actually get further perpetuated. These mutually reinforcing patterns create a system of self-replicating harm — a vicious cycle that can seem impossible to break out of.

If Dani and I wanted to see a structural change in our environment, we needed to take it further than just talking inside our team and had to start working with the Mexican ultimate scene at large. So the next natural step was taking the conversation to tournaments for the Mexican ultimate community to address its gender issues.

At the time it occurred to us that to start conversations at tournaments we could add gender equity as a sixth pillar to be evaluated in the Spirit scoring sheets, since it is common practice to discuss scores in Spirit circles here in Mexico. We thought that evaluating the other team’s gender dynamics would detonate an exercise of observation, reflection, dialogue and perhaps eventually action on the matter. This experiment was the main idea we invested our time and effort in for the entirety of the mixed season, and we persisted developing and refining the proposal throughout the following months.

For the first tournament of the year, we included in the tournament’s manual a set of examples for every grade (0-4) in the gender equity pillar following WFDF’s format for the 5 original pillars. We also wrote and printed out a complementary text to introduce the experiment, including a brief definition of gender equity. It offered a general overview of the proposal and its objectives, encouraging players to take it seriously while also stressing the experimental nature of it and openly inviting feedback. We tried to go over these materials to clear doubts in a poorly attended Spirit Captains meeting at the start of the tournament. Those who received the add-on to the scoring sheet later were pretty confused about its origin and purpose. Some would easily trivialize it saying “it’s too complex to score.” We made it far too easy for people to dismiss it.

We tried to step up our game for the second tournament of the year, this one to be held out of state. We tried to emphasize the grassroots nature of the experiment and invited players to actively participate in the creation of this proposal appealing to the fact that it focuses on an issue that concerns our community as a whole. We shared all the materials with event participants and published on social media. We also scheduled a time slot during the tournament to hold a feedback conversation and improve the proposal. At first, only one person sitting nearby participated. After talking in circles for a little while, we encouraged a young team to join. As more and more players from other teams joined, participant interventions grew in variety and intensity until it became a challenge to keep the group focused on the experience with the scoring sheet. Despite Dani and my efforts that afternoon and later on social media, the apparent glimmer of interest evaporated shortly after everyone rode their bus back home. It was hard to ensure a follow-up to these tiny bursts of interest.

The National Championships came around and we wanted to end the season delivering a more polished, finalized product. With the help of Flor Aldatz, who is a member of WFDF’s Women in Sports Commission and a player in Argentina’s Actitud Pizza, Dani became inspired to divide the Gender Equity pillar into 4 categories that were more clearly defined: Players could no longer appeal to vagueness as a cop-out. Ultimate México (the governing body for the sport in the country) kindly granted financial support to have printed and laminated copies of all the materials for each competing team. We tried to be extra diligent about starting the conversation on social media in advance, checking in with the involved volunteers throughout the tournament, and seriously focusing on the topic during Spirit circles.

During certain Spirit circles, we had to remind the other team about the gender equity score, and we still had trouble ensuring all teams received handouts promptly throughout the tournament. At the end of the day, the community did not seem to take ownership of the proposal — the materials, the idea, or even the gender problem in itself. After genuine attempts to make the proposal clear, open, and accessible, it was largely met with indifference. This was also made explicit to us in the lowly responded evaluation survey we sent out afterwards.

It was a disappointment that the experiment didn’t lead to more concrete action on the matter. It did not end machismo in ultimate, sports, or anywhere else. After failing to transform Mexican ultimate, we were ready to drop the dream of “the 6th pillar” and stop insisting with the rubric.

***

Despite our disappointment, I do see some value in the possibility that the experiment catalyzed some important dialogues and deep reflections. We started many conversations that wouldn’t have taken place otherwise. Some conversations even lead to discomfort among players and teams, with several people trying to skip the rubric and evade the topic. I think this is an indicator of how urgent it is for us to address this collective problem. I hope some of that tension has been harvested and transformed, if not into action, then at least into some type of awareness by the Mexican ultimate community. After all, Spirit of the Game has been defined as, “mindful behavior by players before, during, and after a game of ultimate.”

Another silver lining that I like to highlight from this experience, is that it got me and Dani to reflect on Spirit and gender more thoroughly and constantly. I am certain that the experiment greatly shaped how I see gender, ultimate and Spirit of the Game. The experience with the rubric proposal triggered a series of profound revelations that have been snowballing in my head ever since. I’ve come to see Spirit of the Game as a praxis: a guiding philosophy and a set of actions or practices. Many of the tools of SotG (e.g. scoring, circles, captains, timeouts, etc.) seem to carry an implicit dialectic of action-reflection-action. We play, we talk about it, we play, and so on. These iterative feedback cycles serve to make us aware of what we need to improve on in a peer-to-peer fashion. When done well, these constant evaluations orient us to work on our challenges and deficiencies. These continuous feedback processes act as a self-regulation mechanism to keep our behavior in check and change it if necessary.

Additionally, I’ve come to realize that Spirit is an intrinsically social phenomenon. We apishly mirror our opponents’ kindness with more kindness. When we see another team do the right thing, we become inspired to cultivate that to flourish as well. Spirit seems to spread like spores with these feedback loops. Perhaps we can use these self-replicating cycles to out-power the toxic patterns of machismo we see in sports, media and culture in general. I believe that if Spirit were embodied in more spaces of our daily lives, we would have powerful tools to counter these vicious cycles with our very own virtuous ones.

The broad yet powerful definition of Spirit of the Game as “mindful behavior” and the fact that it is so wildly contagious makes me think of it as some type of collective consciousness —  an emergent phenomenon that is as abstract as it is relatable, as simple as it is powerful. I like to think of social movements as emergent phenomena of that type as well: a collective paradigm shift with no one person instructing others, rather many individuals acting in a decentralized yet coordinated form to make a necessary change in their environment. These phenomena often grow and spiral beyond their original scope, causing a ripple effect that transforms their surrounding. I hope that the correlation I see is not merely coincidental and that it inspires many of us to keep working hard for profound systemic transformation.

***

We didn’t catalyze a radical revolution in Mexican ultimate with the “6th pillar” of Spirit of the Game, but the exploration of Gender Equity through SotG and Ultimate was far from finished. After nationals, we figured WUCC 2018 would be a great place to showcase our experiment. We were pleasantly surprised with how many people at the tournament were interested in hearing our story and wanted to see the materials we had created for the proposal.

We were honored to be featured among the finalists for the Ultimate Peace Global Spirit of the Game award due to our efforts for equity in the Mexican mixed division. Hearing other people’s stories and experiences on how they incorporate ultimate and Spirit into their daily lives and work for social justice was deeply inspiring. This reaffirmed our desire to stick with the idea of SotG as a powerful and necessary tool for social transformation, particularly focused on gender.

While we did not win the prestigious award, we did become ambassadors for Ultimate Peace. We want to honor this title by continuing our work towards equity in mixed ultimate, no longer just through scoring, rather developing a new project that is more structured. We want to grow our core team and hold spirit clinics, workshops, and other activities around gender in sports and ultimate specifically. We would especially love to work with young people, since a new generation of players is rising in Mexico, and we believe youth to be the motor for change in any community. We will make sure to pass on the discs that were kindly gifted to us by Ultimate Peace with the hopes of spreading them as spores of change.

At the end of the day, our experiment didn’t cause the massive ripple effect we dreamt of, but it helped plant a seed in our minds and in our ultimate community. A new way of understanding Spirit and an exciting new ultimate project are brewing in Mexico City.

The post Gender Equity and SotG: A Report from Mexico appeared first on Skyd Magazine.

from Skyd Magazine http://bit.ly/2RM25Ta

[sweetandunholy]

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“Richard Gansey III had forgotten how many times he had been told he was destined for greatness.”

“He was a king. And this was the year he was going to die.” The Raven King is the thrilling final installment in the dark and magical series Raven Cycle series created by Maggie Stiefvater. A brooding and omnious novel that will hook you from the first sentence, sweep you off your feet and land you right in the heart of the Aglionby Raven boys adventure to be a witness to its all consuming ending.

4/5 Stars Recommendation: Worth every single page from the first sentence to ends. Prophecies will be will be unmasked, curses will be unleashed, relationships will set sail and terrifying fears will come to life. All wrapped in a poetical ending to satisfy all fans. Flawed for a series ending however, and thus I can’t get myself to give it 5 stars.

How to get Hime to love a book: 

Step One: Be preferentially YA Step Two: Include strong and complex characters with original character arcs Step Three: Give me gay boys, all the gay boys. Bonus Step: Be Maggie Stiefvater

Because holy shit where do I start.

The story is set one week after the events of Blue Lily Lily Blue, with Maura and Artemus back in Fox Way along with the cryptical Gwenllian —the later two who are not exactly getting along well— while the Gangsey & Co are still in the search for their Welsh King of Myth. A new addition to their group is made in the form of charismatic and brave Henry Cheng, who will reach and touch Gansey in more ways than one.

One final kiss will be shared. Two last glimpses of special someones will be given, and without a goodbye they part. Three relationships that will at last set sail.  And one final door will at last close but it will leave so many more open, so many many more.

The Raven King is what the Raven boys’ friendship is for Blue: Breath taking, all powerful, all consuming and engrossing. Maggie’s ever praised prose is better than ever, it makes you feel everything you have never been able to put into words between all of the character’s arc climax, the creepier and scarier atmosphere throughout the entire book, her ever present quirky humor, and the larger than life vibe this book is. Its entire more-ness, because that is what it is. More. The Raven King is more than YA itself, its more than fantasy and its more than The Raven Boys, The Dream Thieves and Blue Lily Lily Blue ever was. It is the ever so deserved end, carefully wrapped up in a satisfying end that leaves open the possibility of so much more.

I had a couple of problems with characters who almost seemed irrelevant with how little participation they had in the final plot, however, I will give my kudos to Stiefvater for making each one of them original and interesting nonetheless.

Click Read more for book analysis and rants and spoilers or you’ll find them below this point, my sweet children. Stuff your faces and enjoy !

  Now here’s the thing, I’ve read a fuck ton of other reviews who talk about how they loved the foreshadowing on Adam & Ronan. From the Dream Thieves and Adam being Ronan’s second secret, to all the mentions of homosexuality by Kavinsky, when I thought it was pure teenage dickery and not a direct criticism on Ronan’s sexual orientation— Except no I, I didn’t pick up on it. Shame on me, I know.

But in my opinion, perhaps that made it all the better and this is why:

“Adam smiled cheerily. Ronan would start wars and burn cities for that true smile, elastic and amiable.”

Ronan is a sensible, sensible thing. If anything the entire opposite of Blue’s sensible, prudent. No, Ronan feels too much, too hard and too deep. He wasn’t your YA charismatic bad boy, Ronan was broken and angry, but Ronan craved for love and affection and most specially handing it to others. It had all been so subtle up until that quote, where I put my book down and had to smile to myself for a good ten minutes before I could pick it back up.

Ronan would start wars and burn cities for Adam Parish’s smile. The power of those words hit me like a rock, and no, I didn’t suddenly suspect they would get involved romantically even then.

Ronan let out a breath, put the model down on the bed beside him, and kissed Adam.

Once, when Adam had still lived in the trailer park, he had been pushing the lawn mower around the scraggly side yard when he realized that it was raining a mile away. He could smell it, the earthy scent of rain on dirt, but also the electric, restless smell of ozone. And he could see it: a hazy gray sheet of water blocking his view of the mountains. He could track the line of rain travelling across the vast dry field towards him. It was heavy and dark, and he knew he would get drenched if he stayed outside. It was coming from so far away that he had plenty of time to put the mower away and get under cover. Instead, though, he just stood there and watched it approach. Even at the last minute, as he heard the rain pounding the grass flat, he just stood there. He closed his eyes and let the storm soak him.

That was this kiss.

IT WAS AMAZING. I will be honest when I say I was half bored and half doing something else when I read this chapter and I missed Ronan leaning in to kiss Adam. Instead, I sat through Adam’s description of a kiss before going back and realizing it was Ronan who had just kissed hi,

I felt my heart stop in joy. Then tears in my eyes.

THESE BOYS ARE JUST SO BLESSED? I’M NOT OKAY HOLY CHRIST. Like, lets just sit back and take a moment to appreciate Maggie didn’t just do this to please all of her LGBT+ readers once and move on? We had three heartfelt kisses between these boys that moved me three times as any interaction between Blue and Gansey could’ve ever. We had several descriptions and accounts for how much they had kissed, and how it felt and the intensity of of their feelings.

My feelings are an oil spill. I am so pleased Maggie reached this concussion between her characters, Adam and Ronan did deserve the best. They grew and changed together, this relationship is the one that could feel the most deserved in the entirety of YA.

Shoutout to Blue and Ronan’s friendship.  This and Ronan trying to dream Blue eye cream in the middle of his life going to shit. I’m so happy to see how their friendship has evolved.

“Gansey asked, “Do you have time to run an errand with us? Do you have work? Homework?” “No homework. I got suspended,” Blue replied. “Get the fuck out,” Ronan said, but with admiration. “Sargent, you asshole.” Blue reluctantly allowed him to bump fists with her as Gansey eyed her meaningfully in the rearview mirror.”

And one last shoutout all the way back to The Raven Boys.

“Ronan said, “I’m always straight.” Adam replied “Oh, man, that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

We now know you know, Adam. These little details made my day while reading the series.

Thoughts on Henry Cheng:

He…. Happens. And it’s weird. People love him and I don’t…. Get it.

Henry Cheng is an absolutely useless, diversity pick character who Stiefvater decided to throw in at the end of the series. Oh forgive me, he did give Gansey some life changing thoughts on beating your fears and like that’s chill; but it feels like something any other character could’ve done if they would’ve been given the right exposition or backstory. Like Ronan or Adam, who are both characters who have been through some shit and could believably have more to their backstory than what we already know.

To me a golden rule of writting should be to never introduce new, major character on the last book of a long series because everything should’ve been established in your previous books. The Raven Cycle was very guilty about introducing a new villain in every book [Except for arguably Blue Lily Lily Blue] and then have him fade into the oblivion of not being relevant to the series again. This is mildly forgivable in the previous books since its A) Not the final book and B) You’re trying to throw obstacles into your character’s paths so they can continue on with their adventure.

But why would you add a main character who adds nothing to the story and add around 200 pages of filler about him? Not to mention Gansy and Henry became instant best friends The Toga party was by far one of my favorite scenes simply because of the simplicity of it. It was a break from the creepy and omnious tone to remind us: Yo, they’re still kids js and it was a nice andd very welcome addition. The scene that actually made me appreciate Blue and Gansey as a couple too and I had Cheng to thank for that… Now why couldn’t we leave it at that? Robobee and the dream black market arc was just… Odd. And the way he came in, helped Gansey fight his fear, the robobee acted as a glorified GPS was way too convenient in my opinion. The book could’ve done perfectly without and it was absolutely irrelevant and specially distracting. Specially through the end scenes where he just seemed to be mindlessly following and strutting along while getting… Absolutely nothing.

The worst of it is the fact that Cheng got more spotlight than Noah. A character that was long established in the previous books and that fans were actually curious about his development and what was going on with him. We had a Cheng word vomit in exchange for Noah’s ever continuing loose ambiguity.

Thoughts on assorted secondary characters:

Another one of the problems I had with this book that minorly disappointed me. It  doesn’t entire bug me per se, but bothered me enough I’d like to put down my thoughts on it on the review.

There were a buttload of character introduced that honestly lead nowhere. I’m talking about the Dream black market net of collectors, curators and sellers. Seondeok, Piper, Laumonier? (wth— was his name again) and Lumonier x3 and probably a few more. These had a very minor purpose in the story and disappeared in the end as soon as they came. Piper was a bitch for no good reason but yeah okay, she’s a bitch and we must dislike her. Seondeok is as needed in this story as his son, and no matter how many clever chapters you start with “Depending on when you start, this story is about Seondeok” I won’t feel for her, I won’t care about her and I won’t care about any of the other secondaries. And I won’t even dignify Laumonier(s) with a segment— It’s so random and unneeded it doesn’t deserve the attention.

I was waiting until the end while clinging to the hope that it’d be some great mystery Maggie would wrap up and would make sense and MAYBE would be relevant to be story but that was that for expectations.

The Grey man’s character arc was more than done in my opinion and I wasn’t sure why he was suddenly forced to leave. Maura’s goodbye was more than uneventful and was disappointingly unmoving. I would’ve not minded his character just staying the way he was, a retired hit man with a psychic girlfriend who now got his well deserved rest. Him leaving and the novel ending with him unaccounted for was very unsatisfying as well.

Neeve died and I’m just lmao I don’t care but ok.

Then there’s Opal (Orphan girl) too, another of the secondary characters that I very much rooted for throughout the novels. I had so many theories for this character, hoping she’d have some sort of major yet hidden relevance to the plot and Ronan but in the end she felt both like some odd… Unfulfilling filler with no closure either.

In fact, this entire section could be easily summarized in a lack of closure for most secondary characters. While I can’t stop praising how greatly wrapped up the rest of the book is, most secondary characters make me fill unfulfilled. I don’t want to hear Maggie could be getting off if she was just paving the road and setting these characters up for the Dreamer trilogy, because this tweet happened on the end of 2016:

and the series was way more than over in 2015. I would very much appreciate and may manage to forgive Stiefvater if she were to develop and add onto these characters on the Ronan trilogy, but the sad truth is that I just don’t care for most of them and I don’t really feel like learning more about them either. Again, just purposeless filler.

General Gansey disappointment:

Another one of my golden rules in writing is that if you’re going to kill a character: You should definitely kill them. Reviving a character as an intelligent plot device or as a character goal can be a relatable thing and an earned struggle. When characters die simply to revive immediately… Simply does not work for me. I’m more grossed out by the moment and feel much less than the emotion overflow I would’ve had to live with if Gansey had died.

What’s more is the potential of Maggie heading down a great path for Gansey when Cabeswater tried to explain he could not just bring him back but “Make some essential part of itself human-shaped” and  “It was impossible to bring him back unchanged […] But it might be able to refashion him into something new”. This was so much wasted potential, such an exciting idea.

One of the most popular theories I was an avid followed of was the idea that Gansey was Glendower. Think about it as a quick parenthesis:

Reasons why Gansey could’ve (and should’ve) been Glendower:

— A continuos theme throughout the novel was time’s circle continuum instead of a straight line. “Not yet happened” a synonym of “Already has happened”: The present Noah sacrificing himself for 10 year old Gansey to live, the gang finding the aged up Camaro wheels along with Glendower’s shield, Blue’s face in the painting of the three women, etc.  These are all examples of how the possibility of Gansey being both Gansey and Glendower exist throughout the novel, or at least, an incarnation of him.

— Blue recognizing there was something more about him, Gansey’s agelessness as described by Adam:

“Adam knew that she had sensed the otherness to his friend: that sense that Gansey was both young and old, that he’d only just arrived, or he’d always been.”

— Gwenllian calls Gansey “My lord” “Father” in multiple occasions — The constant raven motif repeating itself from Aglionby’s uniform to Ronan’s dream Chainsaw — The women and several others creatures chanting “The Raven King, make way for the Raven King” to Gansey. Glendower being the real Raven King. — In the end scene, Gansey asking the wind to show him the Raven King and raven’s responding to his call. Glendower was known for being able to raven’s. — What if the constant Glendower calls were not a path they pointed him to, but the voice calling his own name? — We never got a clear reason as to why Noah would murmur he would live because of Glendower to Gansey when he was living because of Noah in fact. Noah trading his life for Gansey’s with the knowledge he was a King with a prophecy to fulfill would’ve been a more satisfying explanation. — Maggie constantly compares Gansey to the Raven King, while comparing Ronan to his poet, Adam to his magician, and Blue Gwenllian, the witch, the mirror. — The three Blue’s in the flag have red hands, and when inquired about it, Malory explains that the Bloody red hands are associated with the Mab Darogan, which is a mythic title for Welsh kings known as ‘Sons of Destiny’. These are the same three women that appear in Cabeswater chanting “Rex Corvus, parate regis corvi.” [The Raven King, make way for the Raven King] to Gansey & Co. Gansey, if not Glendower, perfectly could’ve been the next Mab Darogan, after all, the book was swamped with references of Gansey being kingly. The King who died and Lived. — Glendower could’ve also been sleeping indeed. Asleep inside of Gansey, awaiting to be woken up with his death. 

But Glendower was really dead, lmao and Gansey was instead revived right after. So anticlimactic.

I mean, honestly seeing Gansey come back as something else as said by Cabeswater would’ve been way more pleasant. Like Blue having to struggle with Gansey to recover part of himself or Blue seeing him off to change the world. Reclaim his long lost kingdom.

If you’re going to kill a character to revive him a few pages later, what is the point of wasting said pages in the first place? It’s something I’ve always had trouble understanding while authors do it a lot nonetheless —Similar to my latest rant of A Court of Wings and Ruin, when we were subjected to the same death pointlessness—. What’s worse is the unexplained plot hole it leaves by Cabeswater explaining to us how it wasn’t possible for it to revive him, and then proceeds to do exactly that.

I will however, recognize how pleased I was with the explanation of why Blue’s curse worked the way it did. Like in most YA or fairy tales, I was expecting it to go on without explanation and I wouldn’t have had much other problem with that. Two mirror facing each other was such a poetical explanation I can’t help but to pin it right on Maggie’s style.

I have mixed feelings about Glendower being dead, honest. The first time I read the book, I was absolutely thrilled by it, as it was arguably the biggest plot twist of them all. But at this point in my reading (and at this point in my review, causing me to reflect over a lot of things) Final Thoughts I’m too incoherent to add into the review:

That demon unmaking things was creepy af, g fucking g. Just the word unmade seems horribly unsettling. The way he was described was point in case amazing.

Noah’s possesion was also such a heartstopping scene as he gauged Blue’s eye. [Anyone else see it coming though? Ever since The Gray man warned she could loose an eye if they Greenmantle were to die]

No one even mentions Noah in the epilogue, which hurts deep. I was left very confused about what it was of him and found myself rather disappointed the characters didn’t seem to… Care enough? To think about him?

The body count was really high for a book by Maggie Stiefvater. It was all gruesome and great. My heart is very, very pleased.

CHAINSAW SITTING ON ADAM’S SHOULDER?? Why yes.

Adam driving Ronan’s car touched my heartstrings, and him not denying when his father mocked him for driving “his boyfriend’s car”. God fucking bless me.

The ending scene with Ronan was absolutely powerful: “Then he closed his eyes and he began to dream.” 

I love this book, through all its flaws. I just love it.

[Review] The Raven King – Maggie Stiefvater “Richard Gansey III had forgotten how many times he had been told he was destined for greatness.”

[nebris]

The Individual and The Hive

“Liberal Humanism had once been a vital force and had changed human affairs for the better. But it inevitably fell victim to the Cult of The Individual and then fractured into ideological factionalism, individual narcissism and intellectual decadence. Its absolute rejection of Hierarchy doomed it to impotence.” a quote from “Apéritif á La Tour Rouge”, a Sisterhood short story.   The Cult of The Individual is clearly the predominant theme of the Modern Era. And it is a Lie. Here is the ineffable Adam Curtis speaking upon it in a UK Guardian article: "The way power works in the world is: they tell you stories that make sense of the world. That’s what America did after the Second World War. It told you wonderful dreamlike stories about the world … And at that same time, you were encouraged to rise up and 'become an individual’, which also made the whole idea of America attractive to the rest of the world. But then this very individualism began to corrode it. The uncertainties began in people’s minds. Uncertainty about 'what is the point of being an individual?’ The politics of our time are deeply embedded in this idea of individualism, which is far wider than Westminster [the British seat of government], consumerism or anything like that. It’s how you feel. People think, 'Oh, if it’s within me it must be true.’ But it’s not the be-all and end-all. It’s not an absolute. It’s a way of feeling and thinking which is a product of a particular time and power. The notion that you only achieve your true self if your desires, your dreams, are satisfied … It’s a political idea. That’s the central dynamic of our life.” And this is a more somber comment by a Susan W. in Morris Berman’s blog: “So much of our lives in America are compartmentalized it does result in loneliness. The way our communities are set up isolate us and make social interaction stilted. There’s not much spontaneity and people don’t know how to break this cycle and with 24 hour/day TV, the internet, long commutes and loss of real public space the soul continues to be drained out of Americans. It takes effort to see friends and build a social network that is comprised of real flesh-and-blood people rather than “profiles.” Both Huxley and Orwell recognized this process of dehumanizing people even though they saw the causes differently.” The Cult of The Individual is used by The Powers That Be to utterly dis-empower The Individual and it is my depressing opinion that most in The West, especially my fellow Americans, shall never escape that trap. A chap who calls himself Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri - a nom-de-blog I expect - speaks of this in his essay The Parable of The Hive, to wit: “The hive decides who gets to mate with whom and under what circumstances. The hive decides who gets the best food, the choicest real estate, and the cushiest jobs. The hive decides how you live and how you die. The hive decides what you eat for breakfast… The hive is an invasive species composed entirely of information, of narrative, that exists only for its own benefit, that nurtures individuals — or the opposite — in proportion to how the individual benefits the hive. It is in the best interests of the hive to teach you sacrifice. To make you accept it completely. The hive, by means of sacrifice and pooling resources, can survive when individuals would fare poorly. Individuals die, but society is preserved… It has predators and parasites. It has fake members that are immune to the narrative, that masquerade as valuable, favored cogs, that pervert the rudimentary defenses to foil and destroy the drones that would root them out. They insinuate themselves into the supply chains to bleed off resources for personal hoards, for prime real estate, for breeding privileges. They pervert the narrative itself to set themselves up as gods. What are the choices here? 1. To ensure survival as much as possible by making yourself invaluable to the hive, but, in the end, putting your fate in the hands of the hive and its narrative. 2. To reject the narrative entirely and live outside of the hive to the greatest extent possible, live and let live, but outside of the hive’s protections and occasionally running afoul of the hive’s defenses. 3. To become a predator/parasite, competing with other parasites for your share of hoarded resources and privileges by your own attempts to co-opt a portion of the narrative. 4. Erect a counter-narrative and create a hive that competes with or even preys upon the old hive, or perhaps establishes a symbiotic relationship with it via an exchange of resources or favors. Once you are aware of the hive, and its narrative, and the predators and parasites that prey on it, your choices are very limited. Keep your head down, try to escape, put up a fight, or autolysis. What will you choose?” What most in The West choose, especially my fellow Americans, is to operate in a gray zone between the first and second choices, thinking/believing that they are in a form of the second paradigm - but utterly in Denial that they are part of The Hive aka the myth of “Rugged Individualism” - while functionally operating fully in the first paradigm. That is the Tea Party mentality in a nutshell. Hipsters on the other hand are more aware of this, but blow it off with Irony. The shrinking and increasingly desperate Middle Classes tend to go for the first paradigm full bore, though still remaining largely in Denial about how thoroughly assimilated they actually are. Wall Street, the New Rich, et al have taken the third paradigm - the 'predator/parasite gods’ - to its insane extreme and will likely be the death of The Hive because of that. But such is inherent to the 'narrative’ of The Individual, its unavoidable Poison Pill, “Screw you, Jack; I got mine.” So then, what is the point of being an 'individual’? What Purpose does your life have beyond 'satisfaction of desires’, many of which are not even really your own? These questions invariably bring us to The Sisterhood and where it stands in all of this. Obviously we pick Door #4, “Erect a counter-narrative and create a hive that competes with or even preys upon the old hive, or perhaps establishes a symbiotic relationship with it via an exchange of resources or favors,” though we shall reverse the order by initially “establishing symbiotic relationship with it via an exchange of resources or favors,” and then subsuming the 'Old Hive’ entirely. “The central strategy here is The Viral Meme, the Idea that is so compelling and dynamic that that is spreads like wildfire. That Idea exists; a entirely new and modern form of Matriarchy. Our task is to create that Idea as a Practical Reality, a Practical Reality that becomes the microcosm of this new society, a Practical Reality that is vital, replicable, adaptable, and then plant it in the societies that presently exist. In many places, it shall flourish and expand. In some places, it will struggle and even be extinguished. But if we do our work effectively and remain true to both the practical goals and the Spiritual vision of this New Matriarchy, we will grow into and absorb even the most hostile social orders.” from The Temple’s Mission Statement. In the meantime we must operate in the third paradigm until we are stronger, as “a predator/ parasite, competing with other parasites for your share of hoarded resources and privileges by your own attempts to co-opt a portion of the narrative.” I understand that all this is a bitter pill to swallow. Some of you can likely hear Number Six shouting, “I’m not a number, etc,” in your minds. But that is a delusion at this point. Just pull out your wallet or purse. You are several types of number and by yourself you are powerless. Yes, Worst Fear confirmed. I am offering you a way to change this, my Sisters. It is a radical and even dangerous path and may be even a fool’s errand. But I truly believe that, for the many reasons elaborated upon in Liber Sorores, it is the only viable path out of the present death spiral, because it’s fairly clear the 'Old Hive’ is dying and all the other solutions are either warmed-over versions of the Old Hive’s socioeconomic or some type of neo-feudal reaction, various primitivist 'back to the land’ constructs that would require the extinction of hundreds of millions of humans in order to work. For decades now how many tens of millions of you, my Sisters, have woken up every day to a job you hate? To a life you hate? To feeling trapped and without Purpose? Even if one has the basic necessities of life, lack of Purpose can be Soul killing, a day to day void that slowly but steadily drains the life out of you. And now even the 'basic necessities’ are becoming hard to come by. Simple survival has become 'purpose’. But that is an animal’s life. If you have gotten to this far, you have likely read Liber Sorores in its entirety. You now know The Path Invoked, though you may not yet truly grasp it. To do so means to accept some unpleasant truths about ourselves. As a highly social Predator Species, we are biologically hard wired for Dominance, Submission and Hierarchy. Denial of that state of being is one of the worst and most hypocritical forms of Bourgeois Delusionalism, which is ever about making things Safe and Nice. Of course, being Humans, we make that paradigm very complex and sophisticated and far more subtle than it is in untrammeled Nature. We hide it in Ritual and Lies so that it becomes 'palatable’ to the Masses. But it is there if one looks close and honestly enough at day to day human interaction. Most urban dwellers never look each other in the eye; such is an implicit challenge. I personally have 'taken control’ of many interactions via this simple behavior and without having to establish overt Dominance. Just making steady eye contact often tells the other that I am Strong and Confident, aka Steady and Trustworthy. I have found this to be true even when my Social Status was 'less’ than the person I was interacting with. I quite successfully navigated my way through two years of homelessness doing so. And pointing out that I am a large white male who is attractive, intelligent and articulate merely underscores the power of the paradigm, though many of the techniques I used – such as NLP – are not limited to individuals of that class. But while I did this largely 'on my own’, I never did it as a pure Individual. Early on I became a member of a well respected homeless support organization, always cultivated persons of importance within The System and consistently acknowledged that I knew I was operating within said System, covertly with The Dull and overtly with The Aware. I was always part of a Group. As I said, human Hierarchy is complex, subtle and sophisticated. But have no doubt that it defines us. I have noted that some of loudest denials of this paradigm come from tenured academics – individuals of Authority and Power in a clearly defined Hierarchy – which I’d say sums up our basic dilemma rather neatly. And both ends of the cultural and political spectrum are guilty of this deception, though the Left is rather more self deluded in this regard. The Right tends to simply lie about it, which in turn yields the field, at worst, to Fascist Domination and, at best, making the social order prisoner of Modern Corporate Marketing Culture aka The Hologram, which is all about Safe and Nice. This attitude has been enshrined in The Cult of The Individual, which in turn renders those who internalize said construct ultimately powerless against any Group which seeks Control. The Hive will always defeat The Individual. Most humans will seek Safety and Comfort long before they seek Awareness. That is hard wired as a survival mechanism. Only an elite few have the Willingness and the Courage to become Awake. We are a social species. Hierarchy is in our nature. And Leaders are required. Refusal to accept that will lead only to frustration and failure. If you believe nothing else I tell you, believe that. The Cult of The Individual has crippled us as individuals, leaving us prey to the purposeless greed of The Corporate State. Only a positive overarching Goal for the entire Species can once again create the room for individuals to flourish because such a Goal allows each individual to contribute that which they are best at and are happiest with by removing uncertainly and therefore removing Fear. By knowing the Greater Purpose, each individual knows how and what they can contribute, whether that be in Engineering or in Art or even just sweeping up. All those things have Value. In return, the Social Order gives all its members that which they need to live and the ability to find where they can best be of Service, which is the Highest Good for all. It is only in this manner that The Hive may Serve The Individual as The Individual Serves The Hive and in that both may prosper. And only a Hive of Sisters is capable of doing so. 

Liber Sorores: Part Seven – “Summation” [unfinished]