#you know how it is when the brain informs you of something

[ceaseless-exhauster]

Two things to add:

One, I would rephrase “the elites” as “corporations and billionaires” or at least “people in power” because I think it’s more accurate and I tend to be skeptical of phrasing any groups as “the elites” due to the antisemitic history of the phrase itself

But far more importantly in this instance: referring to the dead internet theory as an “online conspiracy theory” is absolutely fucking WILDIN. Yes, it became recently popularized because of a (probably tongue-in-cheek) conspiracy that you, the reader, are currently right now the only actual human left on the Internet and the rest is bots.

However, the theory itself is rooted in actual philosophy, largely informed by Ray Kurzweil’s ideas about the Singularity, which was in its turn informed in many ways by the ideas of Isaac Asimov. I have my own problems with both of these dudes and their theories, but the general concept of a dead internet is inspired by and strongly compatible with both of their assertions, and they’re both well-respected and relevant contemporary philosophers when it comes to this field.

As of the time of writing this (January 2025/Shevat 5785) I think it’s safe to assume that saying we’re currently experiencing a dead internet is firmly in conspiracy theory territory. But dismissing the crux of the theory as a whole for the future is absolutely buckwild and ignores the truly disturbing rise in manufactured interaction on social media platforms, as well as the real-world problems it causes. Elon Musk used bots on X for election propaganda, for fucks sake, some of the programmers told us straight up.

The fact that Meta is just coming right out and admitting that they’re about to do it? Horrifying. It’s beyond correct that this will facilitate the rapid degradation of critical thinking skills, and I mean that in a literal way, not in a fearmongering “omg social media is rotting the youth’s brains” way. Not being able to distinguish technologically generated material from real-world material is one of the things that kind of hallmarks the idea of the Singularity to begin with. We’ve already been fighting a battle against propaganda and disinformation, and the people whom that benefits the most are about to fully automate the production of it.

Beyond that - what the fuck does this do to us as a species? What are our interactions going to become if we can’t distinguish them as being attached to another human somewhere on the planet? If the bulk of our accessible information starts coming from a series of distorted reflections of the same stolen property?

Perhaps MOST concerning to me in this moment is that I tried really goddamn hard to find some good accessible sources on dead internet theory to share, in large part because it’s been a hot minute since I’ve studied this stuff in undergrad. I fucking couldn’t. I’m four pages deep on Google, on my third variation of a search term, and everything still says it’s just an online conspiracy theory. What the fuck. What the FUCK?

I try not to leave most of my rants ending in despair, so I guess my call to action for people is this: support the ever loving shit out of your local libraries, even if the most you can afford right now is to check out books and use the computers every now and again; refresh yourself on valid and time-tested research techniques, and if you have the time and ability, compile and post or publish instructional guides for how to do it; collect (actual human-authored) print media when and where you can and guard it like a rabid dog - go to those yard sales and get the fifty cent grandma romance novels, make a habit to order something off ThriftBooks every month, ask your friends for old textbooks they can’t sell, put it all in a fireproof box or store it somewhere safe when you’re not reading it.

I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch to say we’re looking at what’s tantamount to a war on reality itself - fight it by preserving the things you know are real, that you can touch or verify or make for yourself. It’s all valuable.

Ohh we're fucked 🤩

All of this motivates me to keep reading, learning, researching - I don't want my basic human skills to decline. I already see a tendency of people becoming lazy when doing basic research tasks on a daily basis and it's scary

[katebishopsbaefy]

could you do something similar to beyond stress but instead of it having smut, its more of reader getting so overwhelmed and crying but billie comforting her please?

Beyond Stressed pt. 2

billie eilish x reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆˙⟡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .⋆˙⟡ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

summary: you think your stress has run it's course after a breakdown. turns out it hasn't, but thankfully, billie's always there for you.

warnings: panic attack, just fluff

words: 1147

a/n: thank you for the ask!! i hope you like it!! 😊 i meant to make it a little shorter but oh well lol

Typing, scribbling, square breathing. That’s about all you’ve been doing for the past week. After what you hoped would be a one-off breakdown, more and more work has just piled on. You’ve managed to keep it together since then, but it’s been so difficult.

This time, you’re at your place. Unlike last time, Billie’s back is propped up against the edge of your bed as she reads some book from your nightstand. Her knee is comfortably propped up against your side, just a gentle reminder that she’s there if you need her. That there’s no need to freak out again. That it’s all gonna be okay. It keeps your panic at bay for now, but it doesn’t stop the immense exhaustion from plaguing you. Thankfully, school work has slowed down for now, but real work has only amped up. Your team wants more merch, more tour dates, more songs on your album. It’s like they’ve forgotten you’re just one person.

As you’re furiously scribbling in your notebook, you don’t even notice your phone beginning to blow up. Just one buzz turns into five, then ten, until it won’t stop. Billie gently nudges your side to alert you to it.

You glance up for what must be the first time in the hour. When you rub your eye as you grab your phone, Billie’s heart sinks. You only rub your eye that much when you’re on the verge of… something. A breakdown, passing out, something that would force you to take a break.

You open your phone to text after text from your friends; that test you’d been studying for last week is out. While something like that might usually make you nauseous, it doesn’t this time. You’d felt confident walking out of the exam, so all that stress and studying last week paid off. Or so you think.

You quickly open your phone to the app where your grades are posted. Scroll until you find the class, pop it open, and scroll until you find the test grade…

An F.

58/100.

You freeze for a moment. That can’t be right. You studied so hard. You reload the app, reopen the grade. Still an F.

Your hands start shaking a little as you open up your email to find the breakdown of your test. Count the number of questions you missed. 42. Recount. Still 42. 

There must be a grading mistake. You scroll through each individual question, looking at each answer you put. You remember putting down these answers. No misclicks. No grading mistakes. You really, truly failed. You’ve never failed a test before.

Your body decides to process that information before your brain does. You know it’s not a big deal in the long run. You still have a good average in the class. You’re still passing. But your chest is squeezing so tightly that you think you might be having a heart attack.

Before you know what’s happening, Billie’s sitting up and placing a hand on your back. You don't even notice. It feels like your body is disappearing. The only part of yourself you can actually feel is your pounding heart. 

Billie’s already worried, but when you don’t move even a little when she touches your back, her heart drops, and one glance at your phone screen tells her she’s right. You’re panicking, and from the looks of it, you’re already too deep to stop it before it starts. She’s always been worried about pushing when you’re like this, about trying to touch you when you don’t want it. But she’s known you long enough to know how you get, and that's what you need right now. You’ve told her before that it can feel like you’re disintegrating, like you’re floating away, so you need to feel small and secure.

So, she shuts your phone off and gently pulls you into her lap, cradling your head against her chest. Your breathing is so shallow that she can barely feel it, and she knows you’re too far gone to process anything she might say. Instead of trying to talk to you, she does exactly what you’ve told her helps.

She holds you as tightly to her as she can without hurting you, one arm snugly around your back as the other holds the back of your head. She places your ear right over her chest so that all you can hear is her heart; just something steady and soft to give you something to focus on. Just like before, she exaggerates her breath, urging you to follow. Her gentle, purposeful actions don’t at all show how worried she is. You’ve been known to pass out when you get too stressed.

With her body surrounding you like a soft weighted blanket, it only takes a short time for your panic attack to run its course. She just knows exactly what to do. She always does.

As your breathing evens out, she places the softest little kisses to your hairline, and her hand makes its way under your shirt like it always does. Her fingernails scratch so comfortingly against your bare back that you can’t help but sink into her.

Billie lets you rest for a few moments, allowing your head to clear enough for you to be able to communicate. She gently pulls your face up so she can look at it, and her thumbs cup your cheeks to wipe away tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen. She looks so soft, but so worried, and it makes your stomach flip.

She hums quietly at your sad, tired face, at the little resting pout on your lips, and presses the tiniest kiss to the tip of your nose. When she begins to lift you into her arms, you don't protest; you’re too tired to. You just rest your heavy head on her shoulder and press your face into her neck.

The sheets ruffle as she sets you down on the bed and settles next to you, her arm slinging around your waist to help you cuddle into her side. She kisses your head again, and again, and again, and lets her lips linger against your hair as she whispers, “Nap time, baby. You’re too tired.”

It’s like you’ve completely forgotten about the work you’d been doing as you melt into her. She’s just so gentle with you. You hum quietly to acknowledge her words, mumbling back a half-coherent, “Mmm… nap time…”

Just as you start drifting off, her lips find your forehead one more time, and she mumbles softly, “I think it might be break time too, y/n/n. You need a few days off.”

If you weren’t already half asleep, you might groan or protest. But for right now, all you can do is agree. It’ll be nice to spend a few days with her, just snuggling and not worrying about anything but her.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Dark as a Raven’s Feather

A night owl is what he is. The day is too bright for him. It pains his eyes and head.

“Are you a vampire, or something?” his classmates used to ask him.

He never answered them.

His looks points towards the romanticised figures from film and literature, he supposes. Dark hair, as a raven’s feather, like his grand mère used to say. His skin is pale as marble, and the face has peculiar angles that some find attractive, others quite the opposite. But it’s the eyes that put most people off. They are pale too, but the colours shift. Mostly, they are blue, different shades, but in the lighter spectrum. In certain lights and settings, they go green, and on rare occasions golden specks appear.

“You’re such a freak!”

Sherlock still has no idea how many times he’s heard that sentence being thrown in his direction. Over the years, he’s got used to it, but if he’s distracted, it still hurts.

***

Sherlock loves the city; London, his one true love. He knows her like the back of his hand. He’s walked every street and alley. In his Mind Palace, there’s a map, more accurate than any found online, or in books. 

Granted, the map in his head, is not that useful to others. When he comes home just after dawn, he retreats to that map, and plots in new information. Where the last murder took place, which roads he ran to catch the killer, the new shop on one corner, roadworks and hindrances.

***

Exhausted after running the streets and fighting a man with a knife, Sherlock takes a shower, then goes to bed. He quickly updates his map, before he falls asleep. 

When Sherlock doesn’t find his meal prepared as he wakes at five in the afternoon, he doesn’t panic. Not at first, anyway.

Didn’t Hudders say she was visiting her sister this weekend?

Sherlock has difficulties remembering such trifles. Half of what his landlady prattles on about, don’t even reach his brain, let alone his ears.

He finds bread, honey, and switches on the kettle. The silence in the flat is bliss. At least during his meal. Afterwards, he gets restless. He wonders how it would feel to have someone living with him. Seconds after the thought has invaded his head, he discards it. Who on earth would want to live with him? The Freak impersonated. Perhaps some nutter from the psychiatric ward, or a suicidal person.

Before Sherlock gets the chance to dwell any further, his phone chimes with a text. A new case! 

He puts on his coat and scarf, finds his leather gloves in his pocket, and leaps down the stairs. Outside, it’s already dark. January is one of his favourite months.

***

It’s nearly midnight when he returns to Baker Street. He hears a sound from 221A, Mrs Hudson’s flat. A strangled sound. His heart pounds in his chest, as if he’s run for hours. Carefully, he approaches her door, not sure if there’s an intruder, or the landlady herself making the sound. The door isn’t locked, and Sherlock opens it, making sure to be cautious.

He finds her on the kitchen floor. She’s fallen and hit her head on the table corner. Blood has trickled down from her temple and into her hair. It’s clotted now. The fall happened hours ago. Before Sherlock woke. Hence the missing meal. Bile rises in his throat, panic sets in his chest, tears pour from his eyes.

“Nonononono,” he whispers.

Trembling fingers find her pulse point, he can’t trust her moving chest, and relief washes over him.

Not dead.

He calls for an ambulance, yells into the phone: “Hurry! She’s the only one I’ve got.”

***

He stands back when the paramedics arrive. They stabilise her, puts on an oxygen mask, lay her on a stretcher. Sherlock watches, fascinated by the skilled men, knowing exactly what to do. Outside, they get the stretcher into the ambulance, and then one of the men turns to face Sherlock.

His eyes are blue as the ocean. Sherlock wants to drown in them. The blue orbits are so distracting, he needs to ask again what the man just said.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock nods, knowing full well it’s not a very convincing nod. 

“Do you want to come with?” the man asks.

“I’m not family. Only her tenant,” Sherlock mumbles and looks to the ground.

A warm hand is placed on his upper arm. No one ever touches him. Apart from the woman in the ambulance.

“I overheard the emergency call,” the man admits. “It sounded like a bit more than a tenant/landlady relationship to me. Come on.”

And then, he ushers Sherlock into the back of the ambulance, gesturing for him to take a seat beside his beloved Hudders. Her colour is less pale, and her breathing seems to be more even. He takes her tiny hand in both of his, stroking his thumb soothingly over the knuckles.

“She’ll be fine. Made of a sturdy material, this one,” the blue-eyed man says. “I’m John, by the way. John Watson.”

Sherlock introduces himself, and when he looks into those eyes again, he realises that he can trust this man with his life. He bends down to the elderly lady’s ear and whispers: “John Watson says you’ll be fine.”

Her eyes open slowly, clearly confused, but it doesn’t last long. When she spots Sherlock, a smile forms on her lips, and she squeezes his hands once. Then, she turns her gaze over to John, and her smile broadens into a full grin.

***

“You and Mrs H. were my favourite midnight distractions,” John whispers in Sherlock’s ear, some weeks later, while his fingers card through the raven-coloured curls.

“Hopefully, only I remain as such,” Sherlock quips and kisses John’s jaw.

John’s chuckle reverberates through Sherlock’s chest and sets in his heart. He’ll tell John about that later. After distracting him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

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[forever-141]

A Push In The Right Direction.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X FemReader (Mentions of John MacTavish)

TW: Some Angst. Mentions of Johnny’s passing.

(This is my first post. Work was boring and I’m pretty sure my time of the month is coming. Not sure where the thought came from and I’m 100% positive there are more like this but my brain was in overdrive today and needed to do something.)

They all knew who you were. Johnny’s pretty little bird they called you. Soft, curvy, and always so lovely whenever he brought you around for functions or random get togethers with the team. It had been no surprise to them when he showed up at the last dinner he shared with them, preening about how you had said yes when he asked you to marry him a few days ago, forcing you to flash the ring he had slipped onto your finger to everyone.

Life seemed to be going in the right direction. At least for a little while anyways. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to be the one to tell you that Johnny passed away on their last mission. Simon stood at your door, arms never feeling heavier than at that moment.

He could still recall the scream that left your throat when he told you and handed you his dog tags. Simon knew the tags should have gone to his family, but deep down, he needed you to have them. That scream, and the sight of you clutching your chest while trying to keep yourself upright by holding onto the door was a sight that haunted him, both awake and in his nightmares.

After Johnny’s passing, you had disappeared. Simon knew it was for the best. He couldn’t possibly know what it was like to lose the one person you thought you were gonna spend the rest of your life with, but if he did, he’d disappear to.

Almost 2 years had passed since it all happened. Simon had spent a good majority of that time keeping his head afloat. He had been going to therapy because Price had mentioned it would be a good thing for him. Which prompted him to take some time away from his job, from what he called, the normal.

His last therapy session had turned into a conversation of “wanting to get away for a bit” and that’s exactly what he had done. He had heard that Johnny’s family had given him a spot in their cemetery plot, no body, just a simple marble header with his name, the day he was born, and the day he passed, the usual.

That’s how he found himself walking into an unfamiliar area, rows of rock, marble and other memorable works of art that left small bits of information about those who were buried here. The only thing in his hand was the black balaclava with the white skull markings he always used to wear. “Somethin’ to leave on Johnny’s grave,” he had kept telling himself.

Simon had been able to get a hold of one of Johnny’s sisters, asking for the location of where they placed his header. As his feet took him further, he could feel himself getting heavier and heavier with each step. But those steps stopped the moment he found what he was looking for.

It was like all air had left his lungs the moment Johnny’s gravestone came into view. But it wasn’t because he had finally made it, no. It was because his gaze landed on something he never thought he’d see again. Something that made his entire world flip upside down.

You.

He stared at your standing form, eyes glued to the marble piece in front of you as you spoke to Johnny like he was there. Simon was about to move in when you shifted just enough that he caught a glimpse of a young child cuddling against you in your arms.

Simon’s eyes landed on the small human who was staring back at him. Johnny’s eyes, piercingly bright blues, stared back at him. A small babble of happiness spewed from the young boys mouth which caused you to turn and come face to face with someone you thought you’d never see again.

“S-Simon?” You stuttered out, your eyes wide as the large brooding figure just stood there, unable to rip his gaze away from you or the little one clinging to the collar of your sweater. You could see the gears turning inside of his head.

“Is…is that..” He couldn’t even get the words out that he wanted to say. His legs forced him closer, closing the distance between your frame and his. “Johnny’s?” He finally croaked out. His gaze followed the slow nodding of your head before turning back to look at the little boy.

His heart was beating like a drum behind his ribcage, hands all of a sudden had become sweaty as his grip on the balaclava tightened. You were scared for a moment at the sudden switch in his demeanour, but it quickly went away when his arms encircled your shoulders, pulling you in for a tight hug, being careful not to squeeze the boy in your arms.

Simon wasn’t even sure why he was holding you, but there was a small voice in the back of his head telling him he needed to. “You didn’t tell anyone,” he had finally said, his voice straining to keep the emotions at bay. “I couldn’t,” you remarked in a whisper, “please understand why.”

Letting go of you, Simon side stepped around you and gently laid the balaclava over the curve of his gravestone, smoothing out the fabric. “Let me help take care of you.” The statement caught you off guard and as you went to say something, he stopped you by raising a hand.

“Just let me do this, for Johnny, for you, and for...” he continued, motioning a hand to the little one who was the spitting image of his father. “Please.” You could see the turmoil in his eyes. He had to do this, not for Johnny, but for himself.

“Okay,” you replied softly, your lips curving up into a warm smile. “John,” you said suddenly, your eyes still locked on the large dark ones that were still on yours, “His name is John.”

[lesbianalanwake]

Severance S2E3..... I'm chewing through drywall:

-- Natalie referred to the Board as "it"..... it? it??

-- speaking of that: Natalie? are you good?? how literal is the concept of speaking for the Board? Natalie??

-- Milchick packing away the box of paintings (and it doesn't quite fit.... girl....), and Cobel driving away from Helena's invitation to speak to the Board (sleeping in her car.... where is she driving to)..... obsessed with them and everything they do, actually. enemy of my enemy please god 🙏

-- Devon and Gretchen meeting the innie version of someone they love, and seeing how innocent/lost/earnest that person is, how they echo the person they know but less closed off and worn down..... Devon's face when she said Mark's a good egg, and Gretchen's face when Dylan G said he would make her proud..... oh I'm chewing through drywall AND glass. (the stark contrast to the contempt that Helena's father shows towards Helly..... ough)

-- the unhinged conversations between Cobel and Helena..... careful flat affect and measured tone while simmering with cold rage. makes me wonder if it's a "raised by Lumon" thing, which makes me wonder about Miss Huang and her impassive mannerisms..... Miss Huang get behind me. Dylan worrying about her.... 😢

-- Dr. Asal Reghabi's first in-person appearance: beat a man to death with a bat. Dr. Asal Reghabi's second in-person appearance: unsevered Mark's brain. what WILL she do next. how long did she work for Lumon? going to make a tentative guess that it might have been for quite some time, because she's got those funky off-putting ways of saying things, but she emotes a bit more than, say, Cobel. so maybe more of a Milchick type

-- Lumon wanting to edit Ricken's book.... trying to absorb and rewrite every part of the narrative in order to control it. a dumb out of touch self-help book, but it meant something in an environment stripped of most anything else, just like Miss Casey's "wellness" sessions meant something to the goat people. scraps of some kind of meaning, and now getting twisted and taken away. I am actually sick in the head over it

-- we have GOT to get a copy of The Body Keeps The Score down there to them next

-- that has to be Helena because 1) we don't spend time with her that isn't driven by another character, and 2) Irving's instincts. and girl must have studied the security footage closely because she's got a lot of Helly's mannerisms.... but not all of them, and so much of what she does is stilted or subdued. even the register of her voice isn't quite right. studying Britt Lower's microexpressions and body language under a microscope like who ARE you

-- Reghabi talking about 5 brain waves while the macrodata files emphasize the number 4..... chewing thoughtfully on it..... the input survey also has 5 questions. is this anything

-- also pondering how Reghabi says the only way for Mark to get information in and out of the severed floor is through reintegration. locked down tight with code detectors, and an afterimage is too ephemeral, but information is encoded within the brain, and that can't be locked down so tightly despite every effort to control it.... you carry it with you.... the body keeps the score

[stacygetsit]

Not an ask just more of how I have been feeling. I really don't know what to think about what we have been seeing.

Anon our Lukola ship is pretty small right now and that's fine those of us that are still on the ship are on it for our own personal reasons. We have decided to listen to our gut instincts. We also understand how many people view us and that's fine. One thing I understand is Hollywood and that whole industry doesn't run the way our everyday lives run. When we look at information most people are looking at it from their own experiences and understanding but Luke and Nic lives aren't like ours. So there is no way for us to truly understand. Personally I think what we are seeing is PR now I could be wrong but PR relationships have been around a long long long time. It's steep into the entertainment business and something that's natural. But us everyday people have a hard time wrapping our brains around the concept because we would never. But again they have teams of people that are helping them navigate this new world they are in.

NOTE: I will never tolerate hate. You comment will be deleted and you will be blocked. I may not like some of the player but I try very hard to not send or appear to dislike anyone.

[letmereedusyou]

i'm not yours - part 9

summary: Daryl and you are friends. He dated Leah. You told him you loved him and things fell apart. Will it ever go back to normal?

Daryl keeps looking for the clues connecting anyone to your beating incident, and you try to fix his vinyl player while he's out of the house. When he comes back you have a sweet conversation and finally go back to being friends again.

words: 2.8k

warnings: swearing, mentions of killing (walkers and people)

A/N: Hello, muffins! Here I am with another part. I checked for mistakes 3 times, but it seems okay to me. Again, English is not my first language so the errors will probably occur to the English natives. I can also say already that there are going to be 15 parts to this, so we have 6 parts to go! <3

Read previous part here!

Daryl visited you and took care of you every single day for weeks. It almost felt like nothing had changed between you two; like everything was normal again. But was it really? Or was it just a façade that you two put up so you didn't have to deal with the unresolved issues? You tried not to think about it too much and just enjoyed the fact that Daryl was close again, even though he wasn't very chatty these days. Maybe he's still holding a grudge about your feelings for him, or maybe he just doesn't know how to return to being your friend again. He would bring you new books and some comics to read, so you wouldn't get bored, but boredom got you pretty fast after reading your third book in a week. You started missing movies right about then. You thought about your favourite TV shows and how your family would watch them all together after dinner. Now, all you can do is push through with your memories of it and an incredible imagination.

He would cook for you, usually something simple and quick that you could reheat if you wanted to, before vanishing for entire nights, trying to find out who had beaten you up. You had your suspicions, but you didn't tell him about it. Why? You were scared of what would happen. The information, or rather a clue, would make him go into a fight mode, for sure. You knew him well enough to admit that. So you kept your thoughts to yourself.

That didn't stop him from continuously asking you about the details or anything you remembered from the fight. No matter how many times you told him that it was dark and you didn't see or hear them, as they did not speak, just occasionally grunted while driving their feet into your body. He kept asking and trying to make sense of who would want to do this to you. Your tongue itched with an answer. For you, it was obvious.

You were glad that he was clueless like this. Maybe he just didn't want to believe it or found it hard to create that type of scenario in his head. Maybe it was too much for him to handle right about now. You didn't blame him, he had a lot on his plate as of late - his best friend fell in love with him, his girlfriend broke up with him because of the best friend, and he has chores and duties in Alexandria that he has to do, even if he is tired and doesn't want to, and now he turned into a detective, trying to solve a case - all of it probably making a huge mess in his brain.

You busy yourself with some reading once again, but it was starting to get excruciatingly boring. How many times can you read the same plot in multiple books? Putting it down on the sofa armrest, you suddenly remembered that you still had Daryl's vinyl player that needed to be fixed. That would be a good distraction, you thought and slowly pushed yourself up. The pain was less prominent now, so you could move a little bit better, although Daryl would scold you for even trying. It didn't matter how many times you said you felt fine and walking and moving around didn't hurt much anymore, he dragged you back to the sofa every single time. This time, he wasn't here, so you could freely roam around for a while.

You step into your bedroom and open your wardrobe. Reaching up onto the shelf, you pull the vinyl down, alongside many different tiny parts in a white cloth bag. You also pick up your screwdrivers, glue and anything else you'd need before attempting repair. Once you got everything you needed, you took it to the living room and put it on top of the coffee table. Leaning down, just enough to not feel pain in your ribs, you examined the vinyl player. You were a good tinkerer and you had a good understanding of electronic shit, although the player was old which required some knowledge about old electronics. You didn't have that, but you decided to try anyway.

After hours of fiddling and fidgeting, glueing and trying to pull tiny bits apart and put them back together again, you sigh deeply realising that making that playing vinyl records on this thing is going to need more than just a couple hours of repair. You most definitely will need some help from Eugene, as he is the only person with enough knowledge about this stuff.

After another hour of carefully glueing the tiny, broken bits to the exterior of the machine, you feel drowsy and you close your eyes for a minute, just to rest them. Before you realise it, you start quietly snoring, a screwdriver loosely in your hand. Your mind is blank for the first time since the incident. You feel like you can fully enjoy some sleep. Using your brain for more than reading books was a good idea, after all.

Daryl's head started to hurt about two hours ago when he checked the path you were beaten up on for the bazillion times. He was trying so hard to find out who attacked his best friend that the rage of not knowing was slowly sipping out through his veins. He could've sworn there was a red, hot, bright aura around him.

He went to the place where she was beaten up, thinking that he would get some good clues - maybe a blood trail or some footprints, or maybe a goddamn piece of fabric that was tugged off of the aggressor's clothes, but whoever did this was smarter than that and cleared everything within a couple of miles radius, making sure that there was no way to track them. He felt impressed at how meticulously they'd worked to cover the tracks, but most of all he felt helpless and angry.

It's been weeks since he started looking and Y/N wasn't much help. She kept saying it was too dark to see and she didn't catch a glimpse of any of the people. It didn't help that they hadn't spoken during the fight either, because maybe if they did, Daryl could've track them by the tone of their voice, questioning everyone in Alexandria one by one. But since there were no clues, he had a hard time finding anything. It bothered him to the point he kicked and punched an innocent tree a couple of times.

He finally decided that it was time to go back and check on his best friend. He wasn't going to find anything anyway, so he may as well use his time to help her recover and get on their feet again. Frankly, helping her recover helped him relax, even after the hardest of days. He didn't speak much around her, his mind still recalling the fact that she was indeed in love with him, but he tried to move past it as best as he could. Nothing was more important than her getting better right now.

Besides catching the people who did this to her, and potentially beheading them.

When he opens the doors, the sound of her snoring comes to his ears and he can't help but huff a half laugh at it. He remembers the countless times they went on supply runs and her snoring attracted walkers to their location. He never told her about it, he just took care of the walkers silently.

He takes his crossbow off his back and leans it against the wall before walking into the living room. He stops in his tracks for a second when he sees what lies on the coffee table in front of her.

The vinyl player.

The same one that ended up being chucked out of the window by Leah when they had a fight a few weeks ago.

His brow furrows as he steps closer to the table. He realises that she must've been present when he and Leah had a fight. Has she heard them? What exactly did she hear? How did she end up at his house that evening? How did she get the vinyl player and why would she take it?

He looks at her, asleep with a screwdriver in her hand. She looks peaceful. The bruises on her face faded a little, changing colour from purple and reds to blues and greens. The cut on her lip was healing nicely, a scab was drying out. Her hair looked messy, brought up in some sort of ponytail, where many different strands were sticking out from the sides of her head.

He looks at the vinyl player again and takes another step closer. He wasn't paying attention to where he was stepping, in his confused and surprised state, and his boot kicks the coffee table, making one of the tools roll off and fall to the floor with a clash.

It wakes her up with a jump, and she rubs your eyes a little, trying to make her vision less blurry.

"Daryl?" her voice sounds groggy and faint.

"How did you get my vinyl player?" Daryl asks with no hesitation, the urgency in his voice is enough to make her come to her senses.

She looks at the coffee table and her eyes widen a little, like she was surprised to see the vinyl player too. But no, it wasn't surprise, it was... embarrassment. Like she got caught doing something she shouldn't. She keeps looking at the vinyl player and he can see her cheeks flush and uncertainty flashing across her face. She was definitely feeling the need to escape from the situation, but she knew there was no escape. All she could do was face it.

"I...I found it on the ground," her voice is quiet. When she looks at him, he knows the answer to the questions yet to come, but felt like he must ask them.

"Found it on the ground?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly did you find it?"

"Outside your house," she says, avoiding his gaze. Her cheeks burn a deeper shade of red.

"When?"

"If you are asking me if I've heard you and Leah fighting, then yes. I have," she says; a sigh escapes her lips.

The silence was deafening for good couple of minutes. Daryl decided to take a seat next to her, staring at the vinyl player. She stayed quiet, looking at it as well. He was trying to figure out how to ask more questions; how to prod about what she's heard... what she knew. His hand reaches towards the platter, dragging his fingers on top of it, feeling the cracks.

"I haven't heard much," she finally breaks the silence and he looks at her. "I left pretty much straight away."

"But you've heard something," he says slowly.

"Yeah," she licks her dry lips. "Is it worth getting into it?"

He thinks about her question. Is it? Is it worth it? Does he really need to know what she heard? It wasn't that important, Leah and him are over now. But part of his brain believed it was crucial to know. He needed that information, needed to know how much she knows...

"Yeah," he says slowly. "I want to know."

"Well, I've heard her screaming about me..." she starts carefully, biting the inside of her cheek. "Something about me knowing more than her."

Daryl looks at her for a second, maybe trying to gauge her reaction to it, or maybe he was trying to focus on anything else than Leah's words echoing through his mind. He knew that she indeed knew more than Leah, more than anyone ever. He felt the most comfortable sharing with her. He remembers all the times he opened up and it felt great to be heard and listened to, probably the first time in his entire life. Somehow, he knew she was the right person to tell things. Trustworthy.

Back at the CDC, when he first opened his mouth to share, he was nervous. What if she judged? But all of this melted away when she sat there, listening, nodding, not asking questions, just soaking the information in. Maybe it was the alcohol in his veins, but it made him want to open up even more, get the stuff off his chest. Once he finished, it felt... cathartic. Like he was lighter.

He looks up to her eyes.

"I also heard her saying that... you're not worth it," she added and looked away. He could sense her anger in the words spoken, spitting them out like they were acid on her tongue.

"Mm," he murmured quietly, looking away from her and at his boots. He doesn't get embarrassed very easily, and yet his cheeks seemed to burn a little.

Again, the silence resounded in the house, you could almost hear the buzzing of electricity from one of the lamps. Daryl couldn't look up. Leah's words seemed to be burned into his mind, slowly making him believe he is not worth anything. He started to believe he doesn't deserve good things in life.

"It's not true. Leah was wrong," she says, putting her hand on his knee and squeezing it tightly.

"And you say that as a person who's in love with me?"

"I'm saying it as your best friend," her words hit him like a tone of bricks and he finally looks up at her, eyebrow raised. "You are worth so much."

Daryl wants to believe her. No, he needs to believe her. For his sake, for the sake of his mental stability. He takes a few deep breaths and and then looks down at her hand on his knee. His hand gently places over hers and he squeezes it lightly. Her reassurance was everything. You could say the only opinion he cared about these days was her, even though they haven't been great friends for awhile.

He beats himself up for not reaching out sooner. He hated he fact he's lost her for so long, and lost himself in the process. She loves him. Yes, it is more than a friend, but ultimately, she loves him. For who he is. She never judged, never tried to change him or push him to do things he didn't enjoy. She's one person he always felt comfortable with. He still does, even after she told him she loved him.

He thinks back to the time and thinks about why he was so angry at her for that. She wasn't making moves at him. She just... shared her feelings. Angrily - that was an understatement - but still. He sort of understood why she'd blow up the way she did. He spoke about Leah quite a lot and thinking about it now, it may have been to convince himself and her that he was happy with her and he did love her. Part of him did love Leah. But maybe it wasn't as strong feeling as he thought it was...

"You okay?"

Her voice brings Daryl back. He huffs and nods lightly.

"Yeah. I will be," he says and his lips curve into a smile.

"I mean it, Daryl. You're worth it. And I hope you do find someone who appreciates you," her little smile makes him scoff.

"Someone like you?" he retorts.

"No," she shakes her head vigorously. "Not me. You made it clear it's never going to happen and I accept it. But I hope you find someone who can make you believe you are worth everything and more."

Daryl looks at her with a grimace on his face. He did say that, didn't he? He said that her and him will never going to happen. For some reason, her words made him feel sad, just for a second. He wouldn't have been able to register it if he wasn't focusing on it that much. He shakes his head.

"I've sworn off love and relationships," he leans back on the couch and put his head on the sofa back. "It's just going to be me, my crossbow and my best friend."

"Your best friend?"

Her smile beams from ear to ear and Daryl can't help but notice the shine in her eyes when he said it. Like she wasn't sure if he was serious about it. Like she waited months for him to come back, to finally be her friend again.

"Of course. Can't live my sorry ass life without ya," he sighs. "Who else am I going to tease and laugh at?"

"You mean laugh with?"

"That too."

She giggles and he realises how much he really missed her all these months. He missed her laugh and their banter. The way he felt so free around her. The way he knew she could tell him she killed someone and he would help her cover up the tracks. She was his best friend. And going back to being friends with her felt good.

[kinda-indecisive]

.⋅ ˚̣✧ :–⭒  Lingering Affections pt. I⭒–:✧ ˚̣⋅ .

How I imagine the guys would react to you (MC) surprising them with a kiss that lingers a bit longer than expected. I think this is pretty much fluff, but idk.

Part 1: The Xavier and Rafayel Edition! 

:✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧:

Xavier 

The two of you had stayed up later than you probably should have last night building plushie central station in the middle of your living room, making snacks, and having a sci-fi movie marathon. Xavier had talked more than usual during the movies, pointing out discrepancies in the time travel plots and chuckling at things that he thought were ridiculous. You pretended to be annoyed, but couldn’t help but giggle along with him.

This morning, however, you’re exhausted.

Scooting over to flop down across his chest, he seems startled to find you’re awake, laying his hand across your back.

“Ah, I hoped that wouldn’t wake you,” he says, and you hear the frown in his voice before you lift yourself up to look at him.

“I heard your hunter’s watch go off. What is it? Do we need to go in?”

“There was an attack just outside of Linkon. They randomized those with days off today and I got called in. I should get ready.”

Disappointment fills you to the brim. A convenient part of having Xavier as your boyfriend was having someone who understood your job. But that was also a downfall on days like this, when your plans got canceled because of some stupid Wanderers.

You grunt in response, several plushies falling to the wayside as he sits up.

Sinking back into your cushion, you toss Fairymare a dirty look as Xavier stands and heads to your bathroom. The sound of the shower almost lulls you back to sleep, and when you open your eyes again, Xavier’s hair is slightly damp. He stands in your kitchen holding a barely thawed-out breakfast pastry between his teeth as he fidgets with the refrigerator door.

He still looks half asleep as he grabs a chilled green tea from the fridge and leaves.

Forcing yourself out of the blankets, you push your sluggish brain to function as you enter the kitchen yourself. The more awake part of you wants to make Xavier something with a little more substance before he goes, as he probably just went to his room to change.

Setting aside a pot with a scorched bottom, evidence of his attempt at boiling noodles to make spaghetti last night, you locate a pan and decide a simple ham and egg breakfast kimbap should be good enough.

When he returns, he’s a fully dressed Hunter and you are wider awake than before.

“That ham smells delicious,” he hums, walking into the kitchen beside you.

You gesture to the top shelf, “You have two options, pack it up for later or wrap it up to eat it on the go. Either way, you know where the containers are.”

He muses to himself for a second before deciding on a small container with chopsticks.

“I’m going to offer to help later today, though. I just need to get ready first,” you inform him as he packs up.

“I knew that was your plan all along. Linkon City is lucky to have such a dedicated Hunter,” he smiles softly, heading toward the door. You follow behind him and he stops, his box in his hand as he leans down and places a kiss on the top of your head, “Thank you for breakfast, partner.”

He starts to straighten up when you start pouting, gesturing for him to lower his head again. He frowns slightly, his head tilting as he begins to ask what’s wrong, only for his eyes to widen in surprise as you tug him toward you and bring your lips to his.

The kiss, soft and warm around the edges, lingers as Xavier seems to melt against you, his grip on his breakfast faltering. You don’t linger too long, though, since there is a Wanderer emergency out there that demands Xavier’s attention. Be that as it may, when you separate, he looks at you with those beautiful, soft blue eyes and dark lashes and you wonder if you made a big mistake.

“I don’t need to go into work today,” he nearly whispers.

Giggling, you take a step back, folding your hands behind you, “Yes you do! They need you out there.”

“Okay,” he says, surprising you with how quickly he’s become obedient, “I will go and eradicate all of the Wanderers so I can return to my partner as soon as possible.”

:✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧:

Rafayel

Rafayel listens to the conversations of the others backstage with a bored expression, his shoulder against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest. Having rejected several of Thomas’s pleas to attend this event in the first place, you fully expected a pouty fishie when he finally caved and agreed to show up. But clearly you underestimated just how pouty this fishie would get.

Glancing over as you approach, he shifts his weight back onto both feet, accepting the glass water bottle you hand him between three fingertips.

“At least you care about me, cutie. I’m absolutely parched and Thomas was going to allow me to walk out there under those vicious heat lamps without a single sip of water? How cruel, even for him.”

You shake your head, resisting a smile at the sound of his grumbling, knowing he is only partially serious under all the dramatics.

“Thomas does care about you, Raf. He’s just super busy. You know he has another client here today who he has to deal with.”

He takes a long gulp of water as you speak, his eyebrows furrowing at you in the meantime. When he finally lowers the glass, he grimaces.

“Don’t stick up for him and his negligence. He abandoned me here and left you to deal with the consequences,” he says, tugging at his tie, exasperated by Thomas’s audacity, “Ugh, how do people not suffocate with these collars on?”

“Just take it off, I don’t know why you put one on in the first place when you never wear one on a normal day,” you instruct, reaching up and brushing his hands aside so you can loosen the tie yourself. Feeling his eyes on you, you continue to work without looking up, “And I don’t know what ‘consequences’ you’re talking about. It’s going to take more than one grumpy fishie to scare me away. Or did you forget that I hunt Wanderers for a living when I’m not being paid to follow you around everywhere?”

Tugging on the end of the tie, the smooth fabric slides off his shoulder and into your hand. When you finally look up at him, he has a faint smile in his eyes.

Clearing his throat, he blushes softly and looks away, toward the clock that continues to count down to his introduction.

“Yeah, well…” he says, and you realize you’ve just encountered a rare treat: ‘speechless Rafayel’.

“Yeah, well…?” you tease, causing him to flush even deeper. 

He shakes his head as if trying to snap out of a spell.

“I guess I’m lucky I have such a capable bodyguard,” he chuckles, brushing deep purple waves of hair out of his eyes with his fingers. You know he can feel you looking up at him, but he continues to avoid your gaze, “I’ll make it through this little soirée all because of you.”

“I’m happy to help,” you chirp enthusiastically, causing him to look at you with a curious expression.

He doesn’t say a thing, but his eyes seem to be speaking at a million miles a minute and you just can’t look away.

“Mister Rafayel, you’re on in less than a minute,” a stranger’s voice breaks the magic you were under and Raf looks up, giving the man a brisk nod.

“No delaying now,” he flashes a smile and leans down to give you a swift peck of a kiss on the lips. However, still feeling the affect of whatever had been drawing you toward each other just moments before, you gently catch hold of his collar and keep him close. Pushing up onto your toes, you deepen your kiss and feel him lean in, hearing his sweet, contented sigh.

Only when you hear the ten-second countdown begin do you part.

“That’s me,” he breathes, then smiles, “You really know me well. I feel like my heart is singing.”

“Go on, then,” you say, giving him a nudge toward the stage.

He takes his cue perfectly and you hear his voice echo through the suddenly cozy arena. Reaching up, you place your cool hands on your warm cheeks. Feeling bubbles of euphoria rise up in your chest, you allow them to rise out of you in a blissful giggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zayne and Sylus Edition coming soon!

(and maybe Caleb if I can get a feel for him before posting idkidk I don't want to write him too OOC!!)

Will update this post with a link in this section when it is added. Let me know if you wanna be tagged on the next post of this same scenario :)

MY LOVE AND DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST

[opashoo]

Do you have any advice on how not to get so overwhelmed when it comes to conlanging? I get overwhelmed way too fast with the information I read on the conlang subreddit David j Petersons book I have or YouTubers I just get burned out.

I start out on my phonological sounds and sometimes I add a new sound or get rid of a few I find unnecessary phonotactics is where I end up getting stuck/frustrated and stoping completely. I don’t know why but my brain just cannot compute when it comes to phonotactics no matter how many videos I watch of people explaining it or looking through Wikipedia just doesn’t register in my brain. I’m assuming this is happening because I’m autistic which is even more frustrating I’m so slow when it comes to learning or I end up comparing myself to others for understanding/learning things faster than me. I get motivated to make a language and then I get overwhelmed it’s just a repeat cycle to the point where I just want to give up. I’m not even sure if it’s possible for me to make a conlang at this point. And then I stumble across something I never heard before from someone else said and I stress about that too and I constantly worry I’m going to make a conlang I spent so much time on only for someone to point out that it’s a reflex and I need to scrap the whole thing and start all over :(

So I have two big pieces of advice that have helped enormously with this sort of thing and they are to work small (the big picture will come together) and to know your goals. It's gonna be a lot so I'm putting it past a readmore. I also talk a bit about my own project, but it's all the way at the bottom.

First, focus on one thing at a time and take small steps. As your familiarity with your own work grows, the bigger picture will start to come together, just focus on one thing at a time.

If there's a linguistic phenomenon or grammatical construction or concept or something that you want to explore but you don't understand it entirely, then just focus on that for a while. I like to make toy languages, really, really small and simple conlangs with extremely simply words and sounds that are meant to focus specifically on one or two concepts at a time. I don't worry about anything else but those concepts; no phonotactics, no worrying about how pretty or ugly the language sounds, I don't worry about naturalism or sound changes, I don't focus on any of these things unless those things are what I'm making the toy language to explore.

My current project, Yongasabi, has a consonantal root system inspired by Arabic, but understanding the concept in a satisfactory manner where I felt confident including it in a project that I plan on publishing took actual years. I made three separate toylangs, one of which I revised and overhauled three times before eventually using that as a basis for Yongasabi. I needed that time and work to focus on absolutely nothing but sound changes and how a system like this evolves in natural languages. While I was playing around with sound changes in one toy language, in another toy language I was also trying to figure out how a system of derivation like this could into systems of nouns, adjectives and verbs. I did not focus on anything else with those toy language but those core concepts because to do any more would be overwhelming and confusing.

It's the same when you're working on a more complete language project, you build it little by little. Focus on one aspect at a time, one concept at a time. As you become more familiar with your own work and you use and apply it, you will start to see the things that work and the things that don't, and you'll be able to make decisions accordingly. It'll happen over time, but you have to avoid stressing about the whole thing.

And if there's something causing you trouble that's stopping you from making the language, there's no one stopping you from avoiding it until you're ready. I never actually properly wrote down Yongasabi's sound inventory, assimilations, and allophones until the grammar document was at 204 pages because I hate working on that stuff. :huntershruggy: That's usually the first thing a lot of people like to work on for some reason, but I hate it and I just went by instinct for 204 pages and five months. If I let that stop me, I never would have made any progress. There were some things I had to go back and update because of it, and that took extra time, but extra work with progress is better than no work and no progress.

Second, understand your goals.

A piece of advice I got from David Peterson's videos and several other conlanging youtubers is to know why you're making your language and what your endgoal is. As long as you understand what your goal is, you can prioritize and decide what steps you need to take to get there. You need to understand what you want or else you'll never be able to work towards it, and you reduce the chances that you'll be happy with it.

For example, I've known some conlangers whose goal is to make some kind of secret, diegetically constructed language for a fictional setting, or maybe a secret language to use with their friends, but they get caught up on rules of naturalism and worry about naturalistic development. You don't need naturalism if the point of your language is that it didn't develop naturally. That's just a waste of your time.

Conversely, I've known some naturalistic conlangers who feel obligated to add every new concept they come across with the idea that "Well if it evolved in a real world language, then it must have some use to real speakers and thus belongs in this language" but they miss the point that a natural language doesn't need to contain every naturally developed phenomenon. In the end they're left with something bloated, hugely redundant, and incredibly disappointing to them.

I've also met conlangers whose goal is to make a naturalistic conlang for a fictional setting only to be hugely dissatisfied when they follow the rules of naturalistic development and it makes a language that doesn't sound the way they want, or it doesn't evoke the feeling they want, or they find that their progress is unnecessarily bogged down by learning rules they find boring, because they don't actually want a naturalistic language, they want an artlang that services their story.

In all of these cases, the authors of these conlangs didn't understand their goals. They did work they didn't like to make end products they were dissatisfied with because they failed to meet their real goals. These goals can shift over time, but in the end that's fine as long as it makes you happy. You need to be making your conlang for you and your purposes! You say that you've gotten stuck on phonotactics and that's stopped you before, but Yongasabi doesn't even have phonotactics outside of literally one single rule, and it's that there can never be more than two consonants in a cluster. I hate working with phonotactics too, so I made my language in a way that let me minimize that work. It doesn't interfere with my goal so I'm totally fine with that.

I know this is a lot but it really does boil down to those two points: work small so that you don't get overwhelmed, and know your goals so you can set your priorities. My goals with Yongasabi were:

Make a language that allows me to explore this fictional culture I made for the slugcats of Rain World

Derive sounds from Mongolian, Korean and Filipino (And a little bit of Vietnamese)

Explore grammatical concepts that I find cool from these languages and others (My main focus was converbs and agglutination in tandem with a consonantal root system, but in general there's a lot of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean in the grammar)

Make sure I like the sound of the language

My main guiding forces were:

Have a rough basis in naturalistic sound changes, but if it leads to sounds or situations I don't like, change it; the readers won't notice because they don't see the development process

If something starts to feel weird or stops fitting in with the rest of the language, don't be afraid to change it or get rid of it entirely because that in a way reflects organic change in the language (and extra work for progress is better than no work for no progress)

If there's an opportunity for the culture to express itself in the language, take it

If you want to judge how well I've realized those goals, you can check it out here (I'm making this post free to reblog unlike the last one because the link is hidden under all this text and 1st edition release is super close anyway I am so excited).

Anyway, good luck! I hope my advice helps!

[somecosmic-typashit]

╔══ஓ๑°๑ஓ══╗

⋆ ★ 3D and 4D reality ★⋆

There's only one of the two that

is more real than the other.

- January 18th 2025 (Rework)

╚══ஓ๑°๑ஓ══╝

To immediately get to the straight point. 3D/physical realm doesn't exist, it's illuminated film or show that comes from 4D/our imagination. You can compare it to hologram or the eyes, because the pictures/video can't be generated without camera & information, or let's just say source. Our subconscious and inner world is more like projector, while the the huge screen is "physical realm" with different channels you can choose to watch (the reality we create with our imagination).

Holography is a technique that uses light to create 3D images. It works by recording how light waves interact with each other. When the object wave is generated by light scattered from an object or a series of objects, a real image is formed on the opposite side of the hologram plate to where the object was located and is deflected from the normal axis by twice the angle between the reference wave and the normal direction.

When light hits the retina (a light-sensitive layer of tissue at the back of the eye), special cells called photoreceptors turn the light into electrical signals. We typically think of the mind as a camera. We take in the world via our five senses. These electrical signals travel from the retina through the optic nerve to deliver them to the brain which interpents the data. The visual cortex is made up of specialized neurons that turn the sensations they receive from the optic nerve into meaningful images. -----The occipital lobes sit at the back of the head and are responsible for visual perception, including colour, form and motion. Direct electrical stimulation of the occipital lobe produces visual sensations. The brain (projector) turns the signals into the images you see. The projected image in the back of our eyes is actually upside down, it's our brain that decodes this image so that we perceive it the right way up.

This reversal of the images that we see is much like a mirror in a camera.

It's literally how "3D realm" works. Everything you're "seeing" right now, doesn't have to be the way you see it. Why? It's all a mirror of who we are, all of this is happening because you gave awareness and attention to it.

The universe is quite literally the YOU-niverse. You create the universe, you create reality for yourself by observing it, not seeing it with the eyes, but your imagination, nothing exists unless you make it to be and all you see is what your mind is able to comprehend. Reality is observation. That's why things you focus on the most come to you, including the fears, including the negative things. Everything you're seeing, doing, feeling and hearing right now is just electromagnetic feedback, which draws out conclusion that you're in your body. But you're not really here, because it's all a hologram and because you wanted to feel like you're really here, you set your mind to everything you're experiencing now.

Your consciousness stimulates nerves and nerves trigger reaction like pain and touch, you assumed you'll feel something before even touching something, right? It made you "feel it". All of this, objects, people, surroundings, your body and senses. The whole world is in your consciousness. It doesn't go other way around. We exist in a totally self-made and self-projected reality which we consider real. And as long as we are locked into the self-made and self-projected reality, we do not even have a chance to realize who we truly are and what this all is. The external world we see and experience is the product of our “inner world", since our subconscious minds take everything literally, it doesn't know difference between illusion and what's real yet it's always active, yet it controls most of of experience, it's active even when you're asleep. What you tell it and feed it with the most, it shows you exactly that.

Denying it denies your power, in literal sense.

[green-square-anon]

@staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty Sanguinius becoming a prostitute to fund his meth addiction (Love that sentence) was supposed to be part of the original post. I was gonna add something about how it was supposed to be funny but got sad. But then the post got too long. (Our harlem? Space harlem? Fuck if I know. Maybe that face is some time travel induced brain damage. Or maybe that's just the great methamphetangels face when he hasn't gotten that Zaza in a while or when he gets it) I'd also like to inform the unaware that the Gabriel from Mandela Catalouge is in fact, an angel. With wings. They just weren't shown.

Hey...

Did you guys know Sanguinius canonically got tempted to step into a Slaaneshi coffin that would corrupt him in exchange for curing his sons of the red thirst?

Guess what would have happened if he did.

Tell me promising to cure his sons of the red thirst only to give him a crippling addiction making him a shell of his former self isn't something Slaanesh would do. TELL ME.

Fuckers got the white thirst now. Or blue. If the warp can send Sanguinius to Harlem it can definitely send him to the breaking bad universe. There's a crack fic plot for yall.

Watched the Mandela catalog months ago and damn,

Sanguinius really went downhill after he started doing meth.

The entirely of the Mandela Catalouge is just Sanguinius in a universe where instead of the red thirst he is undergoing severe methamphetamine addiction.

Worse yet the only reason I remembered this again was because I was on the know your meme page for that harlem meme and saw this (in which he hillariously looks even more like Sanguinius), so I guess the great methampethangel became a prostitute.

[thevioletcaptain]

dear fellow nandermo fans please accept my nonsense-but-also-100%-real theory that nandor started writing a letter to "guillermo" but got nervous because he noticed people paying attention and changed it to "guide" at the last second ✌️😌

[butwhatifidothis]

Still baffled that Hopes so blatantly wrote Claude as the typical Evil Vaguely Middle Eastern Man set on destroying the Good White Nation for his Evil Vaguely Middle Eastern Nation that is often seen in fantasy settings - complete with him being seen as worse than a white woman who does many of the same evil deeds he does in-verse, even by his friends (should it be the bad ending route of SB) - and so many in the fandom were so eager to gobble that shit up. INSIST that "Clearly A Racist Stereotype" is LEAGUES better than "Subversion Of A Racist Stereotype" even. Like I don't think I'll ever get over how supremely fucked that is

[crescentfool]

having the hc that minato is ace is incredibly funny sometimes when you think about how ryoji is oh so very bi because it's like. "ah. death stole my ability to be attracted to people," in the same way that ryoji stole minato's eye color and energy level. like wow, thanks ryoji, you just keep finding things to steal from minato!

[icewindandboringhorror]

Everytime I face a new character limit on a website that didn't have them before/used to have really long ones... AUGHHhhh the modern social media world was not made for people like me (lovers of details, rambling, elaboration, thorough explanation, and nuance)

[apologetic-artist]

Okay, random headcannon and lore tid bit for the people on my space ship:

Tony is afraid of dinosaurs. One of the biggest reasons behind this is that when the "experiments" were happening, he accidentally traveled way too far back in time and witnessed a T-Rex in person, towering over him. It took her a bit to figure out how the whole time travel thing worked and swore she'd never step foot into the Cretaceous, or any time with dinosaurs, again. It's a shame Colin is a dino nerd(in my cannon), huh?

So this means Tony probably has a deathly fear of Barney the Dinosaur(this is for the funnies, but it makes sense, trust)

Also, I'm making a dinosaur oc, so I fear Tony's gotta figure out how to deal with those creatures again.