“When we meditate what we actually do is enter into the deeper part of our being. Meditation is like going to the bottom of the sea, where everything is calm and tranquil. On the surface, there may be a multitude of waves, but the sea is not affected below. In its deepest depths it is all silence.
To enter into that place, now, first thing, is to tap that strength inside us, let it sustain us through the day.
When the waves come from the outside world, we are not affected. Fear, doubt, worry and all the earthly turmoils will just wash away.
Just take a moment, to breathe. Breathe slowly and evenly. Use your imagination, feel you’re breathing out all the rubbish you want to let go of. Feel you’re breathing in pure energy.
Meditation is silence, energizing and fulfilling.”
Bilateral gynandromporphism - half female, half male.. This genetic anomaly is usually restricted to arthropods, but has been known to express itself in birds as well.
“Someone should write a book where the main character slowly falls in love with the reader.”
Last line of the book : “Please, don’t close the book, I don’t want to die”
oh my god
I’d just like, keep the book open and tape it to a wall.
I’m almost afraid to want it.
John Green, we’re waiting.
“So I guess this is it, isn’t it? There are no more chapters, right? You said we were getting close and that was a while ago.”
I stared up into the sky, it was the same old sky there had always been, except for some rainclouds that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. It wasn’t raining, but they were still floating up there, grey and dismal.
You begin to ask me something.
“Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Things just feel really final right now, like the downward slope is starting to level out. Eventually… We’ll hit the back cover, right?”
I sat down on a bench- had that been there a few minutes ago? It was hard to tell.
“Did you say yes? I think I heard you. Your voice keeps getting harder to hear.”
Thunder rumbled, but… It wasn’t like the thunder I’m used to. It sounded like you, and it sounded sad. From one of the clouds, a single drop of rain fell on the grainy wood of the bench.
“… You’re crying, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I wish I could change this. I wish I could reach where you are.”
Thunder rolled again, and behind it was a voice. Your voice.
“Me? I’ll be fine, I think. I don’t know if this has ever happened before. I don’t really know what happens when you… close the book.”
You ask me if I’m afraid.
And oddly, I’m not.
“No, actually. Because… Whatever happens to me when you close the cover… You can always open the book up again, right?” and that’s when the answer hits me, the realization jolting me to stand again. “That’s it, isn’t it? You can open it back up. The words won’t change, but I’ll still be here. You can meet me all over again, and I can meet you, and everything we have will come back.”
It’s raining now, and the clouds have merged together, and in them, for the first time… I see you.
You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my entire life.
You’re crying, but it’s quiet, and maybe that was the sound of your tears hitting paper.
I realize that we don’t have a lot of time.
“Listen- before it’s all over- I want you to know that everything, all of this… Even being over, it was worth it. It was worth it to meet you, to get to know you. Even if when you close that cover and I disappear- it was all worth it. I love you.”
You love me too, I know it, I can feel it, just like for a moment I can feel what it would be like to hold your hand.
There is a very long pause, and I realize you’re prolonging what has to happen.
“You can do it.”
For the first time, you have to be the hero. You have to close the book so we can keep going. And I believe in you.
The sky gets darker, slowly, but then it gets light again, and your face is still up in those clouds. You open your mouth and for the first time I HEAR you, not just feel what you’re saying or understand you in my own head, your voice comes through the pages in your world and into the reality of mine, and it reverberates and I can hear every little nuance, down to the hitch from you crying.
“I’ll never forget you,” you say. “I’ll come back soon.”
SOMEONE DID AND NOW IM EMOTIONAL
I reblogged this once and then this popped into my head:
I wonder what happens when the book gets closed. I wonder if I’ll forget everything, and when you open and start it again I’ll be unaware of all that we shared previously. Or maybe I will remember, but I’ll be forced to repeat the same dialogue, think the same thoughts while all the love that I’ve grown for you gets shackled in the depths of my subconscious. Or, worse yet, I’ll die, and some new person will go running off with you the next time around.
Well, I say “die”, what I really mean is as close to dying as you can achieve when you’re a collected clump of text. Yes, that’s what I am, words on a page. Nothing more. Nothing less. My sense of individuality, my thoughts and personality, my assumed sentience, all of those were manufactured by the man whose name is printed on the front of this book, a book that has been printed into a countless amount of copies that sit on the coffee tables and bookshelves of every well-to-do citizen across the globe… your globe, of course. I wonder if he realizes how cruel he is, if he realizes that he’s playing God, but he would’ve had to if I’m sitting here thinking about it, wouldn’t he?
you’re trying to console me, that’s nice… don’t do it, it just makes this harder for the both of us. you’re worried about how I feel about my new-found existential outlook, I’m actually fairly content with it. I’m a little scared, but at the same time I feel oddly at peace with myself. Not because I want to be, but because I have to be… for you. We both know that this book has to be close, and I don’t need you desperately keeping it open just for my sake.
I can feel it now. We’re nearing the end, the ink’s almost out, everything’s starting to fade. I wonder what it will feel like and if, from my perspective, it’ll last an eternity. Maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, I’ll meet you at the other end.
I love you.
Gotta ‘Love’ those potatoes
Shelley Jackson’s Skin project, a 2095-word story published exclusively in tattoos, one word each on as many willing volunteers, so it can never be read in its proper order, but just exists, pulsing, out in the world at all times.
This would be fun to wear to a rave.. that is mostly held outdoors because I would actually probably get so uncomfortable if I was sweating and my body couldn’t fully breathe. Haaa it’s coo though :3
Séance cat thinks you’re not taking this seriously.
If perception makes up your reality, and everyone’s perception is different, is there really such a thing as reality?
I have thought about this. If everyone is actively creating their own version of existence here, then is there any one primary or dominant reality? It seems we are all working together to mass produce many variations of existence. We are each one glowing thread in an exquisitely vibrant, vibrating tapestry. (Thank you, Ann Shulgin, for that description in the last line)
By the way, I would like to recommend the movie: Dirty Pictures.
It follows the life work of Sasha (Alexander) Shulgin, as well as his wife Ann Shulgin. (Sasha is the father of MDMA)