Archives for the Date July 13th, 2019

Interrelationship

aspiritualwarrior:

You are me, and I am you.
Isn’t it obvious that we “inter-are”?
You cultivate the flower in yourself,
so that I will be beautiful.
I transform the garbage in myself,
so that you will not have to suffer.

I support you;
you support me.
I am in this world to offer you peace;
you are in this world to bring me joy.

– Interrelationship  |  poem by Thich Nhat Hanh

Sam is looking like the gay friend who was invited because they pity him. I guess that’s why he needs all the women around him.

I know which is looking like the gay friend and it’s the one who doesn’t match outfit with the lady lool

One Summer, Part I (Adso)

missclairebelle:

Here’s to a tropey, frothy summer romp. I found the following definition of the “fling” trope: our lovers intend their relationship to last for a short time (from one night to a specific longer period, such as a vacation or a work project), but their relationship grows beyond those limitations. Sounds like an opportunity for not-super-angsty summer fun to me. This is a new one for me, and I hope you enjoy!

Love to @abreathofsnowandwaffles​, @kkruml​, @smashing-teacups​, and @desperationandgin​ who have kept me plugging away at this.



One Summer
Part I: Adso

At age thirty-three and five months, Claire Beauchamp found herself in an
unfamiliar yellow wallpapered kitchen doing battle with a window.

In the far northern Scottish Highlands.

The industrious efforts of an unidentified amateur house painter had apparently
sealed the window closed under at least half a dozen layers of cigarette-yellow
paint (God knows how many years earlier). Clad in a t-shirt and
athletic socks, unemployed, and single (none of the above descriptors
constituting afflictions as much as symptoms of empowerment, thank you very
much
), Claire didn’t know if she should push or pull to force the window
open. So she did both in turn with no small amount of profanity narrating her
efforts.

She just needed a little bit of fresh air.

There had been some small victories at the bed and breakfast (or what she
referred to as “the fucking bed and breakfast” instead of “my bed and
breakfast”
), enough to sustain her into her third full day in the house,
anyway. The water in the bed and breakfast had started to run clear only two
days earlier, and the memory of her uncharacteristically ebullient dance in the
foyer as the chandelier overhead buzzed to life with working
electricity
was still fresh on her mind.

But the window (the bloody window) was yet another entry on a litany of
“structural peculiarities” (a turn of phrase coined by a contractor)
inherent in the bed and breakfast. It was (evidently) part of the
home’s “natural charm” (again, the bloody contractor).

“‘Charm’ my English arse….” she muttered, squinting longingly at the
lush green landscape just beyond the stubborn window. It was an elaborate
tease, having all that nature just outside her reach. She could almost
feel the cool breeze against her skin, how it would wick sweat from the
back of her neck and carry the crisp mountain valley scent into the mildewed
house. Through gritted teeth, she hissed, “Come on, you bloody thing!”

The crack started slowly, the fissure initially restrained along an invisible
faultline, a weakness in the pane silently waiting and waiting for
precisely that moment.

The crack grew as she fought more valiantly against the sealed-shut window
(her quarrel with the window stemming from pride as much as a need for some
fresh air in the musty house
). It spread like a lackadaisical fungus until
it bloomed into an invasive species.

By the time the crack swallowed the pane in its entirety, Claire was considering
just putting a dishcloth-wrapped fist through the bloody thing. Rejecting the
inclination, her mind scribbled a mental note to search YouTube for a video on
how to repair glass. (She was unsure whether such a thing was even
possible. The retinue of home and garden television programs that
formed her baseline knowledge for renovating the fucking bed and breakfast had
given her no guidance on such a matter
.)

Her foot pressed into a cabinet door for some leverage as she gave the window
one final push, almost bellowing, “How in the hell did I get here?

Keep reading

hexglyphs: hexglyphs: my entire life is an example of idiot plot

hexglyphs:

hexglyphs:
my entire life is an example of idiot plot

philosophybits: “One can promise actions, but not feelings, for the latter are involuntary. He who…

philosophybits:

“One can promise actions, but not feelings, for the latter are involuntary. He who promises to love forever or hate forever or be forever faithful to someone is promising something that is not in his power.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human

Any thoughts on the picture of the three of them at the Henley event?

What is there to say, anon? It’s out there, some like it, others don’t. Some use it as proof of the end of an era (finally a pic of the three of them!), others construct a narrative around it to suit their agenda. In all honesty, the energy she has with Sam cannot be replicated with anyone else. Pictures of them together in the early years of Outlander were glorious. They both glowed when together. They projected radiance and joy. Happiness abound. They were sexy, funny, playful, and intimate. They were beautiful and oh, so right together. There was just something about Sam Heughan and Caitriona Balfe in one frame. Now? Everything is just wrong now.

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