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rhysismydaddy · 4 years

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After Midnight pt. 1 (Feysand)

Synopsis: After a tumultuous, heartbreaking relationship, Feyre Archeron turns to online dating for a break from normalcy. Or rather, to Velaris Nighttime Ventures, the most exclusive, high-dollar escort system around. She needs to ease back in to intimacy, so this seems like the perfect idea. But what happens when her escort turns out to be someone she can’t get out of her head? Someone who seems to understand and appreciate everything about her?

My many disclaimers: Stole a line in here from The Hating Game. And one from ACOTAR obviously. And the story line is loosely based off of The Kiss Quotient. Basically, I’m a fraud.

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~Feyre~

If I told any of my friends I’m about to hire a hooker, they’d laugh themselves silly.

And, to be honest, the idea is a little ridiculous to me, too.

I’ve never had a problem getting a date in my life. Brownish blondeish hair, blue-gray eyes, and an athletic build give me slightly above average looks. A lucrative job makes me financially sound and independent. A lifetime with two sisters gave me a sense of humor.

I’ve dated prom kings, nerds, and everything in between. I’m completely normal.

Or at least I used to be.

After everything that happened last year, I don’t know if that’s true anymore.

My therapist tells me constantly it’s okay that my last relationship changed me. And the multiple degrees on her pretty green wall tell me she knows what she’s talking about and that she’s completely correct.

Even if... even if it doesn’t feel okay.

Even if I can hardly stand looking in a mirror or being hugged or someone giving me a compliment.

Even if I haven’t felt like myself in so long, I don’t even know if I’d recognize it if i did.

Because while I used to love putting makeup on, choosing a dress, and going out, the thought now fills me with so much dread it makes me nauseous.

What if I just make the same mistake as last time?

My sister's told me my whole life to guard my heart, but I always laughed it off and said she was being cynical. And what do I have to prove it? Trust issues and a standing appointment Dr. Motley.

Men don’t deserve my trust. At least not right now.

But... it’s time to move on in the physical sense.

And since running the risk of taking home the wrong man scares me shitless, I’ll start with someone who can’t reject me, can’t make me feel worthless.

Someone who won’t develop feelings for me or get attached and demanding. Someone... who won’t mind giving me control.

A hooker.

Or escort, like the Velaris Nighttime Ventures website says as I scroll through pages and pages of profiles.

Gods, this is more stressful than my first gallery opening.

All the profiles include is a picture, probably-fake name, height, an age, and a simple sentence about them.

It feels creepily similar to online shopping. And there are so, so many options. How the heck am I going to choose one?

Scrolling down further, my eyes roam over men of every skin tone, age, and height. I don’t have any real preference, but decide I need to have a few ground rules, otherwise this will take forever.

Age? I’m twenty-seven and don’t have an interest in being a cougar, so I set the range from twenty-eight to thirty-five.

Height? At 5′6, I’m not exactly tall, but I’ve always found men who were more attractive, so I shrug and put the minimum at six feet.

Pressing enter, I watch the website sort, then look at the number of men left. Thirty. Not bad.

Scrolling through slowly, I realize it’s kind of like a yearbook for an all male college or something.

A college full of really sexy men.

I pause on a few, but something about them make her keep going. I want the complete opposite of my ex, so any with features like him get eliminated.

Eventually, I get to the last row, feeling a little dejected.

But then I see him.

His eyes seemed to pierce through the screen, and once I see him, I can’t look away. Without another thought, I click on the profile.

The name under the picture reads Rhysand. No last name, probably for privacy purposes. He’s a few years older than me. And tall--6′3 tall. But that isn’t what draws me closer. It’s the sentence he’d written.

To the stars that listened -- and the dreams that are answered.

My fingers ignore the rational part of my brain and click the button to book an appointment, and before I know it, I’m looking at a confirmation page.

For tonight at midnight.

Oh gods.

~Rhysand~

After working at the bar for a few hours, I head back to my shitty apartment to get ready for tonight’s appointment.

Someone has booked me for an “evening of adventure and pleasure” as the confirmation email tells me.

Wonderful.

All I know is her name: Feyre. It doesn’t sound like an old-lady name, so there’s that.

Those are the worst. It feels like fucking someone’s grandmother. Not that I’d know, exactly. And I mean sure, most of my clients are older. But there’s older, and then there’s old. Fine line between the two, let me tell you.

Most of the people who hire me are in their forties, trapped in miserable marriages, and desperate for a decent lay. They’re also filthy rich, because I’m not cheap in the slightest.

It’s why I’d agreed to this shit in the first place.

Yeah, I have to psych myself up and sleep with a random lady, but the pay is killer. And the more money I make, the quicker I can stop.

So I shower and go through my pre-appointment routine, trying not to think about what’s become of my life.

There weren’t any special requests on the appointment, but the meet was set for a swanky hotel downtown, so I put on a dark suit and white dress shirt. My hair doesn’t need much work, so I leave, figuring I’ll get there early.

The drive over’s quick, and soon I’m walking inside and sitting at the bar. She has my picture, but I don’t have a clue what she looks like, so she’ll have to come find me.

After a few minutes, someone settles next to me, and I turn around with an expectant smile.

But when I see who it is, I stop. And hating myself more than I thought possible, I tell the woman, “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”

Which really fucking sucks, because she’s beautiful as hell.

Smooth skin, dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and kiss-me lips kind of beautiful.

She gives me a strange look, then says words I’d never expect from someone like her. “I’m Feyre. I’m the... client.”

The way she cringes on the word tells me it’s her first time doing something like this, and the thought makes me a little too happy.

I know I should say something to comfort her, but all I can think is... she’s definitely no grandma.

~Feyre~

He keeps staring at me for a few more moments, then smiles and says, “Sorry. You’re not what I was expecting.”

I nod, then realize I have no idea what to say. Or do. Fuck, this is weird. “Do you want a drink?”

Rhysand shakes his head, then says, “Feel free, though.”

That’s the first good idea I’ve heard all day. After ordering from the bartender, I turn to the man next to me and smile sheepishly. “I don’t really know how this works. It’s my first time with... this.”

“I figured.” He’s turned toward me, one arm braced on the bar. “You can have your drink, and we’ll go upstairs when you’re ready.”

A nervous laugh ebbs out of me, and I blush. “Okay.”

Gods, am I really going through with this?

I mean sure, he’s hotter than all hell, but he’s a prostitute.

Would you rather invite a random man home with you? the bitch that lives in my brain asks with a knowing smile.

I ignore her as a drink’s set in front of me, finding it helps a little. The man next to me just watches, face a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Somehow, the photo didn’t do him justice. He’s ridiculously attractive, with dark hair, almost violet eyes, and tan skin. There’s a hint of stubble on his strong jaw, surrounding the sensual mouth that’s currently smirking at me.

I’m definitely attracted to him, but this is still weird.

“So, why are you doing this?” he asks as I drink. “If you don’t mind.”

I’m sure as hell not telling him the truth, so I say, "I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

Rhysand smiles, and it only makes him more attractive. “Fair point.”

Then he looks me up and down, raises his dark brows, and asks, “Ready?”

Not in the fucking slightest. “Sure.”

By the time we reach the elevator, I’m practically shaking. Telling myself that I can do this--that it’s what I want, for gods sake--doesn’t really help. But I don’t say a word as we glide up, then walk to the room I’ve rented for tonight.

When we get inside, I avoid looking at the bed as I turn to him.

Rhysand smoothly takes off his suit jacket, then leans against the wall and crosses his ankles. “You seem nervous.”

He certainly doesn’t. Every move he makes is smooth and easy, like he’s so comfortable in his body he doesn’t ever get nervous or self-conscious.

Must be nice.

“I do?” It’s a deflection, and we both know it.

“You’re shaking like a wet dog.” My nose wrinkles at the analogy, and he grins. “A very cute wet dog.”

I told myself I’d be alright, but now that I’m alone with him, I realize I’ve told absolutely no one where I am tonight. And if things go wrong... I start pacing. “I’m, uh... it’s just... nothing. Let’s do this thing.”

I should write sonnets.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say a word as he walks to sit on the edge of the bed. Feeling like the biggest idiot in the world, I sit next to him.

“Why don’t we just take things slow?”

Thank the gods. I nod.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, using manners I definitely hadn’t expected but much appreciate.

I nod again, trying to keep my hands from shaking.

Rhysand raises a hand, but I swallow and push down the flare of panic as he cups my jaw and tilts my face to his. Then he leans in--keeping his word and going very slowly--and I brace myself as his lips brush against mine.

My body doesn’t exactly know how to feel when they touch. On the one hand, a very handsome man is kissing me. On the other... a man is kissing me.

I ignore the second thought and kiss him back.

His lips are silky soft against mine, slowly urging them open, and then his tongue is in my mouth, caressing mine. Everything’s slow and sensual and practiced.

And even though it’s a picture-perfect moment, it feels like that scene in the movie where the dumb blonde goes down the dark hallway while the entire theater screams at her to run.

Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

My brain’s playing me a repeat of the last year on fast forward, and I press my eyes closed to try and block it out.

I’m fine.

Rhysand leans into me, and then I’m on my back with him hovering above me, still kissing me. His surprisingly muscled frame is heavy against me, pressing me down into the soft sheets, and his elbows are by my head.

Nothing’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong.

I take a quick moment to remind myself that if this had happened a year ago, I’d probably have wrapped myself around him and let him do whatever he wanted.

But the past twelve months weren’t just a bad dream. And the band-aid protecting the stupid, naive girl I used to be from the harsh realities of the world has been ripped off and torn to bits.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

His head snaps up immediately, and violet eyes gaze down at me, full of concern. A weak hand comes up to press against his chest, and he sits up immediately. “Feyre? Are you okay?”

I shake my head and practically roll off the bed onto the floor. It’s completely undignified, but I don’t care. My lungs are on fire, my throat tight with the tears I’m barely holding back.

I have to get away from him; I have to get some space.

My back hits the wall, and I curl into myself, pressing my forehead against my knees.

Breathe, Feyre, breathe.

The silence in the room is broken only by my gasps, and I focus on the sound, letting it remind me that I’m here, that I made it out.

I don’t let myself think about the other person in the room. It’s just me, and I’m fine. I made it out.

There’s scratchy carpet under my legs, a wall behind my back, and more than enough air in the room.

Eventually, my brain catches up with the obvious, allowing oxygen to fill my chest. I’m gulping down breath after breath until my heart rate finally starts slowing down, and it’s only when my head stops feeling fuzzy do I open my eyes.

Rhysand sits on the bed, beautiful eyes wide, watching me.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Gods, he’s probably uncomfortable beyond belief. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, cutting him off and shaking my head. I know I should get off the floor, but my legs feel like jello, and I don’t want to crawl around again. “I, um...”

The words to explain the panic don’t come easy, but he stays silent, giving me time.

And because I’m a coward who still can’t admit what happened to me, I repeat the words my therapist suggested I try.

“I have problems with intimacy.” It’s hardly a whisper, but I know he hears it. “And, um... I thought it would be easier with someone like you.” I flinch at my own words and try to make it sound less offensive. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay, Feyre. I understand.”

Tears burn the edges of my eyes, but I force them down and steady my voice. “You can go. There’s money on the desk.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you like this. Unless I’m the reason.”

“No, it’s not you,” I assure him. “You’re great. I just have a hard time relaxing with- I mean around-”

“Men,” he finishes quietly.

And even though I didn’t tell him, he looks like he can read the words off my face. Rhysand doesn’t say another word, but his eyes are understanding and calm.

He extends a hand, the silent invitation clear, and for some reason, it makes me smile as I slowly get to my feet, using the wall to support me.

Walking over, he takes my hand in is, and I notice how rough his palms are. Before I can wonder what he does to get such big callouses, he takes my other hand and places them on his shoulders.

“You’re in control. There are no expectations with me.” The words wash over me, settling in, and my heart slows down a bit. “If you want to kiss and call it a night, we can. It’s up to you.”

For some reason, hearing that he doesn’t care helps. It’s the reason why I chose this, I guess. I’m the client, and I’m in control.

Finally feeling calm, I slowly run my hands over his shoulders, down his arms. He’s heavily muscled, but it’s smooth and lean, not bulky. From a physical life, not from hours spent in a gym.

I can see the faint lines of tattoos beneath the shirt, but I don’t move to unbutton it.

His eyes stay on me, and I meet them as my hands drift to his face. The stubble I’d noticed earlier is rough against my fingers as I trace his jaw, then the strong slope of his eyebrows.

It’s been a year since I touched a man. Longer since I did so this... leisurely.

My hands find their way into his dark hair, and I smile at how soft it is. His head tilts back a little and his eyes drift close. I don’t know if he’s putting on a show or actually enjoying this, but he seems calm at least.

And I think... I think this could work.

Working on my intimacy issues with him could help fix me, maybe even get me ready for a real relationship.

So I lean in slowly and press my mouth to his.

Like he said, I’m in control. While earlier had felt like being kissed, this feels like kissing. I move my mouth slowly over his, tracing the curve of his lower lip softly.

He really is a beautiful man.

And patient, too. He’s extremely patient while I take my time learning the shape of his mouth, then the angle of his jaw. He stays still, eyes closed, letting me explore.

I slowly drift back to his mouth, and when he eases his lips open, I meet his tongue with mine. It’s slow and light and just enough to make me want more.

My breath comes shorter, but it isn’t in panic.

Taking his hands from the bed beside him, I place them on my hips. His fingers flex, but they stay exactly where I put them, even as I wrap my arms around his neck and press a little closer to him.

We’re still just kissing, but I feel it in my entire body, all the way to my toes.

I pull back and take a deep breath, not knowing how to put what I want into words without embarrassing myself. Bright violet eyes meet mine as Rhysand runs his tongue across his lower lip. “Just say it.”

How can he read my face so well after just an hour of knowing me?

“Lean back,” I say, my face warm with a blush. “But don’t turn us over. I can’t... I feel trapped.”

Rhysand just nods, gripping my hips tighter, then lays down with me on top of him. My chest is against his, my legs resting in between his. It’s the closest I’ve been to someone in a long time, and I wait for the panic to set in, but none comes.

“You okay?”

A small part of me wishes he wouldn’t be so damn understanding and nice. It’s making me feel so incredibly stupid, even as it warms my heart.

I nod, then put my head down against his chest. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?”

Looking back up, I meet his eyes hesitantly. “You’re probably so weirded out by me. Paying you just to come make out like teenagers.”

He smiles, and it makes some of the nerves untangle. “Silly woman. I could kiss you all night. You have the most delicious mouth.” He leans in and kisses me, as if to prove it, then makes a deep humming sound.

“That’s absurd,” I mutter, even though I feel a lot less anxious now.

Rhysand shakes his head, then says, “You taste like fucking candy.” His arms loosely wrap around my waist. “Tilt your head to the side and I’ll prove it.”

I do, and his mouth meets my neck, slowly but in a way that makes it feel like I’m being devoured. Tingles shoot down my body as he sweeps my hair off my neck to get better access, and a soft moan escapes me as he sucks on the spot between my shoulder and neck.

He pulls away enough to say, “You have a really sexy moan, too.”

My face goes scarlet, and he grins up at me, then we’re kissing again. Gods, the man can kiss. He’s letting me control everything, but it’s obvious he’s good at what he does.

Even though I’m almost delirious with lust--something I haven’t felt in a long, long time--I know this is enough for tonight. I’ve already had one panic attack, and I don’t want to push myself too hard.

So I pull back and tell him, “You can go. I don’t think... this is good for tonight, I think.”

“I feel like you’re not getting your money’s worth if I leave now,” he says, and if I could’ve sworn I hear a hint of sadness in his tone.

I shrug, not telling him the money for tonight was nothing to worry about. Instead, I just slide off him and stand up, straightening my shirt. “It’s was more than okay. Seriously. Thank you for being so understanding.”

Rhysand rises fluidly and grabs his jacket, then turns to me. Before he can speak, I say, “I actually wanted to talk to you about another appointment.”

After an awkward pause, he says quietly, “I don’t really do... repeats.”

“Oh.” There’s no way to hide the disappointment in my voice.

I’d thought that I’d be able to work with him slowly. Build on what we did tonight. The thought of having to find a different man and explain why I’m so emotionally stunted... shit.

What if I freak out again, in front of someone new?

Gods, no wonder he doesn’t want to come back. He’s already had to deal with an hour of my trauma. Who would ever sign up to do it again? I’m damaged goods.

“It’s not you, I promise. I’ve just had a few clients get sort of... attached. So I made a policy to not meet with women more than once.” He sounds nice and apologetic, and it grates my nerves a little.

Rejection is rejection no matter how you look at it.

And no matter how fucked up I am, I don’t need anyone’s pity.

But, like a big girl, I smile and nod. “I get it. It’s fine. I’ll find someone else. Your money is on the table.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Find someone else? What do you mean?”

My eyebrows fly up at how shocked he sounds. He just saw firsthand how not okay I am, and he’s surprised?

“I mean that I’ll find someone else. I have intimacy issues, and I need to work on them. I understand completely that you’re uncomfortable with that, and I’ll find someone who isn’t.”

There’s a flicker in his jaw. “And you’re planning on using the website for this someone?”

“It’s really none of your concern.”

“Feyre, there are some not so great people on there. You shouldn’t use-”

My patience snaps. “You have absolutely no right to lecture me. You don’t want the job, I will find someone else, since it’s such a goddamn burden. Now thank you very much for tonight, but you’re community service is done. You can go.”

There are too many emotions on his face to process them all, but I definitely register shock.

“I promise it isn’t about you, okay? You’re great. Hell, I’d want to sleep with you even if I wasn’t getting paid. But I have a policy, and-”

“Like I said, I understand. You can go now.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t use the site to find another guy.”

There’s something about the command in his voice that grabs every last thread I’m hanging by and rips them free. I march over to him and jab a finger into his chest. “Do not tell me what to do. Ever.”

Rhysand eyes narrow, but it isn’t in anger. It’s like he’s looking at a puzzle, and he just figured out the piece he’d thought would fit won’t. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

I remove the finger-gun from his chest, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he catches me completely off guard by saying, “I’ll do four more appointments.”

Rolling my eyes comes a little to easy. “Don’t do me any favors. I’m not your goddamn charity case.”

“No, because if you were, you’d probably be a little grateful.” Whatever retort I had planned dies in my throat. “But it’s not pity. I don’t want you getting hurt by some other guy from the site.”

There’s enough genuine concern in his voice for me to believe him. And the last thing I want is to put myself in danger.

But I still ask if he’s serious, because to be honest, it sounds perfect.

If I can fix myself in six appointments.

That’s a pretty big if.

“Yes, seriously. But I’m going to charge you more, and we can only meet here.”

I shrug because I sure as hell wasn’t about to invite him to my place. And unless he’s planning on charging enough to buy a house, it should be fine. “Okay.”

He glances at me, then down at himself, like he’s suddenly aware he’s still standing here. “Okay.”

And just like that, I’ve hired a hooker.

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Part 2 is here because I have no self-control. Let me know in the comments/my box if you want to be tagged :)

@trinitybailey2003 @zukos-simp @cursebreaker29 @sjmships @starrynightsbooks @lovemollywho @januarystears @perseusannabeth @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#feysand #feyre archeron #feyre #rhysand #feyre x rhys #rhys #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight

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blackmagicservicesinindia-blog · 7 years

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spiritual-doctor4u · 5 years

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BREATH OF LIFE - DEEP & LONG

BREATH OF LIFE - DEEP ONES EQUATE TO LONG LIFE

DEEP BREATHING MESSAGES THE INTERNAL ORGANS

It is the primal wave movement. The source of this rhythm lies in the swelling and receding of the motions of pelvis & abdomen. Breathing is a global body experience. Every breath massages all the internal organs for good health automatically. We feel the body through the medium of breath. Listen to your breathing and know who you are. Inhabit your body with full awareness. Entering stillness within the breath. Observe how the breath is inside the breath Pause & be still. Inhalation is born out of this stillness and exhalation returns to this stillness. Allow yourself to become luminous stillness. Soul shining star. Witness thoughts from this stillness, & you will get to peacefulness. The capacity for aliveness & pleasure permeates every cell.

OXYGEN LOADED BREATHING ALWAYS HEALS - PERSONAL ICU

History of breath gives us the knowledge of our childhood wounds, trauma, fears & chronic insecurities. We must open up to these & consciously breath them out. Don’t wait for the crisis to change your lives. Hurry up sickness, is an epidemic these days. Make choices, slow down, spend time lavishly, then you will have more of it. Healing with the breath is an ancient art lost in time. Affirm loudly that each breath is transforming me into thine image of purity, perfect happy soul.

FEELING AT HOME WITH EVERY BREATH

What we are and what we wish to know are not separate. It is the same thing. The finger pointing at the moon. We are awakened consciousness. The very nature of the breath arising from within us announces this message over & over again. Celebrate your own homecoming. Mindfulness is to mind the breath, is to decide, that this very moment is yours to own it. To extricate self from the past & pull of future, gradually come to peace with ourselves, one thing at a time with full attention. When not at peace, we feel righteous anger, a justifiable disappointment. Solution is to be choice-less.

INTIMACY THROUGH TOUCH OF BREATH

Marriage of two psyches, two histories, two perspectives, but one relationship can be infinitely complex & potentially confusing. We are wedded to the living pulsing life force in your beloved & everyone else. This natural cycle, where sexual desire waxes & wanes like the cycle of moon, allows us necessary periods of solitude, self reflection, and regeneration to make deep connection with self, the soul. But we are trained for scheduled performances. Choose mindful spontaneity consciously. Hugging is redefined for your benefit. How much of your body & self you make accessible to the other partner. Intimacy is touching from inner body. Allow feeling parts of ourselves. They remain untouched & disconnected from their lovers, a complete sense of alienation. Try touching with soft organs, circulating fluids, the breath that moves through all these, the heart beating, lungs inflating & deflating, feel how your partner yields to you, where you open up, & surrender to her, where you hold back. Lovemaking is letting go. The greater the effort in all parts of the body, the more blocked will be the fragile wave of sex. Pause and feel the breath soften. Simply follow the natural flow and melt into sleep.

MEDITATION WITH BREATH - PRANIC BREATHING

Meditation based on breath. This is my first breath in, inhale fully deeply & hold. That is my last breath out, breath out fully & hold again. Live as if it is the last day on earth. Watch the parade of jumbled & negative thoughts dancing on the screen of your mind. It does not mean renouncing all the things one enjoys. Rather you are renouncing true pleasure & delight by being mind-full of every breath. Instead of working from rigid assumptions base, we start to take bearings from the reality of present. Cultural & social forces that are holding us hostage at the end of our lives, we may stand baffled that we have striven so hard & so long for things we never wanted in the first place. It is a myth of successful person. To be someone and get there, quickly, anyhow, madly rushing through life. It is surely a mirage.

NYASA DHANA - THE ART OF TAKING CARE WITH MEDITATION

The aim is to channel Pran Shakti into 26 points sequentially for 20 seconds per point. Breath in, hold for 20 seconds or more, chant mentally – OM CHITANYA CHITANYA SWAAHA slowly, exhale breath. Reflect on these 26 points with colored air & suggest activation of consciousness has emerged. Repeat the exercise twice ascending first then descending order.

POINTS IN THE BODY: total 26

Soles, Calves, Thighs - in pairs

Genital, Navel, Heart

Lungs, Palms, hands, shoulders. – in pairs

Eyes, ears, eyebrows – in pairs

Neck, Mouth, Nose.

WITHOUT LUNGS & THEIR FUNCTION OF PURIFICATION YOU WOULD BE DEAD IN MINUTES

THE ART OF LIVING - BY HEART & LUNGS

The art lies in understanding the secrets of long healthy life, disease free living, and absence of old age complications. The top secret is to live by HEART and not by head, as we normally do. What is your heart? It is a mechanical pump which has a very small horse power, yet very powerful one and a complex maze of pipelines and valves. In short it is the most sophisticated hydraulic system ever in the world. The length of our arteries, veins and capillaries is so huge that they can go around the earth once. Imagine thousands of kilometers of microscopic pipelines being pumped with a very advanced fluid, called blood, 24/7 without ever stopping or shutting down for maintenance. Five liters of blood keeps circulating through very thin capillaries tubes all day long with full force of 120 systolic / 80 diastolic, mm Hg.

ANCIENT METHOD OF MEASURING BLOOD PRESSURE

In olden days around 1847, blood pressure was measured by inserting into the artery, a glass capillary tube which had to be at least 7 feet high to offset the force of the pumping heart, with calm emotions inside you. In angry moments, the blood pressure shoots up so high that the doctors required a 14 feet high glass tubing to offset the increased force of the poor heart. You can visualize the damage occurring inside the heart, when you get mad with anger and revenge over trifles, over false sense of perceptions of Family Honor, and verbal castigation's on intangibles like religion, which of course is concocted by man with Stone Age intelligence.

INTELLIGENT REUSABLE FLUID

This also implies that the fluid called blood has to be of low viscosity, like water and easily flow able at all times of your lifetime. But that does not happen. We are so busy chasing valueless stuff, money, cars, houses, possessions, false images, temporary fame, name, that we forget to drink enough water and hydrate ourselves to keep the blood thin and flowing easily. So what happens is just the opposite. The persistent neglect, of hydration month after month and year after year, gets us dehydrated heavily, making the blood thick and sticky, just like honey. It refuses to flow. Also lifetime of unhealthy eating, bad habits, and shallow judgments makes our blood highly toxic, very viscous and thick additionally.

HEART IS A TINY PUMP

What happens is pretty easy to tell? A small pump with a low horse power is pushed to its limits to keep pumping thick, toxic, sticky blood through 1,60,000 km of pipeline without stopping. Remember that you would require many times higher horse power to pump a liquid into microscopic pipelines or tubes. This small heart of yours has to pump and push even harder to get oxygenated blood into those microscopic capillaries embedded deep between layers and layers of fat. The heart muscles get fatigued very soon and give up on you. Consequences are deadly or near fatal. The heart pump gets over loaded with all the extra work to be done. The heart muscles become over worked and fail. The result is heart failure or cardiac arrest. The heart is crying out loudly, “I cannot go on any more, I am sorry.” The pump motor has ceased and you are deceased. In short you killed yourself. I call it suicide: A slow silent deliberate killing. If you do not die of cardiac arrest then you are sure to die of cancer, because the blood cannot get into those fine capillaries, and they start to wither away, atrophy and turn cancerous.

BLOOD - CARRIER OF OXYGEN & LIFE

The second function of the heart is to pump the dirty, sticky, toxic blood into the lungs to be cleaned up and made pure again and again. Blood is a reusable hydraulic fluid. The lungs are a wonderful marvel of engineering. They have a capacity of holding 5 liters of air in every breadth. Yes exactly 5000 cubic centimeters of oxygenated air. The surface area inside the lungs is 2500 square feet, equal to the area of a lawn tennis court.

AERATION MIRACLE

Here inside the lungs the dirty blood full of dead cells, toxins, carbon dioxide, monoxide, and no nutrients comes in contact with the air we breathe in. So much blood is exposed yet not a drop spills or leaks out. What amazes me is the fact that blood does not clot up in this area? If you cut yourself, anywhere on the skin, the oozing blood comes in contact with the same air and clots up immediately to help you from bleeding to death. Your blood contains an important lifesaving chemical called clotting factor. It is very vital for our survival in times of accidents and fights.

This way it gives out all the toxins and absorbs in the oxygen and nutrients and becomes fresh and pure. The Hemoglobin gets saturated with oxygen and thus travels to the brain and other organs in the body. It is a pure engineering marvel and cosmic miracle. If the cells do not get oxygen, they become sick and die. When the brain does not get oxygen, it mal functions and creates further problems for our body. We are oxygen loving bundle of bacteria. We function best when the breathing is at its highest point, just like when you are making love to your mate.

That’s why they say breadth is life. When you are hardly breathing or breathing in a very shallow manner then disease sets in and death is imminent. Finally when you stop breathing, you are deceased or dead. But again we lead meaningless lives, preoccupied with television, computers, video games, working, worrying for small stuff, studying, and all these activities which force us to breathe in a very shallow manner.

MANUAL BELLOWS

We inhale just 100 to 500 cc of air in every breadth compared to the capacity of 5000 cc. Imagine human beings using only 10 % of their lung capacities. The lower 40% capacity inside the lungs is never expelled out. It stays inside and causes local pollution in our blood. The residual air is the primary pollutant. The upper 40% of extra air of our total lung capacity is never used up. We never breathe in or inhale this part. Hence by and large most of us operate between 40% - 60% range and less. This is very poor performance on our part. It does not make sense if you work hard, make lots of money, eat richly, dress lavishly, but have dirty toxic blood running in your arteries. Does it make any sense? NO! Never; hence be aware of the delicate internal world, instead of being foolishly aware of outside worldly stuff. It does not help you in anyway.

MOUTH OR NOSE BREATHERS

How you breathe is another big factor in your survival. We are normally mouth breathers, taking in all the dust, microbes, and pollutants. The cold dirty air hits our throats and larynx, causing it to dry up in the process. Nature gave us a nose for a reason. We rarely use it fully, and if we did we would benefit tremendously. The nose heats up the incoming air, cleans it and by passes the throat area. But you got to be first conscious of this fact then and then only it becomes possible. A clean nose is a prerequisite, which is a rarity. Nose has another very important function to play when we inhale. The nitric oxide gas producing glands work only when we use our noses. This gas is fully soluble in blood. It helps dilate the microscopic capillaries and allows the blood to reach the smallest crevices in our body which are buried deep under the layers of fat. When this does not happen, the cells atrophy and die and cancer starts to build up. It is all in your hands, or in your nose power to live incrementally or die slowly. Nitric oxide gas very cleverly interacts with oxygen radicals to form Metabolites that destroy pathogens inside our bodies.

HOMES ARE GAS CHAMBERS

Living an oxygen starved life is the starting point of most of the diseases, sickness, and poor health. We further complicate matters by living in closed, fully sealed, air tight houses and offices for at least eight months in a year if not more in cold regions of the world. Everyone knows that the inside air is 100 times more polluted than the outside air. We make our houses air tight basically to keep the cold part outside, but this way we keep the oxygen out too. Hence our homes are more of gas chambers, heated though. We also take pride in sharing the little oxygen trapped in the house with our beloved pets, cats and dogs. So we end up inhaling, breathing stale air, full of carbon dioxide and monoxide. We are wrongly programmed to additionally light up Tea-lights in our gas chambers to use up the balance quantity of oxygen left behind. In World War II, Hitler exterminated millions of Jews by putting them in toxic gas chambers. Today, we are killing ourselves by living in our own personal “GAS CHAMBERS”.

LOVING HEART

There is yet another function of your heart. Can you guess this one? It is an important function and you know it from day one. It is LOVE. We are all love products. When two people, our parents made love, we were born. In the initial years, we get so much love that you cannot measure or keep track of. Both parents shower love on their children initially. Latter on things go wrong and we start replacing love with material things, toys, possessions and other loveless pursuits. Then more things go wrong and we are loaded with hate & hatred. To get back into ‘love mode’ we have to again start loving ourselves first.

Love our bodies; love our selves correctly, and intelligently. If I come to your house and ask for a glass of water, how can you serve me a glass of water when your own pitcher or fridge is empty? So, the secret is to love yourself enough, and fill up your “pitcher”. When you are totally filled up with love then and then only you can love another person.

Today when you tell a woman, I love you; it sounds hollow, its meaningless and a false promise. Absence of love brings in all the other terrible negative EMOTIONS which cause havoc in our bodies. These emotions disturb the delicate balance of hormone production and cause cancers, diseases and death. There are 200 varied emotions and corresponding 200 diseases. People who love themselves truly, do not smoke, drink alcohol, or over eat, and remain vegetarians by and large, eating salt and sugar in moderation only. Food does kill and heal as well. Today we even conduct our jogging, exercises and work outs in indoor gymnasiums, sharing the polluted air. This is how we make the dirty blood dirtier, defeating the purpose of exercise. How is government’s health care plan going to help you, I wonder?

WATERY VENICE - INSIDE OUR BODIES

Our body is unique, like the city of Venice, where the highways for all movement are watery. In Venice we have complex interconnected systems of channels, canals and parking lots, all made up of water and water alone. If the water level in this maze was to go down by a couple of inches the water taxis, boats and canoes would get stuck in the sand and traffic come to a halt. If the water was allowed to thicken up by pollution then again the traffic would be affected badly, just as it happens in our bodies.

DRINK BUT DO NOT DILUTE INSIDE

Prevention is better than cure. Drink lots and lots of water. At least four liters of water per day: But, not with meals or food. If you do, then you dilute the digestive juices and acids. These enzymes, juices, and acids are required in the full strength to break down the food you eat, quickly and effectively. But when you consume water or other liquids alongside with food you are upsetting the chemical balance, inside the stomach. The human body is basically an alkaline body. Maintaining the correct PH is of prime importance. If you keep the alkalinity between 7.4 and 8.0 then you can expect to live longest. Cancer cells cannot survive in an alkaline and oxygenated environment.

Water is retained by the human body as follows: 66% inside the cells, 26 % outside the cells, and balance 8% in our blood. Water is badly needed by the body to wash away the dead cells, toxins, and other pollutants.

WATER AS A SOLVENT FOR SOLUTES

Water is required to back wash the salts deposited in the stomach lining. Water is needed to manufacture complex hormones, by your glands in the body. Therefore drink lots of water before meals. Water is required to keep your blood fluid and flowing. Water is required as a solvent to regulate all solutes and functions in the body. Enzymes work more efficiently in solutions of high viscosity. The preferred ratio is 25 % solute in a solution.

Water is needed to replenish the winter steam, the moisture that escapes from your blood stream with every breadth. A small clot, a microscopic obstruction or buildup in the arteries could be fatal.

Water is also needed by the intestines to keep the waste products wet and moving easily. Any stoppage in this section is very harmful. The sewage system of the body starts to seep into the blood stream, causing you to be sick and dead eventually.

Rohit Khanna - IN-DWELLER

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yourmanjume-blog · 6 years

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black magic specialist in Tirupur

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black magic specialist in Tirupur

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clubofinfo · 7 years

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Expert: In exile at St. Helena, when asked about his dishonorable treatment of Toussaint, Napoleon merely remarked, “What could the death of one wretched Negro mean to me?” The Black Napoleon, or that’s what former slave Toussaint L’Ouverture was called. Get this, historians – the leader of the only successful slave revolt in modern history in effect defeated the genocidal white trash that is part of France’s legacy. Haiti – that French colony, and he was the son of Gaou Guinon, an African prince captured by slavers. Sent to that white French genocidal colony of Saint Dominque. Toussaint, born May 20, 1743, under the Code Noir, that black code that legalized all the harsh punishment (treatment) of slaves. Property. L’Ouverture was allowed unlimited access to a library of the manager of the Breda plantation. His godfather was a priest, Simon Baptiste, a kind fellow who taught the young Toussaint to read and write. I’ll come back to L’Ouverture in a minute, first moving to a new friend, Toussaint Tyler, named after L’Ouverture. Mr. Tyler and I met recently, coming into the office at my day job as social worker for homeless folk, stuck in a system of addiction, criminal charges, mental health challenges. Portland, Oregon, and Mr. Tyler and I are quickly brothers in arms, looking at our six decades on Planet Earth as one of struggle, triumph, exasperation, recrimination, rejoicing, repulsion, anger, happiness, and revolt. I am more settled into my anti-Capitalist fervor than is this man of god, myself having declared anarchism and socialism and communism as the only way out of this warring white Capitalism that has decimated tribes and cultures and entire races of people. Early in my scattered life. My friendships with men like Toussaint Tyler, Sr., are based on deeply held respect for the individual coursing through capitalism’s hall of horrors. Mr. Tyler, homeless, in a shelter, introduces me to his older brother who had just gotten out of prison, 25 years straight time. His brother is the gifted and focused one in the family. Mr. TNT Tyler says his brother, who was just released from McNeil Island Corrections Center in Pierce County, Washington, is the smartest and ablest fellow around, who entered into a life of crime ripping off rich folk and faced the music here in Oregon with some hard-hard time in prison in Washington. Where his brother learned the law, learned his own new mission in life, and who is now more than just an inspiration for Toussaint. Toussaint Tyler, once the leading rusher as fullback for the University of Washington Huskies. He was born in Barstow, California. His nickname was TNT Tyler, called one of the greatest fullbacks in Husky history. Punishing running style and bone-crushing blocking. We are talking about a 58-year-old man who has seen the gridiron since age nine, a man today who is forgetful and now homeless, who has been couch surfing for years, who once had glory and wives, and who is now awaiting a brain scan, ordered by the National Football League. TNT and I talk about the Will Smith movie, “Concussion,” a flick Tyler saw when it came out two years ago. “Man, I just started crying when I saw my life in many ways depicted on the screen.” This is the rotten NFL, the elite owners, the chosen few paper jockeys and lawyers and MBAs, who watch mostly people of color slam bodies and craniums into each other for a multi-billion dollar entertainment industry akin to Roman times gladiator exploitation. Enslavement. Boys hitting each other in Barstow or Compton or Baltimore or Toledo. The NFL, a non-profit shit-storm of Predatory Capitalists using the dumb-downing of America to fill stadiums, land TV/Cable contracts and sell the junk of faux celebrity. Tyler had his own trading card with the New Orleans Saints. Tyler traveled the country and the world as a football hero. Over six feet two inches, 240 pounds, a hard-hitting man who has admitted to more than a dozen concussions. He’s been in and out of recovery – pain pills, cocaine, opioids, and booze. He was riding a wave of limelight as a former player in the NFL, including the Saints and Minnesota Vikings . . . decades of Traumatic Brain Injury depression and outbursts of angry, physicality. I run my life around narratives, around the people who have intersected with me as dive master, photographer, journalist, teacher, social worker, traveler, and activist. His story now, after my sixty years on planet earth, hits me hard – heavy on a personal level, both positive and negative. Exploitation of the black man by the elite, by the worthless white men in suits and ties, those golf-loving whites, the money men, the tribe of shekel collectors, the very tribe of men who that mythical Jesus Christ went to town on upsetting the money changers’ money tables. Harvard, Yale, law schools of the elite, MBAs from large Division One schools, running poor whites and blacks and Latinos into the ground, to the grave, through the psych wards, under the belly of the beast of drug addiction, homelessness, and the halls of criminal injustice. Tyler tells me about his father, an amazingly talented man, self-taught, who was a lightweight boxer, who had seven kids. Mother who worked for the government. Their United States of Israel roots not from California but from Arkansas and Baton Rouge. Tyler traces his African roots to Sierra Leone. “I never understood why I was crying all the time, and depressed.” He has had a knee replacement. Tyler shows me both wrists – big surgical scars from massive fractures from defenders slamming helmets and face-guards into his body. “I am beat-up, for sure. I forget things. The NFL knew in 1954 that head trauma from pounding gridiron players hitting each other caused permanent brain damage – shrinking, permanent atrophying of parts of the brain, a sloshing of parts of the brain.” This is the American way – full-throttle exploitation, on the field, in the workplace, in neighborhoods. The elite, polluting cities, our air, the water, our children’s minds, the dreams of adults, and the hopes of the aged. We are one giant Trumplandia Casino Capitalism Continuing Criminal Enterprise. Signing our death warrants. Tyler, lasting four years in the NFL, and ending up as a juvenile detention officer for King County (Seattle), working with 12 to 17 year olds locked up in a county lock-down facility. He was in his addiction then, as a county official, and he worked hard on gang-prevention and working with troubled youth in King County, Washington. Tyler today continues to talk about living a lie most of his life – chasing women and fame, drugs and money. “I didn’t need football to make it in life,” he says. He is so sure that youth should not be playing football until their brains are fully developed. Tyler tells me that he was at Roosevelt High School in Portland recently, and saw a little kid, an eight-year-old, laying on the ground, crying about his head hurting after taking a hit on the football field. I’m glad my sons didn’t play football. If I could do life all over again, I would have never played football, gone into basketball. One son, Toussaint Tyler Jr., played college basketball for Central Washington University. A story was written up about the sixth man for the men’s basketball team, Mr. Tyler’s son. Tattoos all over his body – rib-cage, wrist, knee, shoulder. Each inscription plays a significant reminder to TNT’s son about where he comes from, where he is going and where he doesn’t want to go: • Me Against the World • Respect Few, Feat None • Family Forever • Brotherhood • Only God Can Judge Me • Tha Truth • All Eyez on Me Toussaint Tyler Sr. is talking about the class action lawsuit against the NFL, a party of over 22,000 claiming NFL negligence, asking for money to cover years of drug abuse, psychiatric breaks, incarceration, broken marriages, failed relationships, split-up families, and internal anger-confusion-dementia. These white so-called leaders, elites going to their elite children’s Christenings and Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, going to their dear children’s graduations from elite universities, law schools and business colleges, they are demons, felonious, as criminal as criminality can come, laughing all the way to the bank, living it up in their five homes each, jet-setting the globe with the blood and brains of the real workers, the real heroes, wiped all over their zero escape clause contracts. All those One percenters and their Little Eichmann agents and riffraff controlling the lives of the sacrificial lambs. Sure, we can Google (another massively screwed up project of control run by another set of war-loving elites) Toussaint Tyler and see he was the only one in pro-Football to knock out Lawrence Taylor. Sure, Toussaint is gunning for getting onto various boards – Urban League, YMCA, Boys and Girls Club, etc. – and wanting to help turn lives around. Sure, Toussaint wants the homeless in Portland – some really raw characters that make Charles Dickens’ novels seem like Mister Rogers Neighborhoods – to be helped. Toussaint Tyler asks me to stay with the non-profit I was working at. Wants me to meet bigwigs and help sell programs to the elite in Portland (Intel, Nike, adidas, et al). I want to throw in with Toussaint Tyler, Sr. – I want to hit up these metro sexuals, these gentrifying elites, these bourgeoisie, these Bill Gates and Paul Allens and Phil Knights types to get down to real business, to getting their bullshit philanthropic ideals into real gear. We need to help the homeless and the drug addicted get on their feet with REAL programs, with solid recovery, where they can get SPECIAL treatment, in a time of Neoliberalism and Trumplandia. We are running non-profits with genuflecting and begging, hoping for social workers to get to work with shitty pay and tons of on-the-job trauma. My non-profit gets grants, and we are hobbled by the constraints of the millionaire class, and the state and county and city agencies. Being homeless usually means trauma in each and everyone’s lives – beaten down in families, drugs, sexually abused, the physically kicked down, psychic knockdowns, punished into the criminal justice system, hobbled by the debt levelers, controlled by the broken education system, held down by the business community, the exploitation class, and held back by bureaucracies of evil. College bowls for Toussaint – Rose Bowl and Sun Bowl champion; in another Rose Bowl, Hula Bowl, Japan Bowl, San Diego Hall of Fame. Second-team Pac 10 running back for two years. Honored as a Huskie Legend, NFL Alumni. “None of it matters. I am in a new life, starting new.” He ended up dead on arrival, in Pullman, Washington, three years ago, 60 pills swallowed in a suicide cocktail. He had done a lot of crack to make those head blows and shitty life decisions and all those mammas to his six kids sort of go away, or at least level out the pain of all those valleys and rock bottoms which are the geography of his spiritual and psychological life. Ahh, Haiti, and the despicable French, then, now, forever – defeated by a slave, who read voraciously, especially Enlightenment thinkers such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau, one member of early moderate revolutionaries who considered seriously the question of slavery. As is the case of most French thinkers, these moderate revolutionaries were not willing to end slavery. Applying the “Rights of Man” to all Frenchmen, including free blacks and mulattoes (those of mixed race), the so-called revolutionaries gave into the plantation owners in the colonies who were furious and fought the measure. In 1791 the measure was retracted. This betrayal triggered slave revolts in Saint Dominique (soon called Haiti), and Toussaint quickly became leader of the slave rebellion. L’Ouverture (the one who finds an opening) was added to his name, as he led a rag-tag army. For anyone listening to the unheralded voices of the people’s history, he or she can take his hat off and honor Toussaint who successfully fought the French, whose numbers were also decimated by a yellow fever outbreak. He fought seven battles in seven days and defeated the French. As is the true DNA of the white race, the French wanted business as usual, desiring Haiti to go back to slavery and colonial rule. In 1803, Napoleon Bonaparte wanted Haiti out of his hair, agreed to its independence and Toussaint agreed to retire from public office. Eventually Napoleon, as is so true of many of the French’s DNA code, invited Toussaint to a meeting under the promise of his protection. The French Army arrested Toussaint, put him on a ship headed for France, and Napoleon ordered D’Ouverture to suffer in a mountain dungeon where he was starved to death with all number of depravations put upon the Haitian hero. Getting Haiti off his back, Napoleon gave up Haiti to independence and sold the French territory in North America (the Louisiana Purchase) to the United States. Toussaint Tyler, Sr., named after the great Haitian hero, sits with me in my office, and we go over his plans to get his driver’s license back, plans to get him a job at $11 an hour, and plans to come back to life as a community organizer. He’s forgetful, having left his satchel on the Portland light rail (MAX) with his photo IDs and social security card inside. He tears up when telling me about his granddaughter, Serayah McNeill, who plays Tiana on the hip-hop TV series, “The Empire.” Daughter of his eldest son, Serayah is a talented musician, athlete, and can do anything, Toussaint tells me. Her very presence on TV, her thriving life, her existence is a testament to her succeeding and a reminder to her grandfather that he once was in her life as a child and now he’s been MIA for years. “She reminds me of how I screwed up so many people’s lives.” This is the story in America, one I touch daily, with men mostly, and the years taken away by drugs, by incarceration, racism, shitty employment, all told, millions of lives destroyed by the white man’s bad seed, fall from his and her own grace. The decades and centuries of structural and mitochondrial determinants in the success and failures of an entire group of people who made this country, built the fucking White House, put the land to work, harvested and swaddled the white woman’s children, what a travesty. Repeated daily from sea to shining sea, exploitation after exploitation. And the NFL, microcosm of the chosen ones’ destruction of almost anything good, tribal, hating all people’s who live lives far from the money printing presses, the coin of the realm – slavery for enriching the few, the fattening up of these voracious people eaters, these lovers of anything close or aberrant to what the entire Trump legacy represents: the people who run the rackets of college sports and professional gladiatorial athletics, or replace sports with big pharma, big business, big military-surveillance-punishment complex, big ag, big food, big medicine, big media, big education. These people are the ones that deserve a million slave rebellions run by the likes of Toussaint D’Ouverture. The rabid dog, ahh, the beheading is necessary for the safety of the village. Yet, it’s all flipped backwards – the elite, the weakest, the minority of all minorities, the Chosen One Percent living out their blasphemy until old age, while the good and best the world can offer, murdered, slowly, quickly, at the moment of birth. America – the racket, the thug nature of this warring nation, the disharmony of the children sucked into diabetes and mental stasis created by the chosen few’s tools of control: food, consumer popular culture, Hollywood, media, digital dumb-downing. Here, from the movie, Concussion, the doctor, Bennet Omalu, asking why the world doesn’t want to know about his research into football head injuries and players’ deaths, suicides, incapacitating pain, drug addiction, incarceration, murders: Dr. Bennet Omalu: What do they want? Dr. Cyril Wecht: The NFL wants you to say you made it all up. Dr. Bennet Omalu: I made it up? Dr. Cyril Wecht: They’re accusing you of fraud. Dr. Ron Hamilton: If you retract, you’ll be fine. This all goes away. Dr. Bennet Omalu: Why? Why are they all doing this? Dr. Cyril Wecht: They’re terrified of you. Bennet Omalu is going to war with a corporation that has 20 million people on a weekly basis craving their product the same way they crave food. The NFL owns a day of the week, the same day the Church used to own. Now it’s theirs. They’re very big. Note: A forensic pathologist, Omalu conducted the autopsy of Pittsburgh Steelers center Mike Webster, which led to his discovery of a new disease that he named chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE. He is currently the chief medical examiner of San Joaquin County, Calif. and a professor in the UC Davis Department of Medical Pathology and Laboratory Medicine. These one percenters and their 19 percenter Little Eichmanns holding up their universal Capitalist scam, they are perpetuating the chronic traumatic encephalopathy onto all aspects of society with each experiment deemed necessary to create legions upon legions of marks, the exploited, the punished, the destitute, the near homeless, all of us shoved into their consumer prisons for the pleasure of their sin upon humanity. Greed, prostitution, elimination. At eight years of age, I knew I was going to be in the NFL. I was the fourth all-time leading rusher for UW. But my life is more than that, I know now. I’ve lived a life for and about Toussaint Tyler. It’s been a selfish life. I want to work to help this community, these people on the streets outside. Man, all messed up on meth, dirty, on the streets, sleeping in alleyways. We have to find a way to help them. So continues the dilemma of the One Percent, the Churches, the Poverty Pimps, all those non-profits run for the pleasure of a few at the top. So goes the journey of Toussaint Tyler, invoking just a little bit of his Haitian namesake’s rebellion. Each day it becomes clearer to me that those in state capitols and on K-street, Wall Street, in the corridors of power, peopling the think tanks and commissions and secretive world of the bankers and bankrollers of pain, shame, war. They are the giant tapeworm eating at the soul of humanity. Clearer and clearer that the exiled, the broken, the incarcerated and just let out, the Toussaints and a million others, they have the power of lucidity, the power of perspective, and the power of seeing outside the miasma of this country’s madness. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if the magic wand pushed a giant interstellar vacuum onto the earth that sucked up all the detritus on this planet – those buttoned up thieves lusting for their gigantic thefts, uniformed weapon lusting hoards lusting for war, all those coders and money changers, the renter class, the bankers, the technologists, the entire army of takers. Toussaint and I hug, as I say good-bye on my last day at one non-profit as I move to another. Life is slipstream, the sum total of serendipity, these chance encounters, as my brain folds more of what I know is social justice and revolutionary focus. He and I come from two different worlds, and belief systems, yet, well, what more can a brotherhood bring than the joy of understanding those who are different but cut from the same cloth of wanting justice and seeking enlightenment. http://clubof.info/

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black magic specialist in Rajkot

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black magic specialist in Rajkot

black magic Specialist in Rajkot

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